Chapter 6 - The Man in the Trench Coat
The man standing in the doorway didn't look like a standard patrol officer. He wore a dark wool trench coat over a tailored suit, his silver hair neatly combed back, and his sharp, intelligent eyes swept over the room with clinical detachment. He stepped across the threshold without waiting for an invitation, his polished leather shoes crunching softly on the cheap linoleum near the kitchen.
Malik froze, the thick stack of hundred-dollar bills still clutched in his damp palm. He looked from the detective to Marcus, who hadn't budged an inch, his broad shoulders squared as if preparing for a physical confrontation that had been overdue for a decade.
"Marcus," the detective said, his voice smooth and devoid of any urgency. "It's been a long time. I see you're still keeping bad company."
"Get out of my house, Miller," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a dangerous baritone. "You don't have a warrant for this address."
Detective Miller offered a thin, polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of heavy blue paper, unfolding it with deliberate slowness. "Jurisdiction covers any property tied to the 2018 logistics fire, Marcus. And given that your young friend here has been depositing company scrip into three different local credit unions under a false identity, I’d say we have more than enough probable cause to search every square inch of these floors."
Malik’s heart stopped. He turned to look at Elena, his voice failing him. "What is he talking about? False identity? I use my own name."
Elena wouldn't meet his eyes. She stared fixedly at the floorboards, her lips moving in silent, panicked prayer.
"Tell him, Elena," Miller urged, taking a slow step toward the couch. "Tell him whose birth certificate was used to get him that job at the shipping hub. Tell him why the real Malik died in the back of a stolen sedan twenty years ago while his father was busy settling scores."
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The room spun on its axis. Malik staggered backward, his shoulder slamming hard against the kitchen counter. The stack of hundred-dollar bills slipped from his numb fingers, scattering across the floor once again, but this time nobody bothered to look at them.
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