Well, look at this. Matching faces, matching attitudes. Tonight just became double the fun. We came here for dinner, Sergeant. We haven't caused any trouble.
Trouble always says that first. Stand still while my officers figure out what you're hiding. You can verify our identities in minutes. There's no reason to surround us. I decide what's reasonable here.
Lose the attitude before this gets embarrassing. Ava remained perfectly still. The four officers tightened their circle as customers watched from every table. Mercer smiled, certain he had frightened two ordinary women into silence. He had no idea both twins were FBI agents or that his department was already inside their corruption investigation.
The neon beer signs cast a warm glow across Murphy's sports bar as special agents Ava Brooks and Amara Brooks slid into a corner booth. The leather seats creaked softly beneath them. After 12 hours of combing through financial records and witness statements for assistant US attorney Michael Grant's corruption case, both sisters felt the weight of exhaustion settling into their bones. Ava stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders to work out the tension. Tomorrow's going to be brutal.
Tell me about it. Amara picked up the laminated menu, scanning the options. Grant wants those bank records organized by transaction date before the morning briefing. We've got enough evidence to bury half the city council. Ava kept her voice low, professional.
The paper trail is ironclad. The bartender, a friendly man in his 50s with graying temples, approached their table. What can I get you ladies tonight? Two cheeseburgers, medium. Amara smiled.
And whatever's on tap. Coming right up. The sisters settled into comfortable silence. Around them, the usual evening crowd filled the space with quiet conversation. A couple argued softly about bills at the bar.
Three construction workers watched a baseball game on the mounted television. Two women in business suits shared nachos while complaining about their boss. Nobody paid the twins much attention. They looked professional but relaxed like office workers unwinding after a long day. Their matching blazers hung on the back of their chairs.
Both wore simple blouses and slacks. Nothing about their appearance screamed federal law enforcement. The interview transcripts from today were solid, Ava said, keeping her voice barely above a whisper. Mrs. Patterson's testimony about the zoning bribes will tie everything together. Assuming she doesn't get cold feet, Amara sipped her beer.
Grant thinks she might change her story if they pressure her. They can try. We've got the recordings. The bartender delivered their food with a friendly nod. Steam rose from the thick burgers.
The fries looked crispy and golden. After a day of stale coffee and vending machine snacks, real food felt like a luxury. Ava bit into her burger, savoring the taste. God, I needed this. Same here.
Sometimes I forget to eat when we're buried in paperwork. The front door opened with a sharp chime. Four uniformed police officers walked in, their heavy boots echoing against the worn wooden floor. They moved with the swagger of men who owned every room they entered. Their utility belts creaked with handcuffs, radios, and weapons.
Sergeant Daniel Mercer led the group. His gray hair was perfectly combed, his uniform pressed and spotless. Behind him walked officer Kyle Dawson, younger and bulkier with the eager energy of someone constantly trying to prove himself. Officer Brett Collins followed quietly, his eyes already scanning the room with calculated precision. The fourth officer, whose name plate read Harrison, looked tired and ready to go home.
Mercer's eyes immediately found the twins. He stopped walking, studying them with obvious curiosity. "Well, well," he said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "Look what we've got here." The sisters continued eating, ignoring the attention. They had learned long ago that engaging with every curious cop only created unnecessary drama.
But Mercer wasn't finished. He heard fragments of their conversation as he moved closer. Words like interviews and federal paperwork and evidence drifted across the room. Secret agents, huh? Mercer's voice dripped with sarcasm.