Detective Paul Lais was strangling himself with a silk tie.
He stood in front of the mirror in his cramped Queens apartment, glaring at his reflection. He hadn't worn this particular navy suit in over a year, and it felt unnaturally tight around the shoulders. Behind him, the bedroom door was half-open, revealing his wife, Patricia, slipping her signature pair of gold earrings into her lobes. She was wearing a stunning blue velvet dress, her hair elegantly pinned up and decorated with pearls. She looked beautiful. She looked like a woman ready for the romantic dinner she had been promised earlier that day to make up for their missed Valentine's dinner.
"Reservation is at seven, Paul," Patricia called out, smoothing down the front of her dress. "If we leave now, we can grab a drink at the bar before they seat us."
"Yeah. Just... give me a second," Lais muttered, adjusting the knot.
His phone, resting on the little glass table in front of the TV, buzzed.
Lais froze. He stared at the glowing screen. It was a text from his partner, Donna.
Ran the Vanguard Capital lead. You're not gonna believe this. Ashcroft's head of security is an Intelligence-trained security specialist. Get to the precinct.
Lais felt that familiar, intoxicating rush of adrenaline flood his veins. The migraine that had been haunting him for days was completely gone, replaced by a razor-sharp clarity. The ghost poisoner wasn't a ghost anymore. It was a corporate hit squad.
He reached for the phone.
"Paul," Patricia's voice dropped an octave, the warmth instantly draining from it. She was standing in the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over the deep blue velvet. "Please tell me you are not checking that phone. This is supposed to be our night. The first night we're actually spending together in... I can't even remember. Months? Years?"
"Patsy, listen—"
"No. Do not 'Patsy, listen' me," she interrupted, her eyes narrowing. "You swore. You literally swore on your mother's grave that tonight was about us. You've been a ghost for the whole week, Paul. I've seen you more in our wedding picture on the bedside table than I have in person, and I'm the one working double shifts! You haven't slept, you haven't eaten a decent meal, and you haven't looked at me once without staring right through me."
"I got a break in the Madison Avenue case," Lais pleaded, turning around, the phone gripped tightly in his hand. "A massive one. We've been looking at the wrong motive entirely. It's not a random psycho, Patsy, it's a billionaire. Julian Ashcroft. Corporate espionage, a professional hit team—"
"Arthur Brown is dead, Paul!" Patricia shouted, her voice cracking with a mix of anger and profound exhaustion. "He is dead, and he will still be dead tomorrow morning! I am alive, and I am standing right here. Waiting for my husband."
"I know, honey, I know, and I am so sorry, again. But if I don't move on this right now, the trail goes cold. We need subpoenas, we need warrants for the Met Gala security footage before Ashcroft's lawyers realise we're onto them." Lais was already loosening the silk tie, pulling it off his neck. "I promise I will make this up to you. Tomorrow night. Anywhere you want."
Patricia let out a bitter, hollow sigh. She didn't yell anymore. The sudden quiet was much worse. "When will this 'tomorrow' actually come, Paul? Whatever. Just go."
She turned her back to him and walked into the bathroom to remove the nice dress and the makeup she had spent hours applying.
Lais stood there for a heavy, suffocating second. Guilt clawed at his chest, a physical weight on his ribs. It wasn't the first time he had disappointed the love of his life, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. He couldn't help it; the siren song of the new lead was too loud to ignore. He grabbed his badge, his gun, and his cheap trench coat, and walked out the door.
Thirty minutes later, Lais burst into the Midtown North Precinct. The bullpen was mostly empty, bathed in the harsh, unflattering glow of fluorescent lights.
Donna was waiting by a whiteboard, a fresh cup of terrible precinct coffee in her hand. She had twenty years behind her badge and the kind of presence that commanded a room, and right now, she looked as electrified as he felt.
"Tell me everything," Lais ordered, throwing his coat over a chair.
"Your mysterious informant at the pub was right on the money," Donna said, tapping a green marker against the whiteboard. She had printed out several headshots and financial graphs. "Arthur Brown's hedge fund was heavily shorting a rare earth minerals company operating out of southern Brazil. Vanguard Capital, owned by our friend Julian Ashcroft over here, was heavily invested in that same company."
"How much did Brown cost him?" Lais asked, leaning over the desk.
"One hundred and eighty million dollars in a single fiscal quarter," Donna whistled. "That's not just business, Paul. That's a declaration of war. And it gets better. I checked the guest list for the Met Gala after-party two weeks ago. Both Brown and Ashcroft were there. We are currently retrieving the security footage from the hotel's coatroom to verify the altercation, along with any other cameras that might have caught them."
Lais ran a hand through his hair, a triumphant smile breaking across his exhausted face. "What about the security firm?"
"Atlas Security Group," Donna said, pointing to a corporate logo on the board. "Ashcroft's personal security detail. It's not just ex-cops, Paul. The CEO is a former intelligence operative. They specialise in 'unconventional threat neutralisation'. If anyone has access to an untraceable, high-end neurotoxin and knows how to deploy it without triggering a suburban neighbourhood's security cameras, it's these guys."
Lais walked up to the whiteboard. On the left side were the crime scene photos of Arthur's neighbourhood in Premium Point: the pristine driveway, the lemonade stand, the elegant neighbour pruning her orchids.
He took a black marker from Donna's hand and drew a massive, thick 'X' right over the Premium Point photos.
"We wasted a week and a half looking for a domestic murderer," Lais said, his voice hard. He circled the imposing, arrogant face of billionaire Julian Ashcroft on the right side of the board. "This is our guy. He hired a hit squad to silence Brown and protect his assets. Get a judge on the phone, Donna. I want warrants for Ashcroft's financial records, his communications, and every single employee at Atlas Security Group."
"Paul, hold on a minute. Are you sure we want to proceed like this?" Donna remarked worriedly, her posture shifting. "We're talking about millionaires and ex-intelligence operatives. If they want us silenced, they will act regardless of whether we're the police or not."
Lais stepped back from the board, grabbing the marker tightly. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you suggesting we should ignore the murders of three high-profile people just because you're scared of the consequences?" His tone reverberated sharply in the empty room.
"No, I'm just saying that we are going after a titan. More than one, actually. We need to be careful. If the Atlas Group targets us, there will likely be consequences for our families and friends, too."
Donna's stark statement was convincing enough to cool Lais's exploding adrenaline. He thought of Patricia, sitting alone in their apartment in her blue velvet dress, likely picking a tasteless precooked meal.
The detective sighed so loudly it almost resembled a groan of despair. "Okay. Well, we're going to sleep on this very table if necessary. I want a bulletproof plan by tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. We won't miss this time," Lais said, staring intensely at Ashcroft's photo. "I finally know what ocean we're swimming in."