Page 12 of Dead Air
Two weeks later
Work became arctic. Monica answered direct questions with yes or no. Filed reports without looking up. Took lunch breaks at different times. The partnership that had felt natural for three years turned mechanical overnight.
Lawson retreated to the Driftwood every evening after shift. Same corner stool, same whiskey order, same bartender who'd stopped asking questions. The routine numbed the sharp edges of regret.
"Rough day?" Tommy, the construction worker two stools down, always showed up around six. Concrete dust permanently embedded under his nails, thermos of coffee that smelled like motor oil.
"They're all rough days." Lawson signaled for another round.
"Tell me about it. My foreman's been riding us about the Henderson project. Three weeks behind schedule, but it ain't our fault the permits got held up." Tommy drained his beer and ordered another. "You in construction?"
"Cop."
"No shit. My brother-in-law's a cop up in Atlanta. Says the job'll eat you alive if you let it."
Lawson nodded and focused on her drink. Small talk felt impossible when every conversation reminded her of Monica's laugh, Monica's stories about her crazy family, Monica's theories about human nature gleaned from years of questioning suspects.
The bar filled with its usual evening crowd. Office workers loosening ties, service industry folks still wearing name tags, retirees who treated the place like their personal club. Everyone had reasons for being there. Most didn't ask about anyone else's.
"You married?" Tommy persisted despite Lawson's obvious disinterest in conversation.
"No."
"Smart. Marriage is complicated enough without throwing a badge into the mix. My ex-wife used to say I loved concrete more than her. Wasn't true, but I couldn't prove it working sixty-hour weeks."
Lawson's phone buzzed against the bar. She glanced at the screen out of habit—probably Richardson with some administrative bullshit that couldn't wait until morning.
Monica's name appeared instead.
Meet me at the old paper mill warehouse. 11 PM. Come alone.
Lawson stared at the message. Two weeks of silence and now this. The paper mill sat in the warehouse district, where drug deals went bad and bodies turned up in dumpsters. Not the kind of place for reconciliation conversations.
Another text followed:I have something on the Rafferty case. Big enough to break it open.
The Rafferty investigation. They'd been working it for months before their fight, following money trails and offshore accounts that led to dead ends. Monica had been convinced someone inside the department was protecting the operation.
Lawson's finger hovered over the reply button. Two weeks of hurt and anger and wounded pride battled against curiosity and something deeper—the hope that maybe Monica had found a reason to reach out beyond work. Or maybe it was the chance Erin needed to make amends herself.
"Another round?" The bartender appeared without being summoned.
Lawson looked at her phone again. 10:15 PM. Forty-five minutes to decide whether to show up or let Monica wait alone in that warehouse district wasteland.
"Yeah. Make it a double."
The whiskey burned going down. Tommy was still talking about construction schedules and permit delays, but his voice faded into background noise. Lawson focused on the phone screen and the messages that might represent an olive branch or just another professional obligation.
10:30 PM. Monica would be getting ready to leave, checking her weapon, grabbing keys. The same pre-operation routine they'd developed over three years of partnership.
Lawson ordered another drink.
10:45 PM. Monica's car would be pulling out of her apartment complex, heading toward the warehouse district and whatever information she'd uncovered about Rafferty.
The bar spun slightly when Lawson turned her head. Four whiskeys on an empty stomach—dinner had been a bag of pretzels and professional guilt.
"You okay there?" Tommy squinted at her with the concern of someone who'd watched too many people drink themselves stupid.
"Have to go." Lawson dropped cash on the bar and grabbed her keys. The parking lot tilted under her feet, but she managed to find her car without falling over. Four drinks wasn't blackout territory. She'd driven in worse condition.
