Tyler slipped the phone back into the nylon bag, pressed the seal shut, and handed it back to Chen.
"Take the phone and SIM straight to Digital Forensics," he instructed. "I want the deleted logs, texts, everything they can pull from the memory. And don't forget the SIM. If Razor used it to call Hoffman or anyone else, the carrier's records will tell us."
Chen nodded briskly, tapping two fingers against his temple in a quick salute. "On it, Detective." Then he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor.
Tyler exhaled through his nose, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, before heading toward the bullpen. Rows of cubicles stretched across the wide room, the low hum of keyboards and phones filling the air. Most detectives worked out here—no fancy offices, just clusters of desks, paper stacks, and the occasional coffee mug balanced too close to a case file.
