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Liam's Pov
Before she could reply, my phone buzzed. Beth Potts.
I answered. "Harper."
"Mr. Harper," Beth said, her tone brisk but polite. "I've confirmed with the precinct. Detectives Raymond Cross and Officer Daniel Ruiz—the two officers who arrested Marcus Hale—are available. You can meet them at the 9th Precinct, East Village, 1 p.m."
I checked my watch. 12 sharp. Perfect.
"Good work, Beth. Thank you."
"Of course," she said, then hung up.
I finished the last bite of my sandwich, balled up the wrapper, and tossed it in the trash. The engine of my bike roared to life seconds later.
Destination locked. The 9th Precinct awaited.
The 9th Precinct sat tucked between two old brick buildings, its weathered stone façade standing like a tired sentinel over the East Village. I parked the bike, cut the engine, and slid my helmet off. The place looked exactly how I pictured it—gray, busy, loud.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and copier ink. Phones rang off the hook. Uniformed officers drifted in and out, papers under their arms, while detectives leaned against desks, buried in files or talking with each other.
Beth's work had cleared my entry, so I moved past the front desk with little hassle and entered the bullpen.
Cross wasn't hard to spot—a man in his late 40s, tall with a lined, weather-beaten face and the heavy posture of someone who'd seen too much but still kept grinding. Ruiz was younger, mid-30s, clean-cut, still with the earnest eyes of a cop who hadn't burned out yet.
They were standing by a desk stacked with files. Cross looked up first, his eyes narrowing slightly, assessing me in one sweep the way only a veteran could. Ruiz followed his gaze, curiosity flashing in his features.
"Mr. Harper?" Cross's voice was gravelly, deliberate.
I extended my hand. "Detective Cross. Officer Ruiz. Appreciate you making the time."
Cross shook once, firm, then released. Ruiz followed with a polite nod.
"You're here about Marcus Hale," Cross said, tone clipped, like he already knew what was coming.
"That's right," I replied evenly. "I'd like to hear about the arrest. From the both of you."
Ruiz leaned back against the desk, exhaling through his nose. "To be honest, this case's been nothing but a headache. The second Marcus Hale's name hit the arrest log, the circus started. Reporters outside the precinct, hashtags on social media, celebrities crying foul. It didn't matter what we booked him for—the public decided he was innocent before we even filed the paperwork."
Cross snorted, shaking his head. "Kid's not wrong. This whole thing turned into a PR stunt overnight. Hale's lawyer screamed 'framed' before we even finished the evidence chain and of course, half the city ate it up."
I kept my expression neutral, arms loosely folded. [Eve, record everything,] I thought, and the HUD pulsed confirmation.
Ruiz glanced at Cross, then back at me. "Look, Mr. Harper, we did our job by the book. DUI stop, probable cause, search turned up a bag of Cocaine and that mystery powder. We logged it, sealed it, and sent it to the lab. That's it. But the amount of noise this guy generates…" he rubbed his temple, "you'd think we collared the President."
Cross's gaze lingered on me, sharp, weighing me. "You're digging in places others have already given up, Mr. Harper. What's your angle? You think there's more here than just a trainer with a bag of Cocaine and some milk powder?"
His question hung in the air, his eyes testing me. I didn't blink.
'Not taking the bait, Cross' I told myself.
"But first," I said evenly, "I need a clear picture. Walk me through the night step by step—how you made the stop, what you saw, what you did. Everything."
Ruiz glanced at Cross, then back at me. He gave a short nod, like he'd been expecting the request. "Alright. It started with Hale's car weaving down Lexington, just after eleven. He was coming from the Upper East Side, heading downtown. Nothing too crazy at first, but then he ran a red. Almost clipped a taxi. That's when I lit him up."
Cross leaned forward, adding his part. "We boxed him in at the curb. I approached driver's side, Ruiz covered passenger. Hale rolled the window down—reeked of booze. Eyes glassy, slurred speech. We asked him to step out. He argued for a minute but eventually complied."
Ruiz picked it up again. "We did a roadside sobriety. He failed hard. Breathalyzer came back just over the legal limit—not by much, but enough. While I'm writing him up, Cross here decides to take a look inside the vehicle. That's when we find the baggie in the center console and a plastic pouch shoved in the glove compartment."
Cross's mouth twitched into something between annoyance and resignation. "We log it, bag it, and bring it in. Chain of custody clean. No funny business."
I nodded slowly 'Eve, note this down. Sequence of events: DUI stop, failed sobriety, breathalyzer over limit, search produced Cocaine in console, powder in glove box. Evidence logged, custody clean.'
I let them finish. Cross's voice trailed off like he was glad to have it out of his system.
I tapped my finger lightly against the desk. "Body cam footage—did either of you have it rolling that night?"
Cross nodded. "Yeah. Both of us. Standard procedure."
Ruiz added, "But I'll tell you straight, counselor—there's nothing on it that isn't already in our report. Clean stop, clean arrest, clean chain. We logged everything by the book. Briggs—the prosecutor before you—already reviewed it himself. His words? 'Doesn't move the needle.' So he didn't request a copy."
I let my eyes narrow just slightly. 'Briggs thought it didn't matter. Maybe it doesn't. But I'll have to check again.'
"I'll need a copy," I said evenly.
Cross raised a brow. "You sure? It's dry as toast."
"Toast can still burn," I replied, my tone flat but certain. "Chain of custody lives or dies on details. I don't take anyone's word for what's important."
For a moment, the room was quiet. Ruiz exchanged a look with Cross, then finally shrugged. "Alright. We'll arrange a copy through the precinct records clerk. Might take a day, but you'll get it."
'Eve, mark it—body cam footage. High priority. I want it cross-referenced frame by frame once we have it.'
Her calm voice slid through my mind. [Logged. You think something's off?]
'Not yet. But if everyone's saying there's nothing, that alone makes it worth a second look.'
I leaned back slightly, letting the silence settle. "Good. I'll follow up once I've reviewed the footage. Before I go—your contact information. If I need to clarify something later, I want to be able to reach you directly."
Ruiz nodded immediately, scribbling his number onto a slip of paper and sliding it across the desk. Cross followed, jotting his own with neat block handwriting.
I took both, folded them once, and slipped them into the inner pocket of my jacket. "Appreciate the cooperation."
Then I pulled a plain card from my wallet, no fancy lettering—just my name and number. I set it on the table between them. "In case something crosses your mind later. Even small details matter. Call me anytime."
Cross picked it up and gave a short nod of acknowledgment. Ruiz smirked faintly. "You sound like you expect something new to pop up."
I didn't bite and reply. Just rose from my chair, smoothing the front of my jacket. [Details always surface] I told Eve silently 'The trick is being there when they do.'
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Advanced chapters at:
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