Chapter 17 #2
Donovan grinned. “Careful, or Citadel’s going to recruit you. That’s twice I’ve made that threat.”
Vance laughed—relaxed, real. “Summit Falls is home. But I might be tempted.”
“Let me know if you’re truly tempted. I can talk to Ethan Cross.” I took a small sip of my beer. I was still on number one in order to keep my edge. “You married?”
“Once almost. Dodged a bullet.” He chuckled, then his eyes dropped to the table, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “You ever get tired of it, though? The moving. Never putting down roots.”
“That’s the trade,” I said. “Freedom costs something. Some people think it’s worth it.”
“And the ones who get tired of paying?”
“They settle somewhere. Take local contracts. Build something where they want to be. Citadel doesn’t chain anyone to the field.” Something I’d been thinking more about in the past few days than I had my entire career.
Vance rolled the strip of label between his fingers. His face held the expression of a man standing at a window, looking at a landscape he hadn’t visited yet. Not longing exactly. Inventory. The quiet arithmetic of a life weighed against its alternatives.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Citadel had a new employee within the next few months.
The waitress checked on us, and the conversation shifted to the department’s softball team. I let my attention wander. Sports didn’t matter to me.
But they definitely mattered to Martinez.
Sometime during the Citadel conversation, the older man had quietly worked through a few more whiskeys.
His phone was facedown on the bar top. First time I’d seen that.
His shoulders had dropped away from his ears, his hands moved when he talked instead of hovering over a screen, and his voice carried across the room in a way it never did during working hours.
The basketball game on the TV had his full attention. Not casual viewing. He was leaned forward on his stool, tracking the score with the locked-in focus of a man who had money riding on the outcome.
When one team hit a three-pointer, his fist came down hard enough on the bar to rattle the whiskey glass. When the other team forced a turnover, he muttered to the officer beside him in the rapid shorthand of someone who knew spreads and lines the way other people knew weather forecasts.
“Come on, come on, hold the lead.” He was loud enough that the bartender looked over. Then to the officer on the next stool, he said, “No way they blow a six-point cushion with four minutes left. No way.”
The officer laughed and said something I couldn’t catch. Martinez shook his head. “You don’t understand. I need this. I am due a win tonight.”
Nothing about those words was incriminating on its own. Any guy watching a game said things like that. But most guys didn’t track the score with white knuckles, and most guys didn’t say I need this about a game between two teams with no connection to their life.
Jace had said the online gambling stopped. Watching Martinez track that game—the spreads, the lines, the fist on the bar when the score moved—it looked less like it had stopped and more like it had moved somewhere Jace’s data couldn’t follow.
A local book. Cash bets. Something that wouldn’t show up in a digital footprint but would explain the irregular deposits that didn’t match his pay schedule.
Donovan had clocked it too. I could tell from the angle of his body.
He looked casual to anyone watching, but had oriented himself so Martinez stayed in his peripheral vision.
He hadn’t said a word. Neither had I. When our eyes met across the table, the look lasted exactly long enough to confirm we were holding the same thought.
The investigation needle hadn’t moved on Vance tonight. If anything, it had nudged farther in the direction I already believed—a solid cop who might be thinking about his next chapter. Fine. Good.
Martinez was a different equation. The careful, phone-dependent, says-nothing persona he wore at work was starting to look less like personality and more like discipline. And discipline cracked when the alcohol hit it hard enough.
What else was he hiding?
The night wound down in stages, the energy draining from the room one departure at a time. Vance waved the waitress over and handed her his card before anyone could argue.
“I’ve got your tab tonight.” He held up a hand when Donovan reached for his wallet. “Hell of a week. You’ve earned it.”
Briggson stood without a word. Jacket on, glass left where it sat, paid, then out the door. No goodbye. Dude really was an asshole, but his behavior wasn’t concerning me as much as Martinez’s.
Reeves pushed back his chair and stood, fishing keys from his pocket. He looked at Donovan, then at me.
“Thanks for tonight.” Quiet. Direct. A handshake that carried more than the words. “And for not telling anybody about the delivery driving thing. I’ve put in the proper paperwork.”
“Good. Anytime, kid.”
He gave a nod and headed for the door.
Vance signed the receipt and stood. “Hell of a night, fellas. Let’s not make searching for missing children a regular thing.”
“Agreed.”
He clapped my shoulder on his way past. The same easy gesture he used after training, after raids, after every shared moment that built the kind of trust people followed into dark rooms. It was authentic. It was why he was a good sergeant.
Donovan and I walked out into the parking lot. Gravel crunched under our boots. The broken neon threw amber light across the hoods of the remaining trucks.
We reached mine and stopped.
“Martinez?” The single word was enough for me to know what he meant.
“Definitely where we need to put our effort, in my opinion. If he’s willing to participate in illegal gambling…”
Donovan nodded. “He may be willing to do other stuff for money too. Like help out a drug syndicate.” He got in the truck.
I pulled out my phone. No messages. The screen was blank except for the time.
I’d left Kayla my number in case she needed anything. But she wouldn’t have texted. It was late, William was asleep, and we’d said what needed saying in her kitchen. The goodnight that meant something different than goodnight.
But I’d wanted to look anyway. Just to see her name on the screen. Even knowing it wouldn’t be there.
I put the phone away and got in the truck.
Donovan was quiet beside me. The engine turned over. The parking lot receded in the mirrors, and the road ahead was dark and empty and long, and neither of us spoke as we drove through the sleeping town toward home.