She had fifty-eight minutes before the meeting.
She hated waiting.
The bullpen was a steady hum of voices and ringing phones, but the noise barely registered. Her mind was fixed on the names circled in her notebook:Daniel Keene. Kara Delaney.
She tapped her pen against the desk, flipping back and forth between the staff files, trying to make sense of the connections.Was she reaching?Maybe. But something about these two wasn’t sitting right. If Keene was involved, the motive was clear—money. He was drowning in debt and could be looking for a way out. But Kara Delaney? That was different.
The fact that she was Veronica Delaney’s cousin could mean nothing. Or it could mean everything.
Isabel exhaled, running a hand through her hair. She needed to be smart about how she brought this up in the meeting. She was still the new detective, still proving herself. Coming in with wild theories and nothing solid to back them up wasn’t going towin her any points. Victoria Langley didn’t seem like the type to tolerate guesswork.
She glanced at the time again.8:47 AM.Close enough.
She shoved her notebook under her arm and pushed back from her desk, making her way toward the conference room. The weight of the case file in her hands felt heavier than it should.
As she walked, the low murmur of precinct chatter faded to background noise. Darcy was already inside when she arrived, leaning against the table with her arms crossed, reviewing notes. A few other detectives sat scattered around, sipping from their coffee cups, waiting for the meeting to start.
Victoria stood near the front, focused on her tablet, her expression unreadable.
Isabel slid into a chair near the middle of the table, setting her notebook down with a quietthud.She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders.
Time to see if this was worth bringing to the table.
The briefing had barely started when Isabel leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Captain, I’ve gotta ask - are we absolutely sure this is a professional job?”
Victoria’s gaze snapped to her. “Excuse me?”
Isabel gestured toward the case file. “The setup feels messy. If this were a high-level operation, we wouldn’t have security footage of the getaway car. The fire drill wasn’t precise - it was chaotic. And there’s no ransom demand yet. If this were Iron Fang, wouldn’t they have planned this down to the second?”
A few officers exchanged glances. Darcy, still seated at the table, let out a quiet breath through her nose.
Victoria set down the stylus she’d been using to highlight key details on the digital board. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to Isabel.
“Detective Torres,” she said, voice smooth but edged with steel. “You transferred here from Chicago, correct?”
Isabel frowned slightly. “Yeah.”
“Then let me make something clear,” Victoria continued. “Phoenix Ridgeisn’tChicago. You don’t know this city the way I do. And you sure as hell don’t know Iron Fang the way I do.”
The room went still.
“If this were a sloppy job by some amateur looking for a payday, they wouldn’t have gotten Chloe Harper out of that hotel undetected,” Victoria continued. “No one noticed the fire drill wasn’t real until she was already gone. No one saw her taken. And just because we have an image of the SUV doesn’t mean it was a mistake. It means they don’t care.”
Isabel’s jaw tightened, but she held Victoria’s stare. “Still. If we focus only on the syndicate angle, we might miss something.”
Victoria stepped closer, her expression unreadable. “Then do your job. If you find another lead, bring it to me. Until then, we work the angle that makes the most sense.”
The message was clear:You haven’t earned the right to question me yet.
Darcy cleared her throat. “All right, we’ve got assignments. Let’s move.”
Isabel stayed seated a second longer, flipping through the file as the other officers stood. She might have pushed too hard, too soon - but she wasn’t wrong to ask the question.
She just needed to find a way to prove it.
The meeting had barely wrapped up when Victoria strode out of the conference room, her expression set in that cool, unreadable mask she wore so well. The way she carried herself—spine straight, steps purposeful—made it clear she wasn’t in the mood for further debate.
Too bad.
