Foster's day off from the station meant a full, uninterrupted shift as Andrew Garfield.
The UIAF office hummed with a different energy when he was there for the long haul. He wasn't just a visitor, but part of the machinery.
He spent the morning with Robert, hashing out the final strategy for the Granite Point Library.
"The structural report came back." Robert said, slapping a data-slate on Andrew's desk.
"It's perfect. 'Critical foundation failure,' 'imminent collapse risk.' Withersby and his historical society cronies won't know what hit them. They can't argue with a collapsing building."
Andrew scanned the report. The engineer Robert knew was very thorough. A little too thorough.
The data was compelling, but he felt a pang of something that felt suspiciously like conscience.
He was helping to erase a piece of the city, using the cold, hard language of engineering as a weapon.
_You're not a policeman here._
He reminded himself.
_You're a consultant. Your job is to get the client what they want._
"It's solid." Andrew confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Draft the proposal to the city planning committee. Frame it as a 'necessary demolition for public safety,' with a 'commitment to commemorating the library's legacy in the new development.'"
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Garfield! Speak their language while you pick their pockets."
By early afternoon, the plan was in motion.
Freed from the immediate task, Foster's mind—Andrew's mind—drifted back to the puzzle that consumed his other life.
Regent and Sycamore. The nexus. The Davidson alley, the Albright lockbox, Leo's apartment, Lily Moses's witness account.
It was all there, clustered around that single, cursed intersection.
He'd investigated it as a policeman and found only closed doors and wary eyes.
But what if he approached it as someone else? The dye was already in his hair, the glasses on his face. Why waste the costume?
The idea was a spark. He could walk those streets not as Foster Ambrose, a symbol of authority, but as Andrew Garfield, a bland, upper-class consultant.
People might say things to a harmless-looking man in a nice vest that they would never say to a cop. He could observe without being seen.
He was gathering his things, the plan solidifying, when the firm's secretary, Benita, called out to him.
"Mr. Garfield? A moment before you leave. A walk-in for a private consultation. He's quite insistent."
A well-kept annoyance simmered beneath Andrew's calm exterior. Not now. This was his chance.
"I was just on my way to a site survey, Benita. Can it wait?"
"He specifically asked for the consultant handling the Granite Point file. Said he'd heard good things."
She gestured with her chin towards the client lounge. "He's right over there."
Foster turned, a polite, professional smile already forming on his lips. It froze there.
Seated in a plush armchair, his posture arrow straight even in repose, was a man in a severe, dark grey suit.
He wasn't looking at them, he was staring out the window at the city, his profile as sharp and unyielding as a cliff face. A simple, dark hat rested on his knee.
Foster's blood turned to ice in his veins. His heart gave a single, violent thud against his ribs and then seemed to stop altogether.
A lump, hard and unyielding as stone, lodged in his throat, choking off his air.
It was Captain Hart Hanson.
_No. No, no, no, no, no. This isn't happening._
The world narrowed to the space between them. The office chatter, the hum of the terminals, the distant sound of traffic—it all faded into a dull, roaring silence.
Ms. Benita, blissfully unaware of the tectonic shift occurring beside her, beckoned. "Sir? Mr. Garfield can see you now."
Hanson turned his head. His granite eyes swept past the secretary and landed directly on Foster.
There was no flicker of surprise, no hint of recognition.
Just the same flat, impenetrable gaze he used to dissect a crime scene or a subordinate's weak excuse.
He stood, smooth and controlled, put on his hat, and walked towards them. Each step was measured, deliberate.
He stopped at the counter, his presence sucking all the air from the space.
"Captain Hart Hanson," the secretary, Benita, said brightly. "This is Andrew Garfield, one of our top consultants on urban redevelopment."
Hanson's eyes never left Foster's. He reached up, took the brim of his hat, and removed it with a slow, formal gesture.
He then stretched out his right arm, his hand steady, his gaze unwavering.
"Andrew Garfield?" he said, his voice exactly as Foster knew it—low, flat, and devoid of any discernible emotion.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
His arm remained extended, waiting for a handshake that felt less like a greeting and more like a verdict.