If You'll Believe In Me

"Neighbors?" I ask.

"The unis are still asking, but no one wants to talk," he says. Of course, because that would be useful. "Silencer?"

"This isn't a movie, suppressors are loud," Jill says from her perch on the bridge. "I can tell you this shooter was shorter than the victim."

"How so?" I ask. "Aren't there too many variables to assume that usually? Arm extension, posture?"

"The shooter likely fired at full arm extension. There is blood on the door on the inside from the first gunshot, but none in the hall," Jill says. That means the door was cracked open and the killer shoved the gun into his face from the opening. "Angled up, round exits and hits the ceiling. I'll finish the ground before I start digging slugs out and having the debris contaminate the scene. His face is blown into the door, and his body recoils backwards when the shooter kicks the door open." Jill points out the damage on the door about the size of a foot. "Shoots him one more time when he's on the ground."

"How does his face move against the round?" Jeff asks.

"Physics," Jill says. "More energy is exerted from the exit wound than the entry. Bone and brain shooting out is like a propellant. It's why I roll my eyes at Kennedy conspiracy theorist who claim his head moving backwards is proof of something other than his face being the exit wound."

I did not know that. Jeff silently goes back to looking for indicators.

"You guys talked to him before, right?" I ask and do no hear a reply. "Jeff?"

"Huh?" I ask again. "Yeah."

"And?"

"FBI called us before we could get anywhere. Midge was suspicious."

"Rifle?" I ask.

"If it was here, it isn't anymore. The shooter might have come to get it," Jeff says, and I agree that's a possibility.

"Time of death?" I ask Jill, who looks up at me. "Estimate?"

"He's ambient temperature. Definite maggot eggs, but no hatchlings. Rigor mortis has set in. Ten to twelve hours if you need a ballpark," Jill explains.

For nearly half a day his neighbors have walked past his broken door with a visible body, but no one called the police. That is some potent fear.

"Lieutenant," I hear from down the hall. Chief Whitaker is walking toward me with a second man in a suit and gun behind him. "I figured I'd get the last update in person."

"Last update?" I ask, and then look at the other man. FBI. "Turning the case over?"

"We are," he says, and the agent steps around the Chief to shake my hand.

"Special Agent Shelby, Organized Crime," he says.

"Lieutenant Ito," I reply. "Best we have here so far, is about ten to twelve hours ago."

"We'll let them finish up before we talk about this one. Is the courthouse sniper still under observation?" Agent Shelby asks, and I shake my head.

"Once this was called in, I had the officers knock. She's escaped while under surveillance. Do you know who she is?" I ask.

"Not for this room," Shelby says. They do know who she is. "Mind if I get in there?" he asks Jill.

"See my bag next to the door?" Jill asks, and he replies that he does. "Put some booties on."

"You got it," Shelby says, and then starts doing as ordered. When I imagine the FBI taking a case from the locals, I pictured more condescension. I do not know if Shelby's courteousness is his own demeanor, or a testament to our relationship with the bureau.

"They only sent one guy?" I ask Chief Whitaker who directs me to walk with him down the hall. "Sir?"

"We're still involved. Our involvement is through SI now. Shelby asked for Chase in particular," Chief explains.

"Does he know?" I ask.

"I told him, but he doesn't care. Shelby's worked with Chase before, so there is already a relationship. It is still a homicide, so he will liaise with you. Will that be a problem?" he asks, and I think for a moment. Will it be a problem to work directly with my boyfriend?

"Maybe," I say, and he appears surprised I answered that honestly. "Chase shouldn't be on the case, and I've already kicked him back a few times. Now he's running point on it?"

"I feel the same, unfortunately it is what it is. I can assign it to Bryan if you think it'll cause tension. Professionally or otherwise," he says. I have this aching feeling to both appreciate his consideration and detest the patronizing context. I doubt he would have this conversation with a man. He does come off as somewhat uncomfortable to ask the question. Almost annoyed he must ask his officers if they can behave like grownups.

"We'll be fine," I say after a small deliberation.

"Okay," he says, leaving his trust in me to take care of it.

--

Thursday -- October 15, 2026

-Midge Appletree-

I brought three uniformed police officers with me after sending a letter to Judge Rook alerting her to the fact Anton Mamedova tampered with the evidence she ordered him to provide. She gave me the arrest warrant and within two hours we are escorting Anton out of his home.

While one officer waits at the squad car, I enter his home with two others to conduct a search. It is an upper middle-class townhouse, like my own, but his has a Jaguar parked out front. I glove up, and refrain from touching anything unless I plan on examining it with intent.

All the paperwork in his office is dull and inconspicuous. Nothing in the living room stands out. His kitchen has the dark granite countertops I want but can never convince Gianna to spend the money on. His guest rooms are nicer than my master bedroom.

"Detective," one of the officers says as I am digging through a closet.

"What's up?"

"Check this out." I follow his voice to the living room, where the officer knocks on the coffee table. It sounds somewhat hollow. "Hear that?" After a moment of searching, we figure out how to make the top panel slide off, revealing a hidden storage compartment. Inside are a few guns and bags of cocaine.

"What's in there?" I hear from the door of the house. Chase walks in while pressing gloves to the pits of his fingers.

"Get the fuck out before your girl...before my boss has an aneurism," I say, then watch him look at the find.

"Funny story. My case now," he says, and I laugh a little. Then I realize he isn't messing with me.

"Special Investigations liaison with the FBI?" I ask, and he nods. "Great, your problem." My gloves make a snapping sound when I pull them off.

"I get one person from homicide to help me," he says.

"I'll get Will caught up," I say, because I know he is going to take Will with him.

"Still your case," he says. He is kicking Jeff, not grabbing Will, but keeping me? He seems to notice how confused I am. "Will won't challenge my presumptions as much. I need someone to keep my bias in line. I trust you to handle me, more than Will would be ready to." Chase is acutely aware of how much he shouldn't be here.

"Fine, deal," I say, then look at the coffee table. "If one of these guns did Saul, little too convenient if you ask me."

"The person who moved the rifle is killed by the person he worked for?" Chase asks, and I nod. We watch the guns get bagged. We'll find out, but I don't think Anton did it. "The rifle is still missing. Why?"

"Because it's still needed," I say, and Chase thinks for a moment.

"Why not just get a new rifle?" Chase asks. "If this gun is a plant, why not also plant the rifle as well?"

"I don't know. We're not playing with a full chess board yet. Let's regroup, sit down with the FBI, maybe they'll actually share something we don't know," I say. Chase agrees we need to get more information before we start forming theories. "When do we get a briefing? How does this work exactly?"

"I'll fill you in when you get done here," Chase says, and joins me for the rest of the search.

--

I'm told to get a good night's sleep, because we'll be working with the FBI on this case on all cylinders tomorrow. I am grateful Chase brought me into this possibly career making case, by the smell of it. Shadowy snipers with Russian tattoos with a penchant for Lewis Carol. A Lithuanian FBI informant seemingly killed by his Georgian boss. What the hell am I about to get into?

Spending one last sane night at home is a comforting thought. Even Wendy is nicer to me than usual. Part of that is she now has a sense of where I'm coming from. She's open to the concept of finally getting to know me. Took her four years.

When I get home after a long day of booking Anton, the boys are already in their rooms. Gianna is working nights this quarter, so I'm greeted by Wendy sitting on the couch watching some mushy CW show.

"You're home late," she says, and I check my phone for the time. Almost eleven. "Are you working that sniper case at the courthouse?"

"Neither confirm, nor deny," I say.

"That's a yes."

"No, it isn't," I say. I remove my gun still in the holster and place it in the safe on top of the fridge and secure it. My shield I put on the counter. "But if I was working it..." I tease.

"I'm surprised they're letting you work," she says, referring to my state of pregnancy. "Don't they normally put injured or pregnant cops on a desk?"

"I can't execute arrest warrants, but I can calmly wait in the car until the scene is clear," I say and then sit next to her. "Gonna be a lot of long nights for a while. You up for taking care of your brothers? We really need you to step up."

"What's my incentive?" she asks.

"We don't hire a babysitter who puts you in timeouts," I reply.

"Fair enough."

"And one hundred bucks a week," I offer.

"On top of take out allowance?" she counters.

"Fifty, on top of take out allowance," I say. We both pause and say "Seventy-five" at the same time.

"Why the late nights?" Wendy asks.

"Big case. I'm not even sure how big yet," I say, and I can tell I have piqued her curiosity.

"Promotion big?" Wendy asks.

"Career making big," I say, and she reaches to pat my shoulder to congratulate me, but her hand hesitates. I grab her hand and place it on my shoulder. I haven't fully explained my boundaries with her, but I deeply appreciate her consideration of them. "I am comfortable with some people touching me. You're one of them. All I ask, is you get my attention first. If I know it's coming, I don't get scared."

"Okay," she says, and then pats my shoulder. We smile at each other. One of the first real moments of understanding and respect we have ever had. I'm making progress with her.

"You said I could tell you things, just us?" she says, and I nod to confirm. "You don't tell mom. No judgement."

"I'll try my best," I say. She takes a deep breath, then exhales.

"I lost my virginity today," she says. I was prepared for that. Besides drugs, what else was it going to be?

"I have one question," I say.

"He wore a condom, and I started my pills a month ago," she says, and I nod.

"Jesse?" I ask, and she nods. My boss's son is fucking my daughter. Since I caught them last time, Jesse has become a regular face here after apologizing to me. Wendy spends time with his family too. As promised, I didn't tell Gianna that I caught them. I strongly encouraged she does. All I said, was make him earn it. Not to let him pressure or guilt her into it. Turns out she had nothing to worry about because she was pressuring him into it. Kids these days.

"Have you ever, you know..." Wendy asks. It takes me a moment to understand what her question is.

"Yes...but..." I start to say, and she grabs my hand.

"You don't have to say it. I understand," she says.

"No, I...I need to have the courage to say it more. I was raped," I say, and Wendy squeezes my hand after I say that word. This is the first time I'm telling her this directly.

"Is that when you became a lesbian?" she asks.

"What, no?" I say with a small laugh. "I was a lesbian long before that. I was never really in the closet."

"Oh. I thought that, some women become lesbians because, you know. Things like that," she says. I don't like how she's treading on eggshells. This is why some women don't talk about it. Guilt and shame are certainly reasons, but I mostly just didn't want the pity.

"Sure, there are women who experience trauma from men that affects their romantic fondness of men forever. I'm not one of them. Even today, my best friends are men," I say, and that's the truth.

"Shane?" she asks, and I nod. "Have you two, you know?"

"Shane and I have been sexual, but we never had sex," I say, and she blinks a few times. She is trying to figure out what I mean by that.

"Okay," she says, and to my surprise doesn't push the topic. I think she's just satisfied that I'm not lying to her.

Wendy is trying to understand sex. It is a confusing time of her life. I think she's trying to figure out what the big deal was. Short answer, there isn't a big deal about it. I do have a few things to go over with her.

"Have you noticed, how I always call you a young lady, and your brothers young sir?" I ask her. She thinks for a moment, then nods. "Do I ever sound patronizing? Do I ever talk down to them? Or you?"

"No," she says. "You talk to us like we're adults. You don't use the same words, but you use the same tone." She has been quietly appreciating that for years.

"That is what respect sounds like. People who are respected, respect others, and themselves. So, I'm not going to bullshit you," I say, and she adjusts her posture a little. She's getting prepared for what I have to say. "You're too young to have sex. That's my opinion."

"I respect your opinion," she says, and we both hold back a smile before laughing. Who is this young lady? What has she done with my daughter? "I'll tell mom. It's not fair to ask you to keep that from her." That is the most considerate thing I've ever heard her say.

"Look at you, all grown up," I say, then stand up from the couch. She stands up to make sure I get up without incident. I might promote her to ma'am. "I got an early morning and a long day. Love you, don't stay up too late. School night."

"You're not telling me to go to bed?" she asks.

"You're an adult," I say. Wendy says she'll be in bed before midnight.

--

Thursday -- October 15, 2026

-Zillah Calvin-

On the first of October, a black Tahoe pulled in front of my office as I left for the day. A man in a pristine suit and hands covered in tattoos held open the door for me. He said nothing, but he didn't need to. The gesture wasn't polite; it was an order. As required of me, I entered the vehicle. Not a moment after the door shut a black hood was thrown over my face, and headphones blasting heavy metal music was placed over my ears.

I have no sense of space or time until the headphones and pulled off. My ears try to adjust as I am nudged out of the car. My movement is controlled by a hand on my shoulder. The sounds of a utility elevator, and the jolt of a sudden ascension follow. They have never taken me this far. It's usually to a garage used as a chop shop that distorts audio from any bug that could have been planted. This is something big.

The hood is pulled off my head in the elevator, and I blow the hair off my face. I am encouraged to move by that same hand when the elevator opens. I'm led down a hallway that looks under construction. Men are present in hardhats and reflective vests. People are reading off architecture schematics and discussing plans. At the end of the hall is a door that I am instructed to enter.

This room is complete and fully furnished unlike the rest of the floor. A sleek, modern, white and red aesthetic. The floor and walls are white. Red leather chairs sit before a redwood desk. Several works of art carry the red motif further. A painting of a field of red poppy flowers. Another displaying a woman protecting herself from a red rain by a small umbrella. On the desk are red and white roses.

Standing behind the desk, looking out the window is a man I haven't met before. From here I can see a shiny bald head shaved by a razor. Dress slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His blazer is on the back of his chair. The manner I was brought to him makes me assume he is more important than the underlings I usually work through. This man is high in the organization.

"Sit," he said, and I did as told. I crossed my legs and placed my hands on my thigh. He continued to look out the window for nearly a full minute. I see his reflection watching me. He is trying to size me up.

"We haven't meet. I'm..." I began.

"...did I say talk?" he asked, then turned to me. "I know who you are. Did you think I told them to grab someone I didn't know to bring them here?" I am fluent in Russian accents, and his was thick. "Speak."

"I'm Zillah Calvin. You are?" I asked. At first, he looked perturbed, then slowly he looked impressed. He liked that I didn't appear scared of him. My reputation as a cutthroat needs to be accurate. In truth I was waiting to get shot and dumped in acid. That's a concern I always have. Occupational hazard.

He sat down on his high-backed red leather chair. The top three buttons on his shirt were open, and I saw his shaved chest displaying his tattoos. To the mafia, that's his resume. The buildings with multiple onion domes told me he had done considerable time in prison and the star showed he was a high-ranking member of the Russian Mafia. I knew his name before he said it. The leader of a Vory syndicate.

"Imran Krasny," he said, and offered me a drink. I accepted because I never had a choice not to. Not with these people. He poured us both a shot of vodka. We downed the glasses in one hearty gulp, and he poured himself another.

"It's highly unusual for someone of your status to be in the United States," I said.

"I like America more than most Americans. The government here must prove you're guilty. Your criminals don't know how good they got it," he said with a laugh, and drank his second shot.

"I assume you had me brought here for a reason," I said, and he nodded. He opened a drawer on his desk and slid a folder across the polished wood to me. I leaned over to pick up. Inside was a picture of Henry Silverlake. A dirty PI who had dirt on one of the DAs witnesses for an upcoming case. In my business, you work with people as dirty as you. Innocent people don't hire me. "What about him?"

"Keep looking," he said, and I scrolled through the pictures. One picture had him meeting in a car with another man I didn't recognize.

"Who is that?" I asked.

"He's the aid of the Georgian Ambassador to the United States," he said, and I keep flipping photos. "The same ambassador whose daughter is in our care to assure her cooperation. This PI is working to find her daughter. He has no idea how close he is because she's in a property that is so kindly owned by you. Not directly of course."

"Shit," I said.

"You let a fox in my henhouse," he said.

"I didn't know. He came to me on a separate matter. Seemed on the level because he had personal reasons to hate the guy too. What needs to be done?" I asked. I don't make recommendations. I just execute or keep the people who execute out of jail.

"Plans are already in motion to eliminate him. However, we need cover. Doubt needs to be cast on him being the sole target. So, when you all enter court, him, and your client, will be taken care of. Leave the how to me. Just make sure both are there on the first day of court," he said.

I didn't exactly love my client, but I don't like the hit to my reputation. Some things can't be avoided I suppose. I made sure both were there.

When it happened, I stood to her side as a precautionary measure. Marlene's body hit the ground and Silverlake appeared to know what was happening, because he pushed through Hugh who took the bullet for him. Silverlake tripped over Marlene's dead body which again saved his life and managed to avoid the next two shots. To make matters worse, their shooter was captured. I thought I was working with professionals, not people who kill my partner.