Dominance, page 13
Sinclair’s grin held, but he let it drop. Cooper’s silence sent him on his way.
Cooper flexed his fingers and brought up Wood Creek University Medical School. The site loaded in fits, images arriving a beat at a time until a sunlit campus settled into place. He found the alumni search and typed Discart.
No results found.
The words blinked back at him, flat and final. He re-entered the name with care.
Still nothing.
A slow chill crept into his chest. New Dresden Medical stated the absence with certainty. It should have returned the record. Instead, it hung like a thread asking for a tug.
He leaned in, shoulders tight. He pushed deeper into Wood Creek’s alumni database and began scrolling year by year. The lists were shorter than he expected. The class of 2007 had twenty-four students. 2006 had twenty-seven. 2005 had twenty-nine. Names clicked past under the wheel of his mouse, tidy and few, none of them Discart.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said under his breath. He kept going. 1998 had twenty-three graduates. 1997 had twenty-six. 1996 had twenty-one. The neat rosters slid past, each one easy to sweep with a glance, and still no Lewis Discart.
The monitor’s glow flattened the room. Cooper’s eyes burned as he stared at the absence, a blank in the record that wouldn’t resolve.
Cooper reviewed the sequence again, each detail clicking into place or refusing. Discart was listed as twenty-six at graduation. The age snagged. Even without a full grasp of the medical timeline, it read wrong unless he had been exceptional.
The LED lights buzzed softly. The monitor washed his desk in cold blue. He opened a new browser tab and pulled up the California Medical Board site, the dated portal he knew would produce results. He typed Discart into the search field and sent it.
Nothing.
He eased back and pushed a hand through his hair. The chair gave a small sigh. Discart’s profile showed twenty years at New Dresden Medical and a degree from Wood Creek. No trail behind either. One detail kept cutting through. Graduation at twenty-six. It did not align.
He gathered his printouts. Monica’s hospital profile. Lewis’s staff biography. The memorial notice that had started this. Paper edges rasped against his fingertips as he squared them. He took the stack to Blackburn.
He knocked on the doorframe and waited. Through the glass, she finished a call without looking at him, her eyes already elsewhere, then waved him in.
Light came through the blinds in thin bars, laying stripes across her desk. Dust turned slowly in the beams. She gestured to the chair. Her fingers tapped once, then went still.
He sat. The leather cooled his back and creaked under his weight. He slid the stack across and watched her read. The quiet rustle of paper filled the room.
“Well?” she said as she reached the end of a sheet and lifted an impassive gaze.
“I’ve been tracing Lewis Discart,” Cooper said, leaning forward as if closeness might confer weight. “According to New Dresden Medical’s website, he graduated from Wood Creek University Medical School in California.”
Blackburn raised an eyebrow. Interest contained. She kept turning pages.
“And?” she asked, voice cool.
“Nothing,” Cooper said. Frustration edged his tone. “No records at Wood Creek, and nothing in the California Medical Board archives.”
Her hand stopped on a page. She looked at the header, then back at him without comment.
“I went through a decade of alumni rosters manually,” Cooper added quickly before she could cut him off. “Small classes, twenty to thirty students a year. Easy to scan thoroughly.” He let the last word land clean.
She let silence do the work. The HVAC hummed, a low current beneath everything.
Her eyes stayed on him, sharp and steady. Her fingers stilled on the paper, possession established.
“What do you think is going on here?” she asked. The question carried an edge that made it something else, a test.
He shifted. Leather creaked. He ordered his thoughts. Clean options. No theatrics.
“First theory,” he said, keeping his voice even though his pulse ticked under her scrutiny. “He could have changed his name. He might have gone to university under a different identity in California.”
She gave him nothing. The pressure of her attention pushed him forward.
“Or there was a mix-up at New Dresden Medical,” he offered, tongue dry. “Maybe they folded another doctor’s credentials into his bio.” Even as he said it, the idea felt thin. An error like that at a hospital of this size did not sit right.
He checked the top sheet again. No relief. Ink, dates, the same clean lies.
He leaned back, fingers tapping the armrest, and tried again. “What bothers me is his age when he supposedly graduated, twenty-six.” He exhaled through his nose. “That’s young for a surgeon. Most do not finish their residencies until their early thirties. Medical school and training take years.” The pieces still refused to lock. Something in Discart’s story was wrong.
“Another angle,” Cooper said, momentum building as he spoke, “is that he’s using someone else’s credentials entirely. If that’s true, the actual records wouldn’t be in his name at all.” His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against his thigh, a soft thrum in the quiet office, then went still under Blackburn’s steady attention.
She leaned forward, not much, just enough to extend her reach across the desk. The lamplight cut a clean line across the papers between them. Her eyes held him in place.
“Borrow another identity,” she murmured, voice deceptively calm, “without taking their name?”
The look she gave him stripped away his defenses. He felt opened up, as if every thought might spill into her waiting hands before he was ready to speak it.
He shook his head, backing off. “Okay. Maybe not that.” He swallowed, tongue dragging over a dry mouth, buying himself a few seconds.
“But none of this explains why there aren’t any Medical Board records,” he muttered, half to himself, as if speaking could untie the knot inside his skull.
Then it hit. His thoughts shifted cleanly into place. A tremor ran through him before his voice could catch up.
“You know what’s interesting?” he ventured, careful, testing the ground before he committed. The urgency bled through despite his efforts to control it.
Blackburn didn’t blink. She didn’t change her breathing. Something flickered behind her eyes, a small light he knew meant she had already clocked the change in him.
“Monica,” Cooper said, slower now, setting each syllable between them. “Monica worked at New Dresden Medical, digitizing old personnel records.”
He saw her sharpen at once. She didn’t move beyond stilling her fingers on the stack in front of her, yet her focus narrowed like a camera lens. Paper rasped softly under her hand.
“At her father’s hospital,” Cooper pressed, throat tight as adrenaline rose under his skin.
“Tell me exactly what you’re thinking,” Blackburn said at last. Her tone made it plain she had already assembled most of the structure; she wanted to hear him build it out loud.
Cooper gestured to the printouts scattered between them. “It took me less than twenty minutes to find these discrepancies.” His voice climbed a notch, conviction gathering speed; speaking faster felt like forcing light into the corners.
“Monica was smart. Probably,” he pushed on, almost reverently, as if she might be standing just outside the door listening to what they were uncovering. “Detail-oriented. She was taking some Administrative Studies course, I think. She would have gone through decades of personnel files.”
“And?”
“And maybe she looked for her dad’s records. Or she did not find them and searched the way I did.”
Blackburn leaned in, the dim light carving planes across her face. Her elbows settled on the desk; her gaze stayed level. “And what would she have found?”
“Nothing,” Cooper said, the word heavy. The truth landed in his chest and stayed there. “Because maybe Lewis Discart never graduated at all. Monica would have seen that in the files she was digitizing. She would have realized her father was lying about everything.”
Blackburn’s eyes narrowed. Satisfaction sparked and vanished. She stayed very still; her presence filled the room without effort.
“Keep going,” she said, low and smooth, an edge threaded through it that made his pulse beat faster. They were closing in.
His thoughts locked. “This is the motive,” he said, urgency rising. “Lewis could not risk being exposed as a fraud. Monica pieced it together. She learned the truth in those records. And he…” Cooper paused, throat tightening. “He killed her to keep her quiet.” He exhaled, forcing steadiness. “The purple hoodie with the stain could be enough physical evidence to make an arrest.”
Blackburn’s mouth edged into a thin smile; she contained it with ease. Her fingers drummed once, twice, each tap precise. “Excellent work, Cooper.” She turned back to the papers. “Contact Wood Creek University and the California Medical Board. I want definitive proof of whether Lewis attended or graduated under any alias or name change. Keep it under wraps; we can’t afford to tip him off.”
A clean heat moved through Cooper. The strain and sleeplessness receded for a beat. Under her gaze, he felt seen, not just another cog but necessary to the machine she was building. He straightened.
“I’m on it,” he said, voice steady as he rose.
The corridor air felt cooler as he stepped out of her office. Exhilaration lifted him, a current under his skin. Phones rang in distant bursts; the ceiling lights hummed; the faint smell of old coffee hung near the bullpen. He crossed the room with energy still crackling around him like static before a callout.
He passed Sinclair’s cluttered workstation and let himself take a small, petty victory. Cooper stuck out his tongue in a quick flash. Sinclair’s face tightened with envy; the look hit Cooper like fuel.
The hunt had begun again. This time, he felt unstoppable.
Chapter 11
Blackburn considered her call with Kendria, allowing irritation cool into aim. But where? She shifted in her chair. Leather creaked. Heat left her face in a slow drain. Now was the perfect time to deal with her tracker.
Her office sat in flat LED light. Shadows held their edges. The air was stale. The desk was ordered. Case files on the left. Laptop on the right, humming. The screen showed the last email from Dr. Petrović. The subject line pulled the warmth from the room. Homicide Confirmed: Jenna Langston. The matter was settled. No ambiguity remained. The case was officially hers.
She leaned back slowly, a pen loose between her fingers. It tapped against the desk in a deliberate rhythm. Sharp clicks punctuated the HVAC hush.
The door to the bullpen creaked open. Dawson returned and shuffled to his desk. The place carried the low thrum of printers and murmured calls. Blackburn had mapped out assignments to keep the case tight and her operation clean. Dawson and the others would follow without deviation. Except one.
Her gaze moved to Sinclair’s desk. The GPS tracker from her car. Arrogance or stupidity. She hadn’t decided. Either way, he would learn what it cost.
The pen stilled. The room tightened. She swept the bullpen. Everyone was present, heads bent to their tasks, paper whispering under their hands. A small smile cut across her mouth. She rose and moved toward Sinclair, heels marking the linoleum in clean beats.
“Gentlemen,” Blackburn said smoothly, her voice cutting through the quiet with effortless authority. Conversations halted mid-sentence, every pair of eyes tilting toward her. “I’ve updated the task list for Jenna Langston’s case. The details are live on the network. Review them immediately. She is officially a homicide.”
Her tone was crisp, the undercurrent was steel. She moved through the bullpen with contained authority. The room adjusted around her.
At Sinclair’s desk she paused, back to the others. He lifted his gaze, hesitating. Desire flashed and failed to hide. Blackburn tilted her head and slipped open the top button of her shirt with easy indifference. Every motion was calculated.
“Sinclair,” she murmured, leaning closer until only he could hear. Her voice dipped lower, not soft but pointedly intimate, and carried a sharp edge of power disguised as familiarity. “I want you.” She let the instruction hang for a beat. “My office.”
Sinclair swallowed. His breath hitched at a closeness he had not earned. He reached without thinking. She let the reach die, then set something small and unmistakable on his desk with a flick of her wrist.
The tracker caught the light. Blackburn tapped it once with a manicured nail. The point landed.
“You have five minutes to get your act together.”
She didn’t wait for his reaction. She straightened and walked back to her office. Behind her, his silence and heat followed through the steady hum of the room. A prelude to what awaited him next.
Fun times were coming.
The tracker sat where she left it. Sinclair’s infatuation tilted into unease. His pulse picked up as he replayed the edge in Blackburn’s gaze. He knew that look. She was several moves ahead. This time he was the piece on the board.
In her office, Blackburn eased into the high-backed chair. The leather was cool against her shoulders. A small smile touched her mouth as she took in the room. Power suited her. She wore it with control. Her fingers rested on the armrests. No fidgeting. Across the room, Sinclair had five minutes to decide how he would explain a trespass that could cost him his badge. IA wouldn’t need much to put him on the shelf.
Sinclair approached the office with hesitant steps. His reflection ghosted in the glass. His hand hovered over the knob, unsteady. The metal waited, cool against damp skin. Each breath was shallow. The nerves didn’t settle. It was a losing battle.
The door creaked open. Blackburn’s eyes lifted to his. The effect was immediate. She stayed seated behind the desk, posture exact. Authority without raising her voice. Her fingers steepled. She looked as if she were laying out steps rather than threats.
“Sit,” she said. Crisp, unhurried.
The word landed. Sinclair sat before he knew he had moved. Sweat gathered at his hairline and stung. His fingers worked against each other in his lap, small betrayals he could not stop.
Blackburn leaned forward, narrowing the distance in both body and bearing. “Why,” she began softly, “were you tracking me?” Her voice held a deceptive calm, silk laid over razor wire.
His throat went dry. The prepared speech collapsed under her stare. “I was worried about you,” he managed finally, weaker than intended.
Her brow arched a fraction, conveying disbelief without disturbing her composure. “Worried,” she repeated slowly, each syllable measured until skepticism gathered at the edges.
Sinclair nodded too quickly. “Yes,” he said, swallowing hard. “I’ve noticed strange things lately.” He waved his hand at nothing. “I thought someone might be after you, or something wasn’t right.”
Something flickered across his face. A memory, maybe guilt. His hands fidgeted.
“I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” he concluded weakly. His voice sounded thin beside her silence.
Her gaze didn’t waver. It settled. “What strange things?” The question cut cleanly, leaving no room to drift.
He paused. The pause answered for him.
Something cooled in Blackburn. She marked his hesitation as a hunter marks distance. She let the room claim the space between words. No rush. No relief.
She leaned back. The chair remained silent. Air moved faintly from a vent above, a steady hum underscoring the quiet. She touched the tabletop once with her fingertips. The light in the corner lens glowed red.
“Were you outside my house?”
Sinclair’s eyes widened before he could control them. “No, of course not,” he stammered, his voice betraying him with a slight crack. “I would never.”
Blackburn cut him off with a small motion. “You were outside my house to plant the tracker, so indeed you would,” she said. Her tone stayed level, the way it did when she read incident reports into the record. “I think you’re lying. I do not intend to waste time debating.”
His mouth opened and closed. She saw it all. Not only the act but the motive wrapped around it. She would use that before anything else.
“You will write a report,” Blackburn said coolly, folding her arms across her chest. Her voice carried inevitability. “A detailed one. I want every step you took and why you thought tracking me was necessary. Outline your reasoning, every strange little thing that concerned you and led you here.” She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen pinned for display. “When it’s done, it comes to me first. Then I’ll decide how much lands on Chief Hayes’ desk.”
Color drained from his face. He could see the form number at the top of the page and the signatures beneath. “But that would—”
“Ensure there is a record of your misconduct?” Blackburn interjected, her lips curving into something neither smile nor sneer but chilling nonetheless. “Yes, Detective. It will. Cost you a job? That’s not my call.”
Sinclair scanned the room as if seeking an exit he had missed. The walls offered nothing. White paint. A clock ticking a slow, indifferent beat. Her voice did not rise. That made it worse.
Blackburn leaned in, close enough for the point to land. “Let me remind you,” she said softly, deadly calm, “you used department resources to stalk your commanding officer. You didn’t even bother to cover your tracks. You signed out equipment like this was another day at the office. You didn’t even purchase an off-the-shelf personal tracker. Idiot.” She let the word sit until the silence absorbed it. “You would be wise to salvage what you can before this turns into something that buries you.”
He tried to lift his chin. It did not hold. His shirt clung to the back of his neck.
Blackburn straightened gradually. She gave him a path that looked like order and sounded like consequence.
“Beyond the report,” she continued smoothly, “you will also be taking on special assignments for the next month.”
