Listening to the mother-daughter spat heating up inside, Lawson quietly pulled their door shut and headed back to his own place.
Today had been intense but damn profitable. He washed up quick, collapsed into bed, and was out cold in seconds.
While Lawson slept like a baby, plenty of other people weren't so lucky.
That Need for Speed gig had made the LAPD look like total clowns on national TV. While the rest of Los Angeles slept peacefully, the cops were pulling all-nighters.
The Police Chief nearly had a stroke watching the news. He barked a direct order at the investigation unit: find the driver of that blue sedan in three days, or heads would roll.
Pressure rolled downhill fast, which meant most of the department was stuck working overtime.
Captain Jack—the guy Lawson had met earlier at Sangiovese—sneaked out of his house at 2 a.m. like a thief and slipped into a quiet, rundown dive bar on the edge of town.
It was peak nightlife hours and clubs all over LA were bumping, but this place was dead. Just a few scattered customers minding their own business. Even the bartender and waitresses looked half-asleep, like the joint was about to close for good.
Captain Jack ordered a whiskey and slid into the darkest corner booth, eyes darting nervously around the room. In any normal bar he would've looked shady as hell. Here? Nobody gave a shit.
A moment later, a middle-aged, overweight man in a trench coat and fedora walked in. He scanned the room, eyes lingering on Jack for a split second, then headed straight to the bar.
He ordered a whiskey and sat down in the booth right next to Jack's.
"Joe, anybody see you slip out?"
"No. I waited till Phil and Dennis were passed out. What do you want? Make it quick."
Captain Jack—real name Joe—sounded on edge. His tone made the older man frown.
"You catch the news about that chase on the North LA freeway around six yesterday?"
"Yeah. Phil and Dennis were talking about it last night."
"You know who was driving that blue sedan?"
"What the fuck? Vincent, you dragged my ass out here at 2 a.m. for this? You're Narcotics—since when do you give a shit about Traffic cases?"
Joe was pissed. Every single meet-up like this could get him killed.
Vincent was getting heated too. He was already annoyed about getting stuck with this unrelated bullshit from the brass, and now he was working the dead shift.
"Joe, you forget you're still a cop? Look at yourself, man! You don't even act like one anymore!"
"Vincent, don't be a dumbass! If I acted like a cop, I'd be dead already!"
They kept their voices low, hissing at each other. After a few more jabs, Vincent cooled off first.
"Joe, I'm asking you seriously. You've been deep in the underworld a while now. You heard anything about that driver?"
Joe rubbed his tired face. "No. I'm still trying to worm my way in good with Phil and Dennis to crack the mob. I don't have time to chase some random wheelman."
Vincent's annoyance flared. "Joe, you've been under for three years and you've got nothing?"
"Vincent, you know how tight these crews are. Three years is still just the probation stage. What the hell do you expect?"
"What kind of attitude is that? You wanna make the bust or not?"
"What kind of attitude is that? Fuck the bust! Just pull me out already! I don't wanna do this undercover shit anymore! Maggie almost miscarried a few days ago and I wasn't even there!"
Fresh academy grads always got sold the glamour of undercover work, only to fall into a bottomless pit. Very few could handle living in that gray zone between cop and criminal. Without some kind of cheat-code system, it was pure hell.
The ones who kept their soul intact were the lucky ones. A lot just quietly disappeared. Even if they made it back to the station, their own colleagues looked at them sideways. Their big busts got credited to the bosses, and their careers went nowhere.
Of course, if you stayed under long enough, sometimes you actually became the boss yourself. (True story: one FBI agent spent twenty-four years undercover and almost took over a whole mob family.)
Sensing Joe's deep burnout, Vincent quickly softened his tone. His own promotion depended on solid intel from guys like Joe. He couldn't afford to lose him.
"Joe, I know you're stressed. It's dangerous as hell, I get it. Get your head straight, man. You wanna come in? Fine. But it takes time. I gotta line up a replacement before I can yank you out."
Hearing Vincent back off, Joe relaxed a notch and dropped a small piece of info.
"Phil and Dennis are planning something big. Looks like a bank job. I don't have the details yet."
"Bank job." Vincent's eyes lit up. That was major league.
"Joe, you know which bank?"
"I told you, I don't have the details yet!"
Vincent patted Joe's shoulder. "Alright. Keep your eyes peeled on this. Soon as we wrap the case, I'll find a way to bring you home. Deal?"
Joe let out a heavy breath of relief. "Fine. I gotta go. If Dennis wakes up and I'm not there, he'll get suspicious."
Joe killed his whiskey and left.
Watching his undercover asset disappear into the night, Vincent finished his own drink and stood up.
"Maybe I should ask Brian if he's heard anything? Fuck… goddamn case."
While the LAPD was losing its mind, Lawson slept like a rock until 10 a.m., only waking when someone knocked on his door.
"Coming, coming!"
Lawson yawned, rubbed his eyes, and rolled out of bed. He glanced at the duffel bag full of cash next to the bed and kicked it underneath.
Then he walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
Lawson didn't know many people in America, and even fewer would show up at his door. Usually it was the landlord or some other pain in the ass.
This time, when he looked through the peephole, he saw a pair of beautiful, bright blue eyes.