Charlotte Coleman's televised appeal sent a shockwave through the precinct, albeit a contained one. Captain Reeves handled the media fallout, reiterating the official stance on the Coleman case and downplaying Charlotte's suspicions. But within the department, there was quiet speculation. A few colleagues asked me, as one of the initial responding detectives, if there had been anything unusual about the scene. I maintained my professional detachment, confirming the ME's findings and the lack of evidence of foul play.
However, the public nature of Charlotte's search added a new layer of scrutiny to the Coleman case. Old files might be revisited. New eyes might look at the evidence. The bartender, Mark Jenkins, might be re-interviewed, his memory potentially jogged by the media attention.
More ominously, Charlotte's public plea might also attract the attention of the network. They were already aware of the official investigation into their activities. Now, they might see Charlotte's independent search, however misdirected, as another potential threat, another loose end to tie up. And they might connect her public search to the detective who had been digging into their affairs.
The subtle surveillance around me escalated into more direct, yet still deniable, acts. A flat tire on my personal car turned out to be caused by deliberate puncture, not a random road hazard. My credit card was flagged for unusual activity – a large, fraudulent online purchase that was quickly reversed but indicated someone had accessed my financial information.
This wasn't just psychological warfare anymore; this was the network showing its teeth. They were sending a clear message: they knew who I was, and they could touch my life.
The leaker within the precinct remained a ghost, but their presence, coupled with the network's increasingly bold moves, confirmed I was operating in hostile territory. Miller's IA investigation, while not directly focused on my vigilante activities, added to the pressure. Any misstep, any deviation from procedure, could be interpreted as suspicious.
I decided it was time to make a move against the network, not through the legal system, but through my own. Targeting Vance in the park had been a failure, compromised by their surveillance. I needed a different approach, one that used my unique position as a detective to create an opportunity.
My research, drawing from Freeman's ledger and discreet inquiries, had identified another key enabler – a man named Arthur Hayes, a prominent real estate developer with deep ties to the network and a history of using intimidation and questionable tactics in his business dealings. He was one of the names on Freeman's "handled" list, connected to silencing a woman who had opposed one of his development projects.
Hayes was notoriously private, his security tight. Approaching him directly was too risky. I needed to create a situation where he would come to me, or at least, where I could observe him without his immediate knowledge.
I used my access to police resources, subtly initiating a preliminary inquiry into one of Hayes's recent development projects, citing anonymous tips about potential zoning violations. It was a low-level probe, unlikely to lead to anything significant through official channels, but designed to get his attention, to make him nervous, to force him to react.
The reaction came swiftly. Not a threat directed at me, but a call from Captain Reeves, asking about the sudden interest in Arthur Hayes's project.
"Getting calls from downtown, Elise," Reeves said, his tone cautious. "Hayes is well-connected. Why are we looking into his development?"
I provided a plausible explanation about the anonymous tips, emphasizing that it was just a preliminary check. Reeves accepted it, but his expression was wary. My actions, even within the bounds of my detective work, were attracting unwanted attention.
Later that day, as I was leaving the precinct, I saw him. A man in a dark suit, standing across the street, making no attempt to look casual. He wasn't precinct personnel. He wasn't a reporter. His eyes were fixed on me. Network muscle.
He wasn't alone. Another man, equally nondescript, leaned against a car further down the block. They weren't just watching; they were here. Waiting.
The network wasn't just sending warnings anymore. They were present. They were letting me know I was in their sights. The walls weren't just closing in; I was surrounded. The hunter was the hunted, and the game was about to turn deadly.