Chapter 15
Garrett
Sloane had a key to my apartment.
It just happened. She needed to drop off case files while I was on shift, so I dug through my locker and handed her the spare. She never gave it back.
I never asked.
Now her laptop lived on my coffee table. Her shampoo in my shower. Her press credentials on the hook by the door where my spare jacket used to be. Reading glasses on the nightstand. A box of her tea next to my coffee.
The apartment didn't feel like mine anymore.
It felt like ours.
Sun coming up over Queens. I turned that word over in my head. Ours.
We hadn't talked about it. Hadn't named what was happening. But every night she didn't go back to her place, every morning I woke up with her hair across my pillow and her hand on my chest, the line blurred a little more.
I wanted to ask her to move in. The words sat in my throat every time she reached for her bag and said she should probably head home.
Don't go. Stay. Not just tonight. Every night.
Not a question of if. Just when. Whether I did it over dinner or in the morning when she was half-asleep and soft against me, or just some random Tuesday when the words finally came out.
I'd figure it out.
Rodriguez called us together before shift change.
The whole crew in the common room. Shane against the wall, Brian on the couch, the rest scattered around the way we always were when the captain had news. Usually that set to his jaw meant budget cuts, schedule changes, something that would make our lives harder.
Today was different.
"I just got word." For the first time in months, his face wasn't grim. "The closure vote has been postponed indefinitely."
The room erupted.
Gonzalez shot out of his chair. Ortiz grabbed the nearest person in a headlock that turned into a bear hug. Someone let out a whoop that probably carried to the apparatus floor. Brian was on his feet, fist in the air, yelling something I couldn't hear over the noise.
Rodriguez let it go for a minute. Then he raised a hand.
"Settle down. There's more."
The room quieted, but the energy stayed. Guys shifting in their seats, grinning, elbowing each other.
"I got a call from Detective Diaz." Rodriguez let that land.
"FBI made arrests this morning. Multiple city officials, people inside the department, taken into custody.
Payoffs from landlords to look the other way on fire safety violations.
Buildings that should have been condemned.
Inspections signed off without anyone setting foot inside. "
The grins faded. The room went still.
"Turns out the push to close this house had nothing to do with budget cuts." Rodriguez was almost smiling. "We were on the chopping block because we kept doing our jobs. Every violation report, every inspection we flagged, we were making problems for people who didn't want problems."
Shane's hand landed on my shoulder. Hard enough to sting.
"Diaz asked me to pass something along." Rodriguez's eyes found mine. "Stone. The documentation, the reports, the photographs. Seven years of it. That's what built the foundation for these arrests."
The crew turned to look at me.
Seven years of filing reports no one read. Seven years of photographing violations that went unfixed. Seven years of watching buildings burn because no one in power cared enough to listen.
Someone finally listened.
"It was a team effort," I managed. "Sloane did the heavy lifting."
"You built the case," Shane said quietly, just for me. "She gave it a platform. That's partnership."
Rodriguez crossed the room. Extended his hand. "Seven years you've been filing those reports, Stone. I signed off on every one. Watched every one disappear into a drawer downtown." His grip was firm. "Not anymore."
Brian didn't bother with handshakes. Just pulled me into the kind of hug that would have gotten us both roasted on any other day. "Proud of you, brother," he said.
The rest of the crew piled in. Gonzalez clapping the back of my head. Ortiz punching my arm hard enough to leave a mark. Someone yelling about buying me a steak.
I stood in the middle of it, letting it wash over me. These men. This house.
Engine 295 was safe.
The next day, I went with Sloane to meet with Detective Diaz.
"You don't have to come." She was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, already dressed, watching me pull a shirt over my head. "I can handle Diaz."
"I'm not coming because I think you can't handle it." I grabbed my jacket. "I'm coming because I'd rather spend the time with you."
"At a police precinct?"
I crossed the room. Slid my hand along her jaw.
"Less than ideal. But it's with you, so I don't care."
She laughed. I kissed her before she could argue.
The precinct smelled like old coffee and copy toner. Diaz looked tired, dark circles, desk buried under files. But something was lighter in her expression. The look of someone whose work was finally paying off.
A man I didn't recognize stood when we entered. Tall, close-cropped hair, navy suit that fit like a uniform. Federal ID clipped to his belt.
"Good thing you came, Lieutenant Stone." Diaz nodded toward him. "Special Agent Keene. FBI. Public corruption unit."
I glanced at Sloane. She was already looking at me with an expression that said I told you so.
Keene shook our hands. Firm grip, direct eye contact. The efficient assessment of someone used to deciding quickly who was useful and who wasn't.
"Lieutenant Stone. Ms. Harper." He nodded toward the chairs. "Detective Diaz has been keeping me up to speed. Impressive documentation you've put together."
"I want to start by saying thank you. Formally." Diaz looked at me. "What you built over seven years, the documentation, the violation reports, the photographs. My team and Keene's office have been going through it. Meticulous. It gave us the thread that unraveled the whole network."
"Sloane connected the dots," I said. "I just had the raw material."
"You both did."
Diaz opened a folder. Keene leaned against the filing cabinet, arms crossed, letting her lead. "As of yesterday, we've arrested four city officials and two FDNY inspectors with direct ties to the payoff scheme. More are coming."
"The financial trail went deeper than we expected," Keene said. "Shell companies layered three deep, offshore accounts, structured deposits designed to stay under reporting thresholds. These people thought they were insulated." Something sharp crossed his face. "They weren't."
"The DA is building the state cases," Diaz added. "Keene's office is handling the federal charges. Between the two, these cases should hold."
Sloane leaned forward. "Is it safe to publish?"
Diaz and Keene exchanged a look. He gave a slight nod.
"The FDNY corruption piece, yes," Diaz said.
"Arrests are public record. Publishing won't compromise the investigation, if anything, it puts pressure on the people we haven't reached yet.
" She paused. "But the arson case is different.
We haven't located Rebecca Marsh. Not at any known address. The alias hasn't surfaced."
Keene straightened off the filing cabinet.
"The arson case is NYPD territory. I'll leave you to it.
" He shook my hand again, then Sloane's.
"Lieutenant Stone, the documentation you compiled is the backbone of our federal case.
We'll be in touch." He nodded at Diaz. "Call me later.
Still have a few threads on the financial side. "
Diaz nodded. "Thanks, Keene."
He left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Diaz pulled a photograph from the folder. Slid it across the table.
I went cold.
Brown hair going gray at the temples. Kind eyes. A face that had spent months smiling at me across the Engine 295 kitchen, handing me containers of pasta, asking how my shift went.
"That's Becks."
Diaz's head came up. "You know her?"
"She's been coming to the firehouse. Months. Bringing food, hanging around." My hands had curled into fists on the table. "She told us her name was Becks."
Sloane's hand found my knee under the table. Steadying.
Diaz was already writing. "When's the last time she came by?"
I thought back. "Weeks ago. She just stopped showing up. Nobody thought much of it. People drift in and out."
"She got what she needed," Sloane said quietly. "Schedules. Response times. Routines. She was gathering intel."
"She mentioned she was local. Close to the station, walking distance." I shook my head. "We never thought to ask more. She was just Becks. The woman who brought us food."
"That's helpful." Diaz made a note. "I'll have units canvas the area around Engine 295. Landlords, corner stores, laundromats. If she's been living nearby for months, she left a footprint."
"What about publishing her photo?" Sloane asked. "If we run her picture, someone might recognize her. Call in a tip."
Diaz weighed it. "The corruption piece, you can publish now. For Rebecca Marsh, I can authorize releasing her photo as a person of interest wanted for questioning. A face in the Times might flush her out faster than my units can."
"Wanted for questioning in connection with an ongoing investigation," Sloane said. "That's enough to run with."
"That works." Diaz closed the folder. "I'll have units canvassing by this afternoon. If she's still in the area, someone's seen her."
I nodded. But I was thinking about the way Becks had smiled at me. The way she'd asked about Emma's fire once, casually, like small talk. The way I'd told her because she seemed kind and I'd been carrying it alone for so long.
She'd known exactly who I was.
The whole time.
Outside, the morning was bright and sharp. Sloane was already on her phone.
"Marianne's going to want this fast." Half to me, half to herself. "If the arrests are public, other outlets will run it by tonight. We need to be first. And Rebecca's photo needs to go wide."
"Go." I caught her hand. "Do what you do."
She looked up at me. That fierce focus in her eyes, the one that appeared when she was locked onto a story.