“Let me handle them,” I said again. “I know how to talk to cops. I’ve been doing it my whole career.”
He studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly.
“Your show, Whitfield.”
THE DETECTIVES CAME AT 11:00
Two of them. A man and a woman, both in plain clothes, both wearing the particular expression of people who had spent their careers walking into situations that could explode at any moment. Their eyes moved over everything—the brick walls, the steel beams, the men in leather who had positioned themselves at strategic points around the room.
I met them at the door. My back was screaming, and I was wearing someone’s borrowed flannel shirt over my bandages, but I stood straight and held out my hand.
“Lena Whitfield. Department of Child Services. I’m the one who was shot.”
The female detective—her nameplate said Det. Marchetti—shook my hand carefully, as if she was afraid I might break.
“You look like you should be in a hospital, Ms. Whitfield.”
“I was in a hospital. I left when it became clear that the shooter had people inside who wanted to finish the job.”
Her partner, Det. Morrison, was scanning the room behind me. I could see him cataloging the exits, the men, the weapons that were visible enough to be a warning but not visible enough to be provocation.
“You’re staying with the Hell’s Angels,” he said. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I’m staying with people who’ve protected me and a minor child from a man who’s already tried to kill us once. Whatever their affiliation, they’ve done more to keep us safe in four days than your department managed to do in the two weeks Colton Decker was alone in an apartment while his mother disappeared.”
Marchetti’s eyebrows went up. “You’re saying we dropped the ball?”
“I’m saying there’s a paper trail on Wade Prescott that goes back fifteen years. Domestic violence, assault, drug distribution, witness intimidation. And somehow, every time he got close to facing consequences, the case went cold. I’m not here to point fingers. I’m here to make sure this time is different.”
I led them to a table in the corner where I’d spread my files. The evidence was organized in three folders, each labeled and dated and cross-referenced with the precision of someone who had spent twelve years learning how to make a case that couldn’t be ignored.
Morrison picked up the first folder and started flipping through it. His expression changed as he read—the professional mask slipping for just a moment.
“This is… thorough.”
“I’ve had time to prepare. Wade Prescott has been a threat to Jolene Decker and her son for years. I’ve been building this case since the day I opened Colton’s file. The shooting at the diner just gave me the evidence I needed to finally make it stick.”
Marchetti was looking at the witness statements, the hospital records, the photographs of injuries that had healed but left scars that would never fade.
“Why now?” she asked. “Why not before?”
“Because before, I didn’t have a victim who was willing to testify. I didn’t have an eyewitness to an armed assault. I didn’t have twenty people who saw Wade Prescott pull the trigger on a woman who was protecting a child.”
I pulled out the last folder and laid it on the table.
“And I didn’t have this.”
Morrison opened it. Inside were records I’d obtained from a source I wouldn’t name—financial transactions, phone records, GPS data linking Wade Prescott to the attack on the warehouse three nights ago.
“Where did you get this?”
“I have sources,” I said. “What matters is that it’s admissible. Every document in that folder is backed by sworn statements and chain-of-custody documentation. You don’t need to know where it came from. You just need to use it.”
Marchetti and Morrison exchanged a look. I’d seen that look before—the moment when cops realize they’re dealing with something bigger than they expected, someone who knows how to play their game better than most civilians.
“We’re going to need to take statements,” Marchetti said. “From you, from Mr. Decker, from anyone else who witnessed the shooting.”
“You’ll get them. But I want something in return.”
Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not in a position to negotiate, Ms. Whitfield.”
“I’m the victim of a shooting, the legal foster parent of a child who was nearly abducted, and the only person in this building who has a law degree and a license to practice social work in this state. I’m exactly in a position to negotiate.”
