The building didn't
belong in that part of the city.
All steel and mirrored windows, its reflection turned
the cracked streets and smoke-stained warehouses into something clean. Too
clean.
Alice stepped out of her car, flashing her badge to the
security guard before heading inside.
The plaque near the entrance read:
ARCADIAN INDUSTRIES — Urban Development and
Logistics Division.
She'd seen the name in the shipping records linked to
Leon Jacobs — multiple contracts, all tied to the same docks. The paper trail
was perfect. Too perfect.
The receptionist gave her a tight smile. "Detective
Pierce? Ms Vale is expecting you."
Alice paused. "Vera Vale?"
"That's right."
The name clicked. She'd seen it before — on a city
redevelopment proposal from two years ago, back when she was still working
uniform. Vera Vale, the kind of woman the media loved: clean image, corporate
polish, philanthropic talking points.
Alice followed the assistant through a corridor of glass
walls and quiet offices until they reached the top floor. The door opened into
a room that looked more like an art gallery than a workspace.
Vera Vale stood by the window, the city skyline mirrored
in her glasses.
Mid-forties, dark hair cut to precision, voice smooth
enough to belong on television.
"Detective Pierce," she said, turning with a smile.
"I've heard good things."
"That makes one of us."
Vera laughed softly. "Chicago's most stubborn detective.
I read your file."
Alice frowned. "Didn't realise corporate CEOs had clearance for that."
"Oh, you'd be surprised what city partnerships allow access to these days."
The charm didn't fool her.
Vera's eyes were too sharp, too measured — the kind of
gaze that catalogued everything it touched.
Alice took a seat, scanning the office. Clean desk, minimalist decor, a single photograph on the shelf: Vera shaking hands with a
City official beside a donation plaque.
"Arcadian Industries owns the docks where Leon Jacobs
was killed," Alice said. "He worked under a Blackwell Freight subcontract, one of yours."
Vera nodded. "Tragic. We've been cooperating
fully with the department. I trust you'll find the killer."
Alice studied her. "We will. But I'm curious —
Blackwell's financials list several silent partners. Care to name them?"
Vera's smile never faltered. "Private investors. Nothing nefarious, I assure you."
"'Nefarious' isn't the word I'd use," Alice said. "But you seem to know which one I'm thinking."
Vera tilted her head, amused. "I admire that. Most people are afraid to be direct with me."
"I'm not most people."
"I can see that."
They held each other's gaze for a long beat.
Vera's tone softened. "You remind me of someone I used to know. The same fire, the same stubborn loyalty. Dangerous combination, Detective."
"Funny," Alice said, standing. "I was about to say the same about you."
Vera smiled again — faint, knowing. "Be careful out there. The docks aren't the only place people end up dead."
Back in her car, Alice replayed the conversation in her head. Vera Vale — polished, untouchable, but something about her cadence, her
subtle control of language — it was too deliberate.
She opened her notes and typed:
Arcadian Industries — Blackwell Freight subsidiary —potential shell.
Vera Vale — possible connection to old networks.
Confirm discreetly.
Her phone buzzed with a new message. No number
displayed.
"You found her. Don't let her find you."
Alice looked around the parking lot — empty, quiet, just
her reflection in the windshield.
For the first time in years, she felt a chill that
wasn't from the wind.
Far above, in her office, Vera Vale poured herself a
glass of scotch and stared out the window. The city glittered below like a
circuit board.
"Pierce," she murmured. "Arthur would've been proud."
Her phone rang. She answered it without looking.
"Yes," she said softly. "I've met her. She's everything you said she'd be."
A pause. Then a low voice on the other end — distorted,
calm.
"Keep her close."
Vera smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that told you she already knew the end of your story — and was waiting for you to catch up."
"Always."
The rain had started abruptly. It beat against the windshield in slow, steady bursts, washing the glass towers of downtown Chicago into streaks of black and silver. Alice sat behind the wheel, watching her own reflection shimmer on the glass — tired eyes, hair matted from the humidity, a trench coat that still smelled faintly of smoke and rust.
She replayed the meeting in her head. Vera Vale's voice still lingered there — smooth, deliberate, calm in a way that made you think she didn't breathe like other people did. Alice had seen killers who faked warmth. Vera didn't bother pretending.
"ValeCorp," Alice muttered to herself, typing the name into the precinct's encrypted database. The result came back too perfect — spotless tax history, charity donations, spotless employee records. Not a single red flag. Which was the first red flag?
She leaned back in her seat and lit a cigarette she'd promised Rhodes she'd quit. The flame danced, then hissed against the drizzle.
"Too clean," she whispered. "No one's that clean."
---
By morning, she was at her desk, bleary-eyed but sharper than anyone else in the room. The precinct hummed around her — phones ringing, paper shuffling, the usual chaos that felt like home. Rhodes dropped a file on her desk without looking her in the eye.
"Don't do it," he said flatly.,
"Do what?" she asked.
He exhaled. "ValeCorp. I saw your request in the system before it vanished."
"Maybe you should check who deleted it, then."
Rhodes leaned forward. His voice dropped. "Alice, that company's wired into half the damn city. Contracts with the mayor's office, the DA, real estate groups… They fund the youth rehab centre you almost burned down chasing the Broker. You poke that nest again, it won't just sting — it'll bury you."
She smiled thinly. "Appreciate the warning, Cap. I'll tread lightly."
She didn't.
---
That afternoon, she was in the West Loop, walking into one of ValeCorp's smaller subsidiaries — a clean, whitewashed office that smelled of disinfectant and fear. She flashed her badge at the front desk.
"I'm following up on a financial irregularity," she said smoothly. "Just routine."
The secretary's hands shook slightly as she took Alice's card. She was young — too young to be this nervous. After a pause, she slid an envelope across the counter, face pale.
"They'll kill me if they know I talked," she whispered.
Alice blinked. "Who?"
The girl only shook her head. "Don't come back."
Alice slipped the envelope into her coat and left without another word. In the car, she tore it open. Inside was a single photograph — Vera Vale at a gala, shaking hands with an older man whose face she didn't recognise, but the ring on his hand was impossible to miss. A silver crest. The same one Marcus used to wear when he thought she wasn't looking.
Her pulse tightened.
---
That night, the rain came back harder, as if the city was trying to rinse itself clean and failing. Alice parked two blocks from her apartment and noticed the black sedan immediately — engine off, tinted windows. She stared at it for a full minute before walking inside.
By the time she reached her floor, her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Detective Pierce," the voice said, smooth and unmistakable. "It's Vera Vale. I think we should talk again. Perhaps over dinner? I'd hate for you to misunderstand my intentions."
Alice's lips twitched into a dry smile. "And what exactly do you think I've misunderstood?"
"That I'm your enemy," Vera replied. "You might find the truth… disappointing."
The line clicked dead before Alice could answer.
---
She dropped her keys on the table, staring at her own faint reflection in the window. The city lights glowed faint and bruised in the fog outside. Her phone buzzed again.
Another unknown number.
Just one line this time:
**You're not ready for what she represents.**
Alice froze.
The street below was empty. The black sedan was gone.
But she could still feel eyes on her — cold, patient, and waiting.,