Page 2 of Forest Reed
I slid a photo in front of Harris. “Your ‘food truck’ bought six pallets of fake soda syrup that somehow tested thirty percent fentanyl base. Here’s the bill for all of that poison. Here’s your signature.”
He glanced down, bored. “Never seen it.”
“Sure,” I said. “And I never wear heels that hurt my feet.”
“Detective,” Forest murmured, “you want me to—”
“I got it,” I said without looking back, then tapped the table. “Let’s talk about last night’s call. The one from a burner pinging off Pier Nine.” I lifted my eyes, level. “You had a meet. You didn’t show. Someone else did.”
Harris tilted his head at me like I was a particularly interesting documentary. “You’re good,” he said. “But you’re not listening.”
“To what?” I asked.
“To the humming,” he said, glancing at the ceiling. “Lights. Vents. Cameras. They’re never off, are they?” His smile sharpened. “Which means whatever I say here gets… curated.”
My jaw ticked. “This isn’t a plea negotiation.”
“Then consider it a public service announcement,” he said lightly. “Check your evidence locker. Maybe… shelf three, bin B. Or don’t. Up to you.”
My spine went cold. I kept my face stone. “Who’s your leak?”
Harris’s gaze flicked over my shoulder to Forest. “Who’s yours?”
That punched a nerve. I snapped the folder closed. “Interview’s on a break.”
I pushed away from the table and marched out. The hallway smelled like old coffee and new lies. Forest followed, quiet tread, big presence.
“Don’t,” I said.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Then don’tthinkanything,” I hissed. “He’s playing with us. He wants me paranoid.”
Forest leaned a hip against the wall, looking maddeningly calm. “You’re not paranoid. You’re precise.”
I hated that his voice made heat curl low in my stomach. “Stop being supportive when I want to be mad.”
His mouth twitched. “Noted.”
The ancient vending machine at the end of the hall glared at me like a metal toad. I jammed in a dollar for water; it ate it with a smug whirr.
“Of course,” I muttered.
Forest stepped past me, tapped the side with two knuckles, fed it a different bill, and—because the city was clearly in love with him—five bottles tumbled out like slot-machine cherries.
I stared. “Are you… a vending machine whisperer?”
“Mountain trick,” he said deadpan, handing me a bottle. “You compliment the machine. Tell it it’s doing great.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever—”
He leaned close, voice a rumble. “You’re doing great.”
I almost choked on air. I took a very professional gulp of water instead. “Back to the room,” I said, because moving forward was my religion.
When we went in, Harris was studying his reflection in the two-way glass. “You should visit the pier tonight,” he said, casual as a weather report. “Ask for extra sauerkraut.”
“I’m allergic to theatrics,” I said. “And ferments.”
