Chapter 6: The Weight of a Badge
The damp chill of Grandview Terrace clung to the asphalt as Matteo killed the headlights half a block away from Apartment 4B. The neighborhood was quiet, save for the hum of a distant highway and the occasional drip of water from rusted fire escapes. We stepped out onto the sidewalk, our footsteps muffled by the wet concrete. Aaron flanked the left alleyway, ensuring no rear exits were left unguarded while Matteo and I took the main iron gate.
Detective Sergeant Miller’s apartment was on the second floor, marked by a flickering hallway bulb that hummed an irritating, high-pitched note. I motioned for Matteo to hold position by the door frame, raising my hand to knock twice—measured, steady, and loud enough to cut through whatever cheap television broadcast was playing inside.
The lock clicked almost immediately, as if the man had been pacing right beside the threshold. The door swung inward to reveal Miller in a rumpled gray undershirt and suspenders, his hand instinctively dipping toward the waistband of his trousers where a snub-nosed revolver was tucked awkwardly against his hip. His eyes widened when he saw my face, recognizing the man from the high-society gala front pages, though he certainly hadn't expected me on his dismal doorstep at two in the morning.
"Vance," Miller muttered, his breath sour with stale coffee and cheap whiskey. He tried to force a defensive scowl, planting his shoulder against the door frame. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here without a warrant. Or maybe you think your private security firm gives you jurisdiction over local police."
"Not jurisdiction, Sergeant. Just auditing," I said calmly, stepping forward with deliberate force that compelled Miller to back away into his cramped living room. Matteo slipped in behind us, closing and latching the door with a quiet click that seemed to echo like a gunshot in the confined space.
Miller’s living room was a mess of takeaway boxes, crumpled case files, and a glowing laptop connected to a secure tactical burner phone resting beside an empty glass. I walked past him, my eyes fixed on the device flashing with the downloaded payload of corrupted dummy files my servers had fed him an hour ago.
"You've been very busy tonight, Miller," I said, picking up the burner phone by its edge. "Pulling data packets for a city councilman who thinks his campaign contributions buy him immunity from assault charges. Tell me, does Caldwell pay you a monthly retainer, or do you just sell your badge piece by piece on commission?"
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Miller’s face flushed a mottled red, his jaw working furiously as he looked from me to Matteo, who stood blocking the only path to the kitchen. "You don't know what you're stepping into, Vance. Caldwell has the DA's office in his pocket. If you take that phone, you're looking at obstruction charges before sunrise."
"Let's test that theory," I replied, slipping the burner phone into my coat pocket. "Aaron has the physical hardware logs from your precinct terminal. By morning, the state attorney general's office will have a complete package detailing every illegal database query you've run for Preston over the last three years. Pack a bag, Miller. Your career in law enforcement just ended."
