Erica Sinclair - The Ememy Within (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, as the great man wrote: the game is afoot.

More coming tonight.

[Caesar73]

And so the 'fightback' begins.

It does! And I fight in the Shadows. Who targets an investigative Journalist like Candice? Someone, who has a lot to loose. And is ressourceful to pull off a Charade like this one.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, maybe Erica can shed some light on this.

[Jenny_S]

The drive from Queens to Erica’s apartment on West 72nd Street takes just under 40 minutes and as she slowly lets her black Volvo roll down the ramp into the underground parking, she knows pretty much everything there is to know about Susan Cline.
Somehow, she wonders if Candice might have saved herself a lot of trouble if she had asked someone like Dance and didn’t nose around herself.

She rides the elevator up to her apartment and unlocks the door.
As if on cue, Tiger, the grey-striped tabby, comes trotting toward her while Spot jumps off the black leather couch, passing by his grey brother to greet their mommy.
Tails up, they weave around Erica’s legs.

“Hey, lovelies,” Erica murmurs, reaching down to scratch them behind their ears before moving to the living room.

She shrugs off her coat, draping it over the back of the couch, and sets her handbag down on the coffee table. A few quick motions, and she plugs her laptop into the flatscreen TV mounted on the wall.
While the computer starts, she cleans the kittens’ dishes and refills them, getting them their dinner.
Her own, however, needs to wait till later.

She sits down on the couch, pulls the laptop toward her and plugs the USB stick in.
Biting her lower lip, she wills the file to load faster…


The night vision mode of the security cameras lets the video appear grainy and drained of color, but the TV screen, now showing four different camera angles, offers a surprisingly complete view of the parking lot as well as the building entrance.

On the third camera, Erica recognizes Candice’s vehicle, a silver Toyota Prius Hybrid. If anybody manipulated it that night, he’d be in the frame.

She leans forward, eyes narrowing, her chin resting on her stapled hands, forwarding the video in between.

At 00:51 AM there’s movement.
A lone figure appears from the right side of the screen.
Dark clothing. Hood pulled down low and moving directly to Candice’s car.
There’s no hesitation, no fumbling.
This isn’t some random break-in, the person knows exactly which vehicle to look for.

Erica watches the shadowy figure produce a tool - a slim metallic rod – from his – or her – backpack and within seconds, the trunk pops open.

Her jaw tightens.
The person reaches inside the backpack, pulls out a package, and places it inside the trunk. A couple of seconds later the trunk is closed and just as quickly as the figure had appeared, it is gone.
The whole thing took less than a minute.

Erica watches the scene a couple of times, notes the time. No matter how hard she looks, perched on her couch like a hawk, the face of the person remains hidden under the hood of his shirt even as he looks up briefly at the security camera. There’s nothing conspicuous in his posture or his gait, but the way he moves tells her it’s a man.

She sends a text message to Candice Summers. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 AM. Need anything?”

Within a minute Erica receives her reply. “I’ll be here. Can I have cheesecake?”
So Candice isn’t sleeping.

Erica glances at her Rolex. Time has been flying by since she started screening the video. It’s past 11PM, time to go to bed. Dinner will be tomorrow’s breakfast.


~~~


Morning traffic in Manhattan is its own beast. Erica steers her black Volvo through the chaos with the ease of someone who has long mastered the city's unpredictable rhythm. Taxis swerve without warning, delivery trucks double-park, and pedestrians cross wherever they please. The air is sharp with the lingering chill of the night, and the sun, though bright, has yet to warm the city streets.

As she slows at a red light, she remembers Candice’s request. Cheesecake.
But with Erica Sinclair on the job, it is not going to be just any cheesecake. If Candice needs to indulge, it has to be good.

A smirk touches Erica’s lips as she signals and veers onto a quieter street, heading toward Schaller’s, the German bakery tucked between an old tailor shop and a newsstand.

The scent of fresh pastries and brewed coffee lingers in the air even before she pushes open the door, setting off a small chime.

Inside, the glass display case gleams, filled with rows of meticulously arranged treats - Black Forest cake, apple strudel, butter-streusel pastries. But Erica’s eyes go straight to the dense, golden squares of cheesecake, their tops smooth and slightly caramelized.

The baker, an older man with flour-dusted hands, recognizes her immediately.
"Mrs. Sinclair! What can I do for you today?" he says with a knowing smile.

"Four slices of your fine cheesecake, please, Mr Schaller. To go," she says.

He nods approvingly and carefully boxes the slices, each separated by wax paper. As he ties the box with a red ribbon, she hands over a crisp bill.

"This must be for someone special," he muses with a knowing smile.

"You could say that. She’s had a rough time," she replies, taking the box and heading back into the city’s morning rush.

By the time she reaches Queens, the energy shifts. The glass towers and business suits of the Upper West Side give way to older brick buildings, smaller shops, and a different kind of New York hum - less polished, more lived-in.
She pulls into Candice’s apartment complex, parking in the same spot as the night before.

Carrying the cheesecake in one hand and her bag slung over her shoulder, she strides up the stairs and presses the buzzer.

There’s a pause, then a voice from behind the door, wary and sharp. "Who's there?"

Erica huffs a small laugh. "Sinclair’s Cheesecake Delivery Service." Hearing this, her client will recognize her.

The lock clicks, and the door opens just enough for Candice’s face to appear. She looks worse than the night before - dark circles under her eyes, her hair an unbrushed mess. A hoodie is thrown over her sleep shirt, and the apartment behind her is dimly lit.

Candice exhales, stepping aside to let Erica in. "I didn't sleep. At all."

"I can see that." Erica moves inside, placing the box of cheesecake on the coffee table. "Which is why I brought provisions."

Candice eyes the box warily, then sinks onto the couch with a sigh. "What’s on the agenda today?"

Erica unzips her bag and pulls out her laptop, setting it up on the table. "I need you to watch something."

She loads the surveillance footage and fast-forwards to the crucial moment.
On the screen, the grainy, grey-tinged video plays - the hooded figure slipping into the parking lot, moving with eerie precision.

Candice leans forward, fingers gripping her knee as she watches the shadowy figure pop the trunk, plant the package, and vanish just as quickly as he came.

The blood drains from Candice’s face. "Holy shit." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "I didn’t expect...I mean, I hoped, but...this is proof, right?"

Erica holds up a hand, grounding her. "This is a step in the right direction, Candice. Not the finish line."

Candice swallows hard and shakes her head. "I don’t know who that is. Nothing about him looks familiar."

Erica studies her a moment, then nods. "Alright. Then I’ll knock on Sue Cline’s door. Maybe she has have something useful to contribute."

Candice’s eyes flicker with something between gratitude and apprehension. "Be careful. She’s...well, she’s connected. And if someone framed me, they won’t like you digging."

Erica only smirks as she shuts her laptop. "To a degree, that’s what I’m counting on."


~~~

[LunaDog]

Got quite a thing for cheesecake myself. Especially black-current, nice and sharp!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, that's an interesting variation of the classic cheesecake. Be sure to let Mr. Schaller know!

[LunaDog]

Sure will! Blimey, my mouth's watering with anticipation!

[Caesar73]

Erica huffs a small laugh. "Sinclair’s Cheesecake Delivery Service."

I had to chuckle as I read this. The perfect Code to make Candice certain it is Erica at the Door.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, "Blimey!" Now that's a Brit for you. I love it.

Dear @Caesar73 I'm glad I could get a smile out of you. Even in a crime story there should be a litte humor.

[Jenny_S]

The drive to the Bronx is uneventful, though the city outside Erica’s windshield is anything but.

Traffic weaves in its usual chaotic dance - cabs honking, delivery trucks inching forward, pedestrians jaywalking with the bold indifference only experienced New Yorkers possess.
The farther north she drives, the shinier Manhattan’s glass towers give way to the more lived-in grit of the Bronx.
Faded murals, laundromats with flickering neon signs, bodegas with stacks of newspaper bundles out front. The air feels different here - thicker, heavier. Yes, the Big Apple is a melting pot and not all neighborhoods are as clean and polished as the one where Erica Sinclair can afford to live.

She turns onto a side street, the GPS directing her to the address John Dance provided. The building is a squat, aging brick complex, four stories, with graffiti curling along the lower walls like a signature of the neighborhood. A couple of kids kick a soccer ball against a rusting chain-link fence nearby, their voices sharp in the cold air.

Erica pulls her Volvo to the curb and steps out, locking the car with a quiet beep. The sidewalk is cracked in places, old chewing gum fossilized into its surface. As she climbs the short set of stairs, she notes the peeling paint on the metal railing, the way the wind whistles faintly through the gaps in the doorframe.

Having sauntered up the stairs and reached the right apartment, she notices it…
The door isn’t fully shut. Just slightly ajar. A tiny sliver of darkness is visible where it should be flush against the frame.

Her pulse kicks up. She pauses, listens. Nothing but the distant drone of city life.
Carefully, she raises her hand and knocks twice.

“Mrs. Cline?”

Silence.
Something feels…off.

Erica’s fingers twitch at her side, a quiet hum of tension moving through her muscles. She’s learned to trust her instincts, and right now they’re screaming at her.
With her elbow - keeping her fingerprints off the surface - she nudges the door open another inch and steps inside. She pushes it shut behind her, cutting off the outside world.

The air is thick. Stale. A sharp, metallic tang lingers beneath the surface.

The apartment is chaos.

Cushions gutted from the couch, their stuffing spilling onto the floor like exposed organs. A coffee table turned over, magazines scattered. A lamp lays on its side, its bulb flickering weakly. Cupboard doors in the kitchen hang open, drawers yanked free and dumped out. Someone wasn’t just looking for something. They were desperate to find something of importance. Money perhaps?

Erica takes a careful step forward, her boot making the faintest scuff against the floorboards.

“Mrs. Cline?” Her voice is quieter now.

The answer doesn’t come from a voice. She finds it in the next room.
The kitchen.

She sees the shape first - a figure slumped in a chair, just out of the shadows. A woman, mid-40s, brunette.
Sue Cline.

Tied to a chair, her hands bound behind her back. A dish towel stuffed in her mouth, half-hanging out. Her head lolls backward, eyes wide, glassy, vacant - dead.
Her throat is mottled with deep, livid bruises. The unmistakable marks of strangulation.

Erica swallows hard and exhales through her nose, slow and controlled.
No shock, no panic - just cold, assessing calculation. The room is still. The chaos around Sue’s body tells her plenty.

Someone needed information, maybe got it after torturing her – and killed the only witness by strangling her to death.
Erica takes a step closer, scanning the scene. While she was murdered, she must have fought, trying to get out of the zip ties holding her tied up, leaving her wrists a bloody mess, but to no avail.

A sound outside - just the wind.


~~~


Erica pulls her phone out of her coat pocket.
She knows she needs to call 911, but the moment her thumb hovers over the quick-dial, she hesitates, takes a breath. The apartment is eerily quiet.

She moves as silently as possible, stepping into the bedroom. The same chaos greets her - a mattress half-off its frame, drawers yanked open, their contents spilled across the floor. But something catches her eye.
Against the far wall, a heavy wooden sideboard has been shoved aside, leaving scuff marks on the floorboards. Behind it, built into the wall, there’s a steel safe.

Erica exhales quietly. Bingo.
She moves closer, stepping carefully as if not to leave any traces. The safe’s door hangs wide open, and on the floor beneath it, a handful of papers are scattered, some crumpled, some torn. This must have been what they had been looking for and – most likely in a last ditch effort to save her life – Sue Cline told them after they had tortured her.

Kneeling, Erica reaches into her handbag and pulls out the pair of soft leather gloves she likes to wear during the cold weather season. Not ideal - she’d prefer surgical gloves for what she’s up to do - but enough to avoid leaving prints. Slipping them on, she uses the flashlight on her phone to illuminate the safe’s interior.

Her fingers trace the edge of the open frame. Smooth metal, undisturbed - until her touch finds something. A lever, tucked inside the door’s frame, almost flush with the bottom.
She clicks it.

There’s a faint metallic shift, and a hidden compartment slides open. A false bottom.
Beneath it, a single item comes into view: a red, index card-sized notebook, bound with a thin rubber band.
Without hesitation, she pockets it. There’s no time to examine it now, but instinctively she knows this is important, otherwise it wouldn’t have been hidden. She presses the false bottom back into place, clicks the lever to lock it, and steps back into the hallway.

Only now, she dials 911.
The line picks up.
“911, what is your emergency?”


~~~

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73 I'm glad I could get a smile out of you. Even in a crime story there should be a litte humor.

Especially in crime Story a healthy dose of Humor does never hurt - in my Opinion

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, "Blimey!" Now that's a Brit for you. I love it.

Unfortunately these days it means that you're talking about an OLD Brit, as the expression has all but died out now. You never hear youngsters using it anymore. It's actually short for "blind me" with the slightly longer version, 'GOR BLIMEY' being "God blind me."

As to your story, just what is SO important that poor Sue Cline died trying to protect it? And Erica seems to found. No doubt we shall all find out in good time.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, then let's crack on to see what might be so important.

[Jenny_S]

Erica’s voice is crisp, professional. “This is Erica Sinclair. Please send a patrol car to…” she rattles off the address, keeping her tone calm, controlled. “There’s been a homicide, I think.”

The dispatcher asks the usual questions - name, relationship to the victim, details of the scene. Erica answers efficiently, omitting only what doesn’t need to be said. No mention of the notebook.

“We have officers en route. Stay on the line.”
Except she doesn’t. She hangs up.

Outside, sirens slice through the Bronx, sharp and urgent.
Erica walks to the window, peering down at the street. Within moments, a black-and-white NYPD cruiser rounds the corner, followed by another. Tires screech as they brake hard in front of the building.

Two uniformed officers emerge first, hands resting near their guns, scanning the exterior. One speaks into his radio. A third figure - a detective, by the look of the cheap suit - steps out of an unmarked sedan behind them, adjusting his coat against the cold.

Erica exhales. She tells herself to be calm, although she can feel the blood pulsing in her ears.

A knock rattles the apartment door. “NYPD! Open up!”

Erica pulls the door open, meeting the officer’s gaze without hesitation.

“I’m the one who called.”

The older cop - mid-fifties, graying temples, tired eyes - gives her a once-over. Behind him, the detective steps forward. Tall, lean, with a sharp jawline and a five o’clock shadow that suggests it’s been a long shift for him. His gaze flicks past her, scanning the apartment.

“You Erica Sinclair?”

She nods.

He pulls out a notepad. “Detective Markham. You mind explaining what the hell happened here?”

Erica steps aside, letting them in.

“You tell me,” she says. “I’m a lawyer, not an investigator.”

They walk into the kitchen.
Markham’s jaw tightens at the sight of Sue Cline. No surprise. He’s seen worse, but it never gets easier. One of the uniformed officers mutters a curse under his breath.

“Jesus,” the other says. “Looks like she was interrogated.”

Markham glances at Erica. “And you just found her like this?”

Erica meets his gaze, expression unreadable. “Yes. I was aiming to talk to her regarding a case, found the door open and called 911.”

Markham doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press - yet. He turns to the uniformed officers. “Secure the scene. CSU’s gonna want to go over this with a fine-tooth comb.”

The uniforms nod, moving into action.

Markham turns back to Erica, eyes narrowing. “You’re not leaving, Mrs. Sinclair. We’re gonna have a long talk at the Precinct.”

She offers him a cool smile. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving, Detective.”
But inside, she knows time is running out.
Whoever killed Sue Cline is still out there.
And they’re already one step ahead.


~~~


The 47th Precinct in the Bronx is exactly what Erica expects - fluorescent-lit, overcrowded, and pulsing with the low hum of ringing phones and murmured conversations. How anyone can actually work in this environment is fully beyond her.
The scent of burnt coffee and stale paper hangs in the air, clinging to old desks and overworked officers.

Detective Markham leads her through the bullpen, past a handful of uniformed cops and a couple of scruffy-looking perps cuffed to a bench. He gestures toward a small office room, its window covered with half-closed blinds.

“Take a seat, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, holding the door open.

Erica steps inside, settling into the metal chair across from the detective. The room is sparsely furnished - just a desk, two chairs, and a whiteboard with the remnants of an old case scrawled across it.

Markham closes the door behind him, then drops into his chair with a sigh. He pulls out a notepad, flips it open, and clicks his pen.
“Alright. Let’s start from the beginning.”

Erica leans back slightly, crossing her legs gracefully. “As I told you, I went to see Mrs. Cline since I had reason to believe she had information relevant to my client’s case.”

Markham raises an eyebrow. “Candice Summers.” Obviously, he has watched the news and seen Erica’s press statement.

“That’s right,” she says. There’s no need to tell lies.

Markham exhales sharply. “So let me get this straight. Your client, Candice Summers, is on trial for drug possession - enough coke to put her away for a decade - and you, a high-powered lawyer, just happened to be investigating the deceased on the side?”

Erica’s expression remains cool. “Not on the side, Detective. I believe she is – was – connected to my case.”

Markham taps his pen against the desk, considering. “And Sue Cline’s role in this?”

“She was a bookie,” Erica says. “Mrs. Summers was investigating an illegal gambling ring for one of her big stories. She told me that Mrs. Cline was at the very heart of this ring and if – this was my train of thought – Mrs. Cline got wind of this investigation, she might have been the one who arranged for the drugs to be placed in Mrs. Summers’ car. That’s why I wanted to talk to her. Instead…”

Markham nods. “Instead, you found her dead.”

A pause. He studies her carefully.

“And you didn’t see anyone? No signs of forced entry?”

Erica shakes her head. “The door was slightly open when I got there. Maybe Mrs. Cline let her killer in herself?”

Markham leans forward slightly, folding his hands over the notepad. “Tell me something, Mrs. Sinclair. You ever find yourself in a situation where you’re a little too close to the action?”

Erica gives him a faint smile. “It has happened, but I try to avoid these situations.”

Markham smirks, but the humor doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He makes a few more notes, then flips the pad shut.
“So you just wanted to talk to the deceased,” he summarizes.

Erica reaches into her coat pocket and slides a business card across the table, fixing to end the interview. “If you feel I could be of help, please call me, Detective.”

Markham picks it up, glancing at the embossed lettering before tucking it into his pocket.

“I’d like to go home now,” Erica continues, standing. “I don’t find corpses every day, and I think I’ve earned a shower and a drink.”

Markham watches her for a beat, then nods toward the door. “You’re free to go, Mrs. Sinclair. But don’t leave town.”

She flashes him a small, knowing smile. “I have two cats at home and a horse stabled in Bedford, Detective. That’s as far as I travel these days.” So much for not leaving the city.

As she walks out of the room, she already knows her next move.
Sue Cline might be dead. But her secrets?
They’re still very much alive.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

The moment Erica steps into her apartment, she locks the door behind her with a firm click and leans against it, exhaling a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The tension that has gripped her since she stepped into Sue Cline’s apartment finally loosens its claws, leaving her limbs feeling strangely heavy.
The adrenaline is fading, and in its wake, exhaustion creeps in. The familiar scent of wood, leather and lavender from the air refresher wraps itself around her like a comforting blanket.

At her feet, the kittens make their presence known. Tiger weaves between her ankles, his little paws batting at the hem of her skirt, while Spot sits primly by the couch, tail flicking as he studies her with intelligent green eyes.

"Not now, troublemakers," Erica murmurs, pushing off the door.
She shrugs out of her trench coat, letting it slide onto the black leather couch, then unceremoniously drops her handbag next to it. The little red notebook is still inside, a weight she’s been carrying since she left the precinct. But she won’t look at it yet. Not until she has something to take the edge off.

She moves to the kitchen, stepping onto the cool hardwood floor. The apartment is silent, save for the distant hum of the city outside her windows - the muffled honk of a horn, the occasional wail of a siren. A reminder that New York never really sleeps.

From the wine rack, she selects a bottle of Nero d’Avola, a deep red Sicilian vintage promising the kind of warmth she desperately needs. She uncorks it with practiced ease, pours herself a generous glass, and takes a long sip.
The wine is bold, dark, laced with notes of cherry and spice. It rolls over her tongue like silk, smoothing the jagged edges of her nerves.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” she mutters, rubbing her temple. “What a day.”

She stands there for a moment, glass in hand, staring out at the city lights beyond her floor-to-ceiling windows. Somewhere out there, someone knows exactly what happened to Sue Cline. Someone who didn’t want her talking.
And now, Erica has something that person wanted badly enough to kill for.
She turns back to the couch. Time to see what’s inside that little red notebook.


~~~


Erica sinks into the couch, the black leather cool against her back. Her legs feel heavy, her limbs slow as the adrenaline fades.
The glass of wine is still in her hand, the deep red swirling against the sides as she takes a deep breath.

The kittens, Tiger and Spot, sense her stillness and take full advantage. They scramble onto her lap, soft paws kneading at her flat stomach, tails flicking as they jostle for attention. Tiger, tonight the bolder of the two, head-butts her hand with firm insistence.

Erica chuckles, a sound more breath than voice. “Alright, alright,” she murmurs, setting her glass on the table. She runs a slow hand through their fur, her fingers sinking into the warmth of them, grounding herself in their quiet, uncomplicated affection.

For a moment, she lets herself just sit. No dead bodies. No safe-cracking. No threats lurking in the shadows. Just the weight of two tiny creatures curled against her, the faint hum of traffic outside her window, and the dry, earthy taste of the Sicilian wine on her tongue.
But her mind won’t still.

The notebook in her handbag might as well be a live wire, humming with unspoken answers. She should wait. She should sleep. She should…
Erica exhales sharply. Who is she kidding?

Carefully, she nudges the kittens aside. Spot meows in protest but finds a warm spot on the cushion instead. Erica leans forward, grabs her handbag, and pulls out the small red notebook.
The rubber band is taut, stretched just enough to hint at how often it’s been removed and replaced. She slips it off, letting it snap against her wrist.

Erica flips open the little red notebook, the pages rough under her fingertips. The scent of paper and ink drifts up as she scans the first few lines. Names. Dates. Numbers. A bookie’s ledger, no doubt, cataloging debts, payments, maybe even bets placed.

She flicks through the pages, her sharp eyes darting over each entry. Some names she recognizes, others mean nothing to her. But it’s the patterns that catch her attention. Some names are underlined. Some are crossed out.

She stops.
Her breath stills in her chest.
One name jumps out at her, written in Sue Cline’s tidy, deliberate script.
James Fallon.
Could he be…Detective Jimmy Fallon, the cop working Candice Summers’ case?

Erica’s fingers tighten around the notebook. What the hell was a detective doing in a bookie’s ledger? The number beside his name - $75,000 - isn’t small change. If this was a gambling debt, Fallon was in deep.

And if his name is in here, who else might be tangled up in this mess? Other cops?
She swallows, flipping forward, scanning for anything else that stands out. More names. More numbers.

The weight of the discovery lingers as Erica slowly closes the notebook. The kittens, sensing her tension, weave around her legs again, but this time, she barely registers them.
She sets the notebook on the coffee table, staring at it as if it might offer more answers.

James Fallon.
A veteran detective. Well-liked. Respected. But now? Now he’s a man with secrets. And the thing about secrets - someone always wants to keep them buried.

She leans back and closes her eyes. Think, Erica!

It might well be as she had told Detective Markham at the Precinct: somehow Sue Cline had learned that Candice Summers was looking into that gambling ring and Sue’s role as a driving force behind it. She decided that Candice needed a problem and used her leverage on Jimmy Fallon to lay his hands on two kilos of cocaine, put it in the trunk of Candice’s Toyota and then either her or Fallon himself made the anonymous call. With Fallon on the Narcotics Squad, the pinch was a piece of cake as Candice – unaware of the hot stuff in her trunk – played along.


~~~

[LunaDog]

If Fallon is involved it would appear to answer a few questions. Like why he wants both Candice Summers disgraced and Sue Cline 'out of circulation,' for example.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Erica might have a theory, but can she prove it?

[Jenny_S]

Erica exhales, reaching for her wine glass with one hand and her phone with the other. The number is muscle memory - she doesn’t even have to look.

The line rings twice before she hears the faint hum of traffic in the background.
“Erica,” John Dance greets her, his gruff voice carrying the easy confidence of a man who’s seen too much and lived to tell about it.

“John, can you spare me a couple of minutes? I’d like your opinion on something.”

“Always,” he says. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t waste time. Lowering her voice, she walks him through everything - her finding Sue Cline dead in her living room, the hidden compartment in the safe, the red book with the names inside including that of a certain James Fallon.

There’s a long pause, then a low whistle through his teeth. “Boy oh boy…”

“Yep,” she mutters. “Here’s what I think: Sue told Jimmy Fallon to take Candice out of the equation. And now Sue’s dead. The only thing that could blow my theory out of the water is if the James Fallon in that book isn’t the Detective Jimmy Fallon handling Candice’s case.”

“I hear you,” Dance says, his voice measured. She doesn’t have to spell out what she needs from him - he already knows.
She hears movement on the other end, like he’s stepping into a quieter space. “Give me an hour,” he says.

“Ever indebted to you, John.”

“Wait till you get my bill,” he growls. “I’ll call you in a bit.”

The call disconnects, and Erica lets the phone rest in her lap, staring at the darkened screen.

John Dance isn’t just another investigator with a gun and a past - his old job as a CIA operative gives him access to the kind of information most people wouldn’t even know exists. And his contacts? They run deep. Intelligence, law enforcement, and the underworld alike. If anyone could verify her theory, it is him.

She takes another sip of her wine, feeling the warmth spread through her chest.
Now, all she can do is wait.


~~~


Every minute that passes feels like a thread tightening around Erica’s nerves. She doesn’t realize she’s gripping her wine glass too hard until the delicate stem digs into her fingers. The call is taking too long. Too long means bad news, or worse - no news at all.
She sets the glass down with a quiet clink and checks her watch for what feels like the hundredth time.

Then her phone vibrates.
She snatches it up before the second buzz. “Talk to me.”

John Dance chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, here’s the deal: Detective Jimmy Fallon’s exactly the kind of dirtbag you thought he was.” His voice is dry, almost bored, but Erica knows better. This is Dance in information mode, laying it out clean.
“Gambling problem?” he continues. “Try a gambling death spiral. He owes money all over town - bookies, loan sharks… and, yeah, Sue Cline included. Word is, she was holding his leash pretty damn tight lately. Used his debt to make him useful.”

Erica feels a flicker of vindication, but it’s laced with something heavier. “So he was in her pocket.”

“No doubt,” Dance confirms. “It tracks that she’d order him to take Candice out of the picture. And when Fallon saw a way to clear his debt - by getting rid of Sue and her ledger - he took it. That’s why there were no signs of forced entry at her place. She let him in.”

Erica exhales slowly, already thinking ahead. She has something Fallon wants desperately enough to kill for. That gives her leverage. But it’s not enough. If she wants Candice cleared, she needs Fallon to confess. And Jimmy Fallon isn’t the type to just roll over.
She leans back, fingers drumming lightly against the table. “Appreciate it, John.”

“Want some free info on top?”

Erica’s lips twitch. “Always.”

“Fallon’s got a partner - Detective Sandra Ruiz. You might’ve run into her. She’s a transfer from NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau.” Dance pauses just long enough to let that sink in. “You might want to ask her out for a drink.”

Erica tilts her head, intrigued. Ruiz could be exactly the ally she needs, otherwise Dance wouldn’t recommend her.

“Interesting,” Erica smirks. “Thanks for the tip, John. I might just do that.”

There’s a pause, then Dance’s voice dips into something quieter, weightier. “Be careful, Erica.”

She breathes deeply, a smirk still playing at the corner of her lips. “You know me…”

“That’s what worries me.”

The call ends.

Erica sets her phone down, staring at it for a beat. Fallon is desperate. Cornered. If baited properly, he’s going to make a move.
The trick is making sure she’s the one setting the board.

She reaches for her wine glass and takes another slow sip before she gets to work again.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Ok, so maybe in Erica's mind the pieces are all falling into place, the questions as to what is going on here now being answered. But, publicly proving it?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're hitting the proverbial nail on the head. I guess, it's time for some creative thinking on Erica's part.

[Jenny_S]

Finding out Detective Sandra Ruiz’s duty schedule is almost disappointingly easy. One quick call to the precinct she’s stationed at, a polite inquiry, a friendly tone, and a distracted desk sergeant rattles off her shift details without hesitation. No John Dance-level maneuvering required. Erica almost smiles.
People think secrecy is all about locked doors and encrypted files. More often than not, it’s just about asking the right person at the right time.

She makes a note of when and where she’ll be able to catch Ruiz, then dials another number.

Candice picks up before the first ring has even finished.
“Yes?” Her voice rushes into Erica’s ear, laced with anticipation, nerves coiled tight beneath the surface.

“It’s Erica Sinclair.” She keeps her tone calm, steady, the anchor Candice needs. “How are you holding up?”

A breath, then a dry cough. “Hanging in there. I ate all the cheesecake, and now my stomach hurts.”

Despite everything, Erica smirks. “A classic coping strategy.”

A small, breathy laugh on the other end of the line. Then silence - just long enough for Erica to sense the weight pressing down on Candice.
She softens her tone. “Listen - there have been some developments. Nothing final yet, but we’re getting there. I’m piecing things together.”

She doesn’t mention Sue Cline and her violent death. Or the red book. Not yet. There’s no point in adding to Candice’s burden.

“How many more pieces do you need?” Candice’s voice tightens, like she’s bracing herself for an answer she won’t like. “I’m… I can’t…”

Erica closes her eyes briefly, feeling the exhaustion behind those words, the fear clawing at the edges of her client’s soul. She exhales, choosing her next words carefully.
“Let’s say, if everything goes to plan, I need two more pieces to complete the puzzle.”

The line stays silent for a beat, save for the quiet hitch of Candice swallowing hard. When she speaks again, her voice is raw. “Mrs. Sinclair... Erica… I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Really.”

“It’s alright, Candice.” Erica’s voice drops to just above a whisper, but it’s firm, unwavering. “Just hang on a little longer, okay?”

Another pause. Then a soft, shaky breath.
“…Okay.”
The call ends.

Erica stares at the screen for a moment before setting her phone down, fingers lingering over the smooth glass.
Two more pieces.
And she knows exactly where to start.


~~~


The North Midtown Precinct stands tall and unyielding against the city skyline, a hive of movement and routine. From where she sits, parked across the street in her black Volvo, Erica watches its entrance with quiet patience.
People come and go - uniformed officers, detectives in plain clothes, civilians with worry etched into their faces, petty criminals getting dragged up the stair to get booked and cops on a smoke break.
Business as usual, but Erica knows that under the blanket of normalcy, a storm of corruption is brewing.

She checks the time on her Rolex. It’s been an hour, so Ruiz might be working overtime today.
Then, finally, Sandra Ruiz emerges.
Even before Erica sees her, she senses the shift. A uniformed officer standing by the steps glances up, straightening slightly. A plainclothes detective nods in passing. Not much, but enough to tell her Ruiz isn’t just another face in the crowd. She’s respected.

The detective moves with purpose, descending the steps swiftly, her dark hair swept back, her coat buttoned against the chill. No sign of Fallon anywhere. Good.

Erica steps out of her car, locks it, and falls into pace a short distance behind Ruiz. Not close enough to raise suspicion. Not far enough to lose her in the pedestrian flow.
The rhythmic clap of Ruiz’s shoes against pavement keeps Erica locked in step. The city moves around them - horns blaring, snippets of conversation floating past - but she stays focused, keeping her distance, waiting for the right moment.
When the moment feels right, she picks up her pace.

"Detective..."


~~~

[LunaDog]

Superb as ever. Let's hope Sandra Rulz does the 'right thing' here. And, her actions from meeting her before near to the beginning of this story suggest that she just might do that.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, maybe we'll find that out tonight. Stay tuned.

[Jenny_S]

Ruiz doesn’t just halt - she shifts her stance slightly, weight balanced, feet apart. A practiced move, one that says she’s ready to react. Then her hand slides into her coat pocket - where Erica assumes an off-duty pistol rests, a reflex honed from years of experience on the job.
Muscles tensed, her hand pressing into her coat pocket, she then turns around. A heartbeat of silence stretches between them, charged and dangerous. Her eyes focused, recognition clicks into place.

Erica keeps her hands at waist level, palms open, a silent signal: I’m not a threat.
"Could I interest you in a cup of coffee, Detective?" Erica asks, her tone calm, measured. "I'd like to discuss something with you."

Ruiz doesn’t move at first, suspicion lingering in her narrowed gaze.
"That’s the worst pickup line I’ve heard today," she says flatly, not moving. "If you’ve got something to say, say it."
Holding her ground, Erica mainstains "I’d rather say it somewhere private. You choose the coffee shop."

The detective exhales through her nose, eyeing Erica like she’s weighing whether she has time for this. "You pick the wrong person to run a game on."

Erica doesn’t blink. "Do I look like I’m running a game?"

A flicker of something crosses Ruiz’s face - calculation, reluctance.
Slowly, she pulls her hand from her pocket, giving Erica a look as if she’s already regretting whatever this is going to be.
"Fine," she says after a beat, her tone edged with hesitation. "Walk with me."


~~~


Letting Sandra Ruiz choose the place, is a trust-builder.
They weave through the streets, the city’s afternoon rhythm pulsing around them, until Ruiz leads Erica into a small coffee shop a few blocks away.
The place is warm, slightly dim, carrying the scent of espresso and burnt sugar. They pick a table in the farthest corner, where the hum of conversation around them offers just enough cover.

Ruiz sits, leans back, studies Erica like she’s trying to place her in a lineup. In between, her eyes flick to the entrance as if she’s either trying to see who’s coming or if she’s looking for an escape route.

"What's on your mind?"

Erica doesn’t waste time. She pulls out her phone, taps the screen, and turns it toward Ruiz.
Displayed in crisp digital clarity: photos of Sue Cline’s ledger entries. A name highlighted in red. James Fallon.
"I’d rather talk to you than to the Commissioner or IAB, Detective," Erica says.

Ruiz stares at the screen. At first, her expression doesn’t change - but her grip on the coffee cup tightens, knuckles going white. It’s a subtle tell, but Erica catches it.
Slowly, Ruiz looks up. "Where did you get this?"

Knowing that she needs to let the Detective in at least somewhat, Erica takes a sip of her coffee, then says “His bookie.”

She leans a little forward and gives Ruiz the gist about Candice Summers’ investigation on the illegal gambling ring and Cline’s death.
“I know you’ve been in Internal Affairs before you transferred to North Midtown, Detective,” She says. “It’s nothing new to you that there are dirty cops in this city.”

Ruiz huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "No. But the real question is - what do you want me to do about it?"

“We might not be able to get every dirty cop in the NYPD, but we can make a difference here, Detective.” Erica’s voice remains steady and calm, yet there’s weight behind her words, an unspoken challenge. “At least for Candice Summers. And we can bring the killer of Sue Cline to justice.”

Ruiz doesn’t react immediately. She just sits there, fingers curled around her coffee cup, jaw tight. Erica holds her gaze, watching the battle play out behind the detective’s dark eyes.
She is caught between two loyalties - one to the badge she swore to uphold, and the other to her partner, Jimmy Fallon.
Erica doesn’t need to say it out loud: deep down, Ruiz knows what Fallon is. Knows what he’s done. But admitting it - acting on it - that’s something else entirely.

Erica leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “You know, when I graduated from law school, my father told me something that always stuck with me.” She pauses, then delivers it with quiet force: “Stand for something or fall for anything.”

Ruiz flinches - barely, but Erica catches it.
“What are you standing for, Detective?”

The question hangs between them like a loaded gun, charged and inescapable. Ruiz exhales slowly, staring down at her coffee like she’s searching for an answer in the swirl of cream. But she doesn’t say a word.

Erica doesn’t push. Instead, she finishes the last sip of her coffee, sets her cup down, and reaches into her pocket. She slides a business card across the table. “Call me tomorrow and let me know your decision.”

Then she stands, placing a ten-dollar bill beside the cup. “Have a good day, Detective.”

As she walks toward the exit, she feels Ruiz’s gaze follow her the entire way. Erica doesn’t look back.
This is a gamble. She knows it. There’s the chance Ruiz will warn Fallon instead of turning on him.
But sometimes, you have to take risks.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Yes. Sometimes in life you do.