Chapter 9 #2
"DeMarcus Roberts." He took a sip, leaned against the counter. "Runs the Tampa field office for DEA. He's been tracking some of Vance's distribution network independently, and there's overlap with what we pulled from Costa's records."
"Anything we can use?"
"Not yet. His people intercepted some communication that suggests Costa made contact with someone outside his known circle.
But they can't confirm location or intent.
" Jake took a sip, leaned against the counter.
"He's going to sit on it through the weekend, see if anything shakes loose, then brief us Monday or Tuesday. "
Emily processed that. The prosecutor in her was already running the information through evidentiary filters, assessing what could be documented, what would hold up, where the chain of custody began.
But that part of her brain was operating at reduced capacity this morning, because the rest of her was occupied with the man in front of her, the coffee in her hands, and the dog now pressing against both their legs like he was trying to merge them into a single entity.
"Ranger." Jake nudged the dog gently with his knee. "Personal space."
Ranger ignored this completely.
"He has terrible boundaries." Jake shook his head at the dog.
"He learned from the best."
Jake's laugh was barely a sound, more a shift in his expression and a breath released through his nose. He set his mug down and looked at her.
"You sleep okay?"
"Better than I have in months."
"The couch isn't bad."
"The couch is fine." She said. "The company's better."
He didn't respond right away. His eyes held hers with that attention she was learning to recognize as the truest version of him, the version that existed when he wasn't charming or performing or reading a room. This was Jake seeing her. Letting her see him back.
"I'm glad you stayed." His voice was low enough that it felt private, even in his own kitchen.
"I'm glad you asked."
The kitchen held nothing but Ranger's breathing and the refrigerator's hum and the branch tapping the window.
Emily stood in the morning light in yesterday's clothes with coffee she hadn't made in a kitchen she was memorizing, and she thought: I could do this.
Every Sunday. I could do this and not get tired of it and not need it to be anything other than what it is.
The thought didn't scare her.
That's what scared her.
Monday arrived with the cruelty of a day that knew what it was carrying.
Emily had spent Sunday afternoon back at her apartment, reviewing case notes and pretending she wasn't counting the hours until she saw Jake again. Claire had come by, read her face in two seconds flat, and said, "Oh, you've got it bad," and Emily hadn't bothered denying it.
Now she was sitting in a conference room on the fourth floor of the federal building, and the warmth of Jake's kitchen felt like it belonged to a different century.
The room was designed for exactly this kind of meeting. Long table, no windows, overhead lighting that made everyone look slightly ill. The kind of room where careers were discussed by people who'd never risked theirs.
Ray sat at the head of the table because it was his division and his obligation.
He was wearing the face Emily had only seen once before, during a congressional inquiry into their office's handling of a cartel case.
Composed, attentive, giving nothing away.
The face of a man who understood that the next hour would determine whether his judgment was questioned or confirmed.
Jake sat to Ray's left. He'd dressed for this, which told Emily he understood the terrain.
Navy suit, no tie, collar open. The operator casual was gone, replaced by a version of himself that said I belong in rooms like this, and I know the rules, and I'm choosing to play by them.
His hands rested on the table, still and open, the posture of a man who had nothing to hide and no interest in proving it.
Emily sat across from Jake. She'd chosen her best courtroom suit, charcoal, and the silk blouse Claire called her "don't test me" shirt. She'd put her hair up. Applied the minimal makeup that was its own kind of armor.
She was terrified.
Not of the meeting. She'd sat through depositions with organized crime attorneys who'd threatened her career over lunch.
She'd argued motions before judges who enjoyed making young prosecutors sweat.
She knew how institutional scrutiny worked, understood the choreography of it, the way power expressed itself through procedure and implication.
She was terrified because the person being scrutinized was the man whose house she'd woken up in yesterday, whose blanket she'd slept under, whose dog had guarded her feet all night, and she couldn't protect him without proving the point that he needed protecting.
The door opened.
Jasper Marchand entered the conference room the way certain men entered rooms, with the confidence of someone who'd never once questioned whether he belonged.
Tall, lean, silver at the temples in a way that seemed cultivated rather than earned.
His suit was better than anyone else's in the building, a fact he wore casually, the way old money wore everything.
Behind him, a woman Emily didn't recognize. Young, efficient, carrying a leather portfolio. Aide or associate, there to take notes and project institutional control.
"Ray." Marchand extended his hand. "Thank you for making time."
"Jasper." Ray shook it with exactly the right calibration. Cordial. "You know Emily Callahan. And this is Jake Walsh, our contract investigator on the Vance matter."
Marchand's eyes moved to Jake with the same quality of assessment Emily had seen from judges and defense attorneys. Not hostile. Appraising. Cataloging details the way a buyer inspects merchandise.
"Mr. Walsh." Marchand sat without offering his hand. "I've read your file."
"Hope it was a good read." Jake's tone was easy, conversational, the voice of a man settling into a chair he had no intention of being uncomfortable in.
Emily saw Marchand register the response. The easy tone. The absence of deference. She could see him storing it, adjusting his approach.
"Your background is certainly... interesting." Marchand opened a folder his aide had placed before him. "Former Special Operations. Decorated service record. Honorable discharge." He turned a page. "Contract investigator for, what, eleven months now?"
"About that."
"And in those eleven months, you've been assigned to the Vance case, which falls under Ray's division, and you've developed a personal relationship with one of the attorneys on that case." Marchand raised his eyes. "That's an unusual trajectory."
Emily's hands were flat on the table. She concentrated on keeping them that way.
"The relationship developed after the case assignment," Ray said. "Both parties disclosed voluntarily and promptly, consistent with federal ethics guidelines. Mr. Walsh is a contract investigator, not an employee. There's no supervisory conflict."
"I'm aware of the disclosure." Marchand's tone conveyed that awareness was not the same as approval. "I'm also aware that this office has certain standards regarding professional conduct. Concerns have been raised."
"By whom?" Emily asked.
Marchand turned to her with the practiced patience of a man accustomed to fielding questions he had no intention of answering. "Concerns have been raised," he repeated. "This meeting exists to address them."
"With respect." Emily kept her voice level. "Concerns raised by unnamed sources about conduct that doesn't violate any policy are difficult to address substantively."
"The policy isn't the issue, Ms. Callahan.
" Marchand folded his hands on the table.
"The optics are the issue. This office is prosecuting one of the most significant criminal cases in the district.
The lead attorney is in a relationship with the lead investigator. Defense counsel will have a field day."
"Defense counsel can try," Emily said. "There's no legal basis for conflict. The investigator is a contractor, not government. Disclosure was timely and complete. I'd welcome any defense attorney who wants to make that argument in front of a judge."
Marchand smiled. It was the kind of smile that conceded nothing.
"Your legal analysis isn't what concerns me." He turned back to Jake. "Mr. Walsh, help me understand. You left the military after, what, a decade?"
"Seven years in my unit. Twelve total."
"And your transition to federal contract work. How would you describe that?"
"Smooth, mostly. Different tempo. Same principles."
"Same principles." Marchand repeated it the way certain lawyers repeated testimony, turning the words over for the jury. "I've spoken with colleagues at other offices who've brought in contractors with your background. Former special operations. The consensus is... mixed."
Emily felt her spine straighten.
"Mixed how?" Jake asked. His tone hadn't changed. Easy. Unbothered. But Emily noticed his index finger had stopped its idle movement against the table surface. He was paying attention at a different level now.
"There's a pattern." Marchand leaned back, affecting a casualness that was anything but.
"Men from your world tend to operate with a certain.
.. autonomy. They're used to making decisions without institutional oversight.
Used to environments where rules are flexible and judgment is individual.
" He paused. "That approach doesn't always translate well to federal prosecution. "
The room went still. Emily could hear the ventilation system pushing air through the ceiling vents.
"Is there a specific incident you're referencing?" Ray asked. His voice was intentional. Not defensive. The voice of a division chief protecting his people without appearing to.