Whitaker kept walking.
"Step away."
"This is my scene."
"No."
Whitaker stopped.
"This is now a federal scene."
He displayed his badge.
"FBI."
Harlan's hand moved toward his belt.
Whitaker's voice hardened.
"Keep your hands away from your weapon."
Two agents moved toward Darius.
"Director Ellison."
Darius looked at them.
"I'm fine."
"Are you injured?"
"My shoulder."
"We'll get a medic."
Harlan stared.
"Director?"
His voice had changed.
Whitaker looked at him.
"You didn't know?"
Harlan swallowed.
Darius slowly stood.
Water dripped from his hair.
His clothes clung to his body.
Mud covered his knees.
But somehow he looked more imposing than he had before.
He looked at Harlan.
"You wanted my identification."
Harlan's lips parted.
"Darius..."
Darius stepped forward.
"My name is Darius Ellison."
Harlan backed away.
Darius continued.
"I am the regional director and federal monitor assigned by the Department of Justice Civil Rights Division."
Harlan's face went white.
"I..."
"I officially assumed oversight of this precinct."
Harlan's knees weakened.
Darius pointed toward the ruined garden.
"And you have just demonstrated exactly why."
The Trap
The paramedic examined Darius's shoulder.
"Probably badly bruised. We should get imaging."
"I'll do that."
His palm required several stitches.
Eleanor stood nearby, still clutching her phone.
"I knew something was wrong," she whispered.
Darius smiled.
"You did exactly what you should have done."
Eleanor looked toward the federal agents.
"Who are these people?"
"People who have been watching."
Marcus Whitaker approached.
He carried an encrypted tablet.
"Darius."
"How bad?"
Marcus glanced at the garden.
"Your flowers?"
Darius looked at the hydrangeas.
"Recoverable."
Marcus smiled.
"Your shoulder?"
"Also recoverable."
"Good."
Darius looked at the tablet.
"Show me."
Marcus turned the screen.
The display contained photographs.
Property records.
Bank transfers.
Names.
Addresses.
Oakridge Holdings.
Darius studied the documents.
"Harlan was faster than expected."
Marcus nodded.
"Much faster."
"Who gave him the address?"
"We know."
Darius's expression hardened.
"Chief Kessler?"
"Yes."
Marcus swiped again.
A photograph appeared.
Nolan Pritchard.
Real estate developer.
Billion-dollar portfolio.
Political connections.
Charitable foundation.
Perfect public reputation.
Ugly private business.
Marcus explained.
"For years, minority homeowners have been targeted after buying properties in specific neighborhoods."
Darius nodded.
"Harassment."
"Traffic stops."
"Code violations."
"Surveillance."
"Police presence."
"Pressure."
"Exactly."
Darius looked at the property records.
"And then they sell."
"At a loss."
"To Oakridge Holdings."
"Or one of its shell companies."
Darius stared at the screen.
The scheme was brutally simple.
Force families out.
Buy cheaply.
Resell at enormous profit.
Pay the officers.
Pay the chief.
Pay the politicians.
Repeat.
Darius looked at Marcus.
"Lena?"
"Still safe."
Detective Lena Brooks had been the most important source inside the department.
She had discovered the pattern.
She had secretly copied files.
She had risked her career.
Possibly her life.
Marcus continued.
"She warned us your address was placed on the adjustment roster immediately after your deed was transferred."
Darius nodded.
"So they knew."
"They knew a new homeowner had arrived."
"They didn't know who."
"Correct."
Darius looked at the destroyed flowers.
"They sent Harlan."
"He was one of their most reliable enforcers."
Darius sighed.
"He didn't even bother pretending."
Marcus smiled grimly.
"Arrogant people rarely do."
Then Darius looked at his wrist.
His smartwatch was cracked.
But still functioning.
"Did the distress signal transmit?"
Marcus nodded.
"Everything."
"The audio?"
"Recorded."
"The porch cameras?"
"High definition."
"The cruiser?"
"Dash camera captured part of it."
Darius nodded.
"Then we're done waiting."
Marcus looked at him.
"You sure?"
Darius's eyes moved toward the street.
"No."
He paused.
"But we're ready."
Across town, Chief Raymond Kessler sat behind his desk.
He was a heavy-set man who wore expensive watches and smoked expensive cigars.
His office was filled with awards.
Photographs.
Commendations.
A framed portrait with the mayor.
He believed he was untouchable.
His private phone rang.
"Nolan."
The voice on the other end was nervous.
"Where is Harlan?"
Kessler frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I drove by Sycamore."
"And?"
"His cruiser is there."
"So?"
"Harlan isn't."
Kessler sat upright.
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
"Nolan, calm down."
"I am calm."
"You don't sound calm."
"The lawn is destroyed."
Kessler frowned.
"Destroyed?"
"There's mud everywhere."