Page 63 of Loco

Judd cursed under his breath. I stood there for a beat, recalling that day at the store and those men blocking Sayla’s path. I pulled out my phone and texted her a photo of Topper.

"Look familiar?"

She replied a few minutes later while I was mid-way through filing Kaden Roper’s report.

"Yeah, I think that’s the guy from the mall, the one who stepped aside first, maybe?

"Thanks, baby.”

I looked up and saw Kai passing my desk. I stood, waved him down, and motioned him outside.

Once we were clear of the building, I told him. “It was Topper. His prints are on the knife from Sayla’s tire.”

Kai let out a slow breath. “Shit.”

We didn’t wait. I texted Judd, Kapono, Imogen, and Keir to meet us out back. When they arrived, we laid it out—everything. Kapono confirmed the match, and I relayed what Sayla had said about Topper’s photo. We may have suspected, but the confirmation made Judd’s jaw clench.

“We need his prints on something legal,” Imogen said. “Something that'll hold.”

“We’ll get them,” Judd said, pulling out his phone. “But it’s not just him. We’ve been watching, and Keir took some photos last night.”

He handed his phone around. The images were grainy but clear enough: Eckhart and five others picking up oversized bags from two laundromats and hauling them into a run-down barbershop. Another showed them stopping by one of the houses we knew was involved in the prostitution ring and grabbing another bag.

“They’re moving something,” Keir noted. “Probably money, maybe more.”

“We can’t go to the DA,” Kai said, “not with Topper still in charge. He’ll shut it down, maybe worse.”

“So we tail them,” Judd suggested. “Catch them doing anything—hell, littering if we have to. Even the smallest charge that gives us cause. Then we bring it all down.”

“And the other four?” I asked.

Judd’s eyes hardened. “Same thing. The ones profiling people, covering for the scum we’re chasing, I want them too. We do this by the book—but wedoit.”

Nobody argued. We had a plan now, and we were all in.

I wasn’t expectingit to happen so soon, but the bastard practically delivered himself to me.

Just after four o’clock that afternoon, I saw Dennis Nolan blow through a red light like it wasn’t even there. No hesitation, nobrake lights, just straight through like he owned the damn road. I flipped on my lights and pulled him over two blocks later.

He was twitchy the moment I stepped up to the window, pupils blown wide, jaw grinding, and hands shaking slightly on the steering wheel.

“License and registration,” I requested, already clocking the signs. His eyes darted everywhere—rearview mirror, side mirrors, my badge, the street. Classic coke head behavior.

“You been drinking?”

“No,” he slurred slightly. “Maybe a little last night. Still shaking it off.”

“Step out of the vehicle.”

He hesitated, like the idea had just occurred to him that this wasn’t going to go his way. I stepped back, hand resting on my holster, and that got him moving.

He refused the breathalyzer, of course, so I requested a blood draw once we got back to the station. It was approved with no issues, considering that Nolan had a history, even if nothing had ever stuck. This time, he wasn’t walking away so easily.

While we waited on the lab tech, I had him moved from holding to Interrogation Two. I sat across from him, watching him scratch at his arms and glance around like the walls were closing in. Maybe they were.

“What were you doing today, Nolan?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

“Same as always,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Running errands and getting some air. Might’ve missed the light—I dunno. I guess I’m still buzzed from last night.”

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