Chapter 19
Roque
A nother body had turned up in the woods—this time, we wished it was someone we didn’t know. He’d been identified as Kaden Roper, a nineteen-year-old from Palmerstown and a good kid with a bright future ahead of him. And he was Black, which made him a disturbingly perfect match for the pattern we were starting to see with our corrupt cops.
“You think it’s them?” I muttered to Judd as we stood by, watching the coroner lift Kaden’s body into the van.
“If it is, I swear I’ll kill them,” he said, voice tight, jaw clenched. I’d seen Judd angry before, but never like this. We’d been through hell together, but this hit differently. “I didn’t sign up for this job to watch racist, crooked bastards wear a badge and pretend they’re protecting people.”
I clapped a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground us both. “We’re close, man. I feel it, too. Hell, I’ve already got one foot out the door, but I’m not going anywhere until we get justice for every single person they’ve hurt.”
Judd shot me a sideways glance. “Wait, you’re quitting?”
I nodded, slow and tired. “One foot out the door, like I said. Been thinking about it more every day.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “We all talked about it last night as well. Me, Kapono, Imogen, and Keir over beers and way too much bitterness. We’re thinking of walking, too.”
I raised a brow. “All of you?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Just think about that for a second—six of the most experienced officers bailing at once. The place’ll fall apart.”
“Let it,” I muttered. “If the department gave a damn, Internal Affairs would be crawling all over these complaints. Instead, they’re sweeping everything under the rug and letting the worst of us wear the badge.”
He didn’t argue, and we sat silently for a moment, just listening to the hum of the cruiser around us.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what I want todo if I’m not a cop,” I sighed eventually.
“I’m opening a bar,” Judd said, a half-smile tugging at his face. “One with no crap. Just good old-school tunes, low lights, heavy pours, and a no-BS policy at the door.”
I chuckled. “I’d buy into that. You serious?”
“As a bullet.”
We pulled into the precinct lot and were barely out of the car when Kapono caught us.
“There wasn’t a match between Eckhart’s prints and the knife in Sayla’s tire,” he said in a low voice, glancing around. “But I snagged the Chief’s cup this morning and got a clean print.”
My stomach turned. “And?”
“There’s a match, it was Topper.”
Judd cursed under his breath. I stood there for a beat, recalling that day at the store and those men blocking Sayla’s path. I pulled out my phone and texted her a photo of Topper.
"Look familiar?"
She replied a few minutes later while I was mid-way through filing Kaden Roper’s report.
"Yeah, I think that’s the guy from the mall, the one who stepped aside first, maybe?
"Thanks, baby.”
I looked up and saw Kai passing my desk. I stood, waved him down, and motioned him outside.
Once we were clear of the building, I told him. “It was Topper. His prints are on the knife from Sayla’s tire.”
Kai let out a slow breath. “Shit.”
We didn’t wait. I texted Judd, Kapono, Imogen, and Keir to meet us out back. When they arrived, we laid it out—everything. Kapono confirmed the match, and I relayed what Sayla had said about Topper’s photo. We may have suspected, but the confirmation made Judd’s jaw clench.
“We need his prints on something legal,” Imogen said. “Something that'll hold.”
“We’ll get them,” Judd said, pulling out his phone. “But it’s not just him. We’ve been watching, and Keir took some photos last night.”
He handed his phone around. The images were grainy but clear enough: Eckhart and five others picking up oversized bags from two laundromats and hauling them into a run-down barbershop. Another showed them stopping by one of the houses we knew was involved in the prostitution ring and grabbing another bag.
“They’re moving something,” Keir noted. “Probably money, maybe more.”
“We can’t go to the DA,” Kai said, “not with Topper still in charge. He’ll shut it down, maybe worse.”
“So we tail them,” Judd suggested. “Catch them doing anything—hell, littering if we have to. Even the smallest charge that gives us cause. Then we bring it all down.”
“And the other four?” I asked.
Judd’s eyes hardened. “Same thing. The ones profiling people, covering for the scum we’re chasing, I want them too. We do this by the book—but wedoit.”
Nobody argued. We had a plan now, and we were all in.
I wasn’t expecting it to happen so soon, but the bastard practically delivered himself to me.
Just after four o’clock that afternoon, I saw Dennis Nolan blow through a red light like it wasn’t even there. No hesitation, no brake lights, just straight through like he owned the damn road. I flipped on my lights and pulled him over two blocks later.
He was twitchy the moment I stepped up to the window, pupils blown wide, jaw grinding, and hands shaking slightly on the steering wheel.
“License and registration,” I requested, already clocking the signs. His eyes darted everywhere—rearview mirror, side mirrors, my badge, the street. Classic coke head behavior.
“You been drinking?”
“No,” he slurred slightly. “Maybe a little last night. Still shaking it off.”
“Step out of the vehicle.”
He hesitated, like the idea had just occurred to him that this wasn’t going to go his way. I stepped back, hand resting on my holster, and that got him moving.
He refused the breathalyzer, of course, so I requested a blood draw once we got back to the station. It was approved with no issues, considering that Nolan had a history, even if nothing had ever stuck. This time, he wasn’t walking away so easily.
While we waited on the lab tech, I had him moved from holding to Interrogation Two. I sat across from him, watching him scratch at his arms and glance around like the walls were closing in. Maybe they were.
“What were you doing today, Nolan?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
“Same as always,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Running errands and getting some air. Might’ve missed the light—I dunno. I guess I’m still buzzed from last night.”
“Right,” I said. “Buzzed and speeding through town in broad daylight.”
He shrugged, then looked down at his hands like he hadn’t seen them in a while.
There was a knock at the door, and I stepped out to find Kai waiting, face tight with something close to satisfaction.
“We’ve got more,” he said, voice low. “Twenty grand in the glove box, eight IDs in his wallet, and five sets of keys to properties—addresses we’re running now. Oh, and there was coke on him. Not much, but enough.”
I nodded, my heart starting to beat faster. “That’ll hold him and give us some leverage.”
“We’ve already got his prints on file,” Kai said, “but if you request the DNA, we’ll have the rest of what we need.”
I glanced back through the one-way glass at Nolan, who was now hunched over the table, hands clasped together as if trying to keep himself from unraveling.
“Let’s do it.”
“One more thing,” Kai added, cracking a rare grin. “Judd pulled over Eckhart for speeding an hour ago, same story. Bags in the car, IDs, and more keys. He’s applying for the DNA warrant now.”
My smile matched his. It felt like we were getting traction for the first time in weeks.
I stepped back into the room, shut the door behind me, and sat down.
“Dennis,” I said calmly, folding my hands. “Let’s talk about what’sreallygoing on.”
I couldn’t stop thinking about how fast Dennis Nolan had folded. Guys like him usually held out longer, played tough, and asked for a lawyer to buy themselves time. But the moment I asked what the keys were for, he cracked like wet plaster.
“Friends’ houses,” he’d explained initially, but his eyes were screaming lies.
Then, like he was just too tired to keep up the charade, he spilled. He’d told me there were more drugs in the car that we hadn’t found yet, hidden in the tires and under the backseat. That sent our team scrambling back to the impound lot, and sure enough, we hit pay dirt. Cocaine and heroin stashed in thick packages, taped up, and layered beneath fabric and foam.
Alongside that, we found more bundles of cash—rolled tight, rubber-banded, and smelling like grease and sweat. It was street money, the kind that never sees a bank.
His blood test came back not long after.
Positive for crack, methamphetamines, heroin, and weed, too—and yeah, marijuana was still illegal here in Texas. That meant we had him cold. Distribution, intent to traffic, possession of narcotics, DUI, falsified IDs, unlawful earnings, you name it. He was fucked!
But he'd shut down when I’d asked the one question that mattered. “ Who are you working for?”
Of course, he’d tried sidestepping at first. He said he was freelance and was hustling on his own. “A one-man army,” he called himself like it was a badge of honor. I asked again—different wording, different tone. Nothing, he was done talking.
Until the very end.
Just as we were taking him to his cell, he started humming, then singing, soft and slow: “Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop…”
It was eerie. Not sarcastic or smug—more like a lullaby from a man who’d completely come undone.
Kapono looked at me, brows pinched, and even the officer leading Nolan out glanced back like something didn’t sit right. And it didn’t. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was it a message? A threat? A warning?
Or maybe it was just the song that played in his head when everything started falling apart.
Either way, it stuck with me—and I didn’t like the feeling it left behind, not one bit.