See if anyone's willing to speak off the record. But I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Trent. This kind of thing, people clam up fast. No one wants to be involved except the people who painted it.
Castillo nodded grimly. They always find their courage in the dark. He looked at her then, not coldly, not even accusingly, but with the quiet weight of a man who had spent his life waiting for justice, only to find it constantly rationed. "You ever seen someone do something like this and just stop afterward?" Her gaze flicked toward the house, the garage, the scorched metal now bagged for evidence.
"No," she said. They escalate, but they get sloppy, too. So, if they're dumb enough to come back, we might get lucky. I don't put much faith in luck, Marcus replied. Then, put some in me, she said, voice softening just slightly.
I'll do what I can, but keep your eyes open, Mr. Trent. I'd advise against retaliation, even if it's deserved, he met her eyes. Don't worry, detective. I'm not looking for revenge.
And that was true. Revenge came from anger. What he felt wasn't that. It was something colder, something sharper, a kind of calculation that had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with precision. He hadn't survived a decade in the core.
By letting rage cloud his judgment, what he needed now wasn't permission. It was information. Once Castillo and the other officers cleared the scene once the last photo was taken and the final strip of yellow tape secured around the hedges, Marcus went back inside. He didn't touch the damage. Didn't scrub the words off the garage.
That would come later. Instead, he sat at the kitchen table with a legal pad and pen, drawing the truck from memory. Every detail he could recall. The shape of the headlights, the angle of the lift, the sequence of stickers on the rear window, the way the driver leaned to the left as he turned, the rough scrape along the side panel near the wheel well. He circled three parts of the drawing and underlined them.
Then, without hesitation, he picked up his phone and called Reggie. "You still know the guy who runs that body shop near the highway?" He asked. "Yeah," Reggie replied on the other end. "Why?
I need access to their security footage. Yesterday, late afternoon, off the feeder road by Eastwood, looking for something specific, Marcus looked at the drawing again at the stickers, the flags, the warped metal that would have been hard to miss. Yeah, he said, "I'm looking for a truck that doesn't know it's already been seen." The next morning broke over the neighborhood with all the artificial warmth of a manufactured piece. Golden light spilling over rooftops and picket fences like a veil laid across yesterday's wounds.
The slurs still stained the garage in blood red letters. The paint crusting now under the early sun. And not a single neighbor had spoken. Not a word, not a glance. The silence had taken on a sharper shape than the vandalism itself.
Marcus didn't wait for anyone to explain it. He didn't need an apology to know what was meant. By the way, they all avoided looking toward his house. The same way you look away from a body in the street when you're afraid acknowledging it might mean you're next. He left early.
The garage door stayed closed. Let them see what they'd done. Let them wonder what kind of man would let it sit there untouched. Not because he didn't care, but because he wanted every one of them to live with it just for a while. By the time he rolled into the back lot behind Reggie's gym, the morning haze was just beginning to lift.
The building stood squat and worn between an old tire shop and a boarded up liquor store. Its steel frame painted over so many times the color had settled somewhere between gunmetal and stubbornness. Marcus stepped out and wrapped twice on the side door, waiting as the bolt slid free. Reggie Jones opened it with the kind of energy that didn't need words, just a look. One glance down the alley, then back to Marcus with the question already in his eyes.
Marcus didn't speak until they were inside, past the scent of sweat and iron, past the empty mats and quiet punching bags. They moved into the office where dust hung faint in the light, and the old fan on the desk rotated in half-hearted turns. You got the footage? Marcus asked, already lowering himself into the chair by the desk. Reggie pulled a flash drive from the pocket of his hoodie and handed it over without a word.
I called in a favor from Raone, he said. Got everything from the shop next door. Their angle picked up half the lot. There's a camera facing the feeder road, too. Catches anyone pulling in from Eastwood.
Marcus slid the drive into the laptop and opened the folder. Grainy footage rolled out across the screen, timestamped and silent. He fast forwarded through an hour's worth of empty frames, flickers of passing traffic, a few customers, a delivery van, until something clicked. There it was, the Dodge. Even in washed out grayscale, it stood out, lifted high, loud in presence, even without sound, and unmistakably marked with the twisted collage of flags and hate stickers bleeding across the back window.
The driver's door opened. Doug stepped out, his build unmistakable. The same hunched posture, the same exaggerated gestures as he barked something at a shop attendant and waved toward the hood. Marcus leaned in closer. The image wasn't sharp enough to catch a plate, but the first three characters were visible.
Seven. Not enough for an arrest, but more than enough to start peeling back layers. Reggie crossed his arms, watching that him. That's him. What's the move?
Marcus didn't answer right away. He continued watching the footage, observing every frame. How Doug walked, where he parked, the way he leaned into conversations like he was performing, even when no one was watching. Sherry didn't step out of the truck, but her silhouette was there in the passenger seat, head moving, probably talking, probably directing. I don't want to rattle them, Marcus said finally.
I want to learn them. Where they go, what they do, how often they slip, why. Marcus didn't look away from the screen. Because people like this think they're untouchable. I want to remind them they're not.
Reggie exhaled slowly. You want to teach him a lesson, not out of spite, Marcus said. His voice measured, the words chosen with care. Not out of rage. This isn't revenge.
They picked a fight in the dark and thought I'd break like the last man they came for. But this time they're going to feel what it means to face someone who doesn't move on. Reggie watched him for a moment, nodding once. You always did play the long game. Marcus clicked through more footage.
Another angle showing the truck pulling out an hour later, turning west toward the industrial park. Tomorrow I'll start tailing him, Marcus said. Different car. No close following. I'll keep a log.
Patterns, contacts, and then Reggie asked, though his voice carried more curiosity than concern. Then I'll decide. Reggie nodded again, slower this time. You want backup? Not yet.
This part's quiet. Eyes only. Over the next several days, Marcus moved through town like a shadow. No uniform, no car anyone would recognize. Just a beat up silver sedan borrowed from Reggie's cousin and a notebook tucked beneath the seat.
He followed from a distance, patient, deliberate. Doug's routines revealed themselves in small increments. A grocery store on Tuesdays, gas station beer runs in the afternoon, stops at a backlot dive bar two nights in a row where the same cluster of men gathered around a rusted fire pit with their sleeves rolled up and their ignorance rolled deeper. Marcus never approached. He simply watched.