Chapter 7: The Detective's Favor
There are some people in this world who still believe in justice.
Not the kind you find in polished courtrooms with marble floors and overpaid suits. The real kind. The kind that bleeds. The kind that stays awake at night and stares down the barrel of compromise.
Detective Mike Krovashko was one of them.
---
He found me in a bar in Hell's Kitchen. Place smelled like old beer, sweat, and frying grease. I was halfway through a plate of fries I didn't want and a bourbon I did when he sat across from me, still in uniform.
"You're Tony Smitty."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to. He slid a folded photo across the table.
A teenage girl. Brown hair, braces, eyes full of something fragile. Hope, maybe.
"Her name was Cassandra Locke."
"Was."
He nodded. "Slaughtered. Like the others."
"And the man who did it?"
He clenched his jaw. "Colton Myles. Rich daddy. Better lawyers. We've nailed him four times. Physical evidence. Witnesses. Surveillance. Each time? Gone within 48 hours. Walks out like he owns the courthouse. Because, technically, he does."
I looked at the photo again. Then at Krovashko.
"And you want what?"
"I want proof. Proof so solid they can't shred it, can't manipulate it, can't ignore it. I want him buried so deep the sunlight forgets he existed."
"You're asking for a favor."
"I know what that means. I've heard the stories. I don't care."
He pulled out a pen.
I slid a contract toward him.
He signed without reading it.
---
Three days later, he had it.
A flash drive appeared in his mailbox. Inside: recorded confession, undistorted voice. Time-stamped footage of Colton in the act. DNA, tracked and verified from a hidden lab in the Rockies. Even photos of his father wiring hush money.
It was perfect. Clean. Heavy.
And it worked.
Colton Myles was arrested. This time, no lawyers showed. No judge could intervene. The world watched as the golden boy's mask cracked and fell apart on national television. A serial predator, finally caged.
Justice, it seemed, had found a voice.
---
And now it was time to pay.
I met Krovashko in a precinct parking lot, rain tapping against the windshield of his Crown Vic like a metronome.
"You came fast," he said.
"The date came faster."
He looked tired. Not scared. Just tired.
"It was worth it. Every second."
I set the Wheel between us on the dash.
He looked at it.
"What kind of punishment do cops usually get?"
"There's no pattern. It spins. You suffer. That's it."
He nodded once. Then spun.
Click. Click. Click.
It stopped.
Segment 1: Minor tinnitus. Persistent ear ringing.
He blinked. Waited. "That it?"
I nodded slowly. "You got lucky."
He rubbed his ears. "I can live with that."
I watched him for a moment longer, studying his face. There was no panic, no hidden fear. Just quiet resolve.
"Maybe," I said, "the universe rewards the ones who do good for the right reasons."
He looked out at the rain, then back at me.
"You think it has a conscience?"
"Sometimes, I wonder."
As I stood to leave, I felt something rare stir inside me.
Relief.
For once, a fine young man would not suffer.
And that, in this cursed job, was almost enough to feel... grateful.