Renata Ocampo

Your thumbs move before you fully register the decision. The text to Hendricks is short: Maya Villanueva's phone records. Last 48 hours. I need to know who she called before she died.

You look up. Parrish is watching you, his expression shifting from nervous to calculating.

"Problem, Detective?"

You pocket the phone. "Just following a thread."

Parrish leans forward. "I told you I didn't know what they were doing. I'm offering to help. Give me names, and I'll tell you who else on the council took money. I'll wear a wire. I'll do whatever it takes to keep my name out of the murder charges."

He's desperate. That much is real. But so was Maya, and she played you for days.

Your phone buzzes. Hendricks: Pulling records now. Give me ten minutes.

Parrish's eyes flicker — a tell you've seen a hundred times. He's deciding how much truth to feed you.

"I met her twice. Once at a fundraiser, once at her office in Portland." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "First time, she was all charm. Talked about St. Jude's expansion, the good they were doing for palliative care, the jobs they'd bring to Sacramento. Second time..." He looks down at the table. "Second time, she was different. Harder. She told me the expansion was moving forward whether I approved the permits or not. Said they had other ways of getting what they wanted."

"Other ways. Meaning the payments."

"I didn't know that's what she meant at the time. I thought she was talking about lobbyists, political pressure." He meets your eyes. "I didn't know about the children, Detective. I swear it."

Your phone buzzes. Hendricks: Got the records. Maya made three calls in her last two hours. One to a Sacramento number — registered to Derek Parrish's office. One to an unknown burner. One to Robert Vance. The call to Parrish's office lasted eleven minutes.

You look up from the phone. Parrish is still watching you, his expression carefully neutral.

You slide your phone across the table, the call record glowing on the screen. Parrish's eyes drop to it, and you watch the color drain from his face.

"She called your office. Eleven minutes. Hours before she swallowed poison in Portland." You let that sit. "What did you talk about?"

Parrish's mouth opens, closes. He looks at the phone, then at you, then at the phone again. "She called to warn me."

"Warn you about what?"

"That you were coming. That you had the ledgers. That I needed to get my story straight and lawyer up." He swallows. "She said she was sorry. Said she'd made her choice and she was going to see it through. I didn't know she meant..."

He trails off.

"Eleven minutes," you repeat. "That's a long time to say get a lawyer."

Parrish's eyes harden. "She also gave me a name. Someone else on the board. Someone she said would reach out to me if things went sideways."

"Who?"

He hesitates. Then: "Thomas Vance. Robert's brother. She said he was the one who really ran things. That if she and Robert didn't make it, he'd be in touch."

You stand, the chair scraping against the floor. "Meeting's over."

Parrish's eyes widen. "Wait — I gave you a name. I'm cooperating—"

"You lied to me for the first ten minutes. I'll decide how much that cooperation is worth after I verify what you've told me." You turn to Hendricks. "Keep him here. I need to make a call."

You step outside, the cool evening air hitting your face. You dial Duvall. She picks up on the first ring.

"Ocampo. Tell me you've got something."

"Thomas Vance. Robert's brother. He's still out there — Maya named him as the one who really runs St. Jude's. She called Parrish to warn him before she died, and she told him Thomas would reach out if things went sideways."

A pause. "Thomas Vance. I'll put out an APB immediately. Do you have a description?"

"Nothing yet. But he's connected to every death in this case. Find him before he finds out we're looking."

"Understood. I'll keep you updated."

You hang up and stand on the sidewalk, the city lights flickering around you. Three Vance siblings. Two dead. One still out there, pulling strings from the shadows.

You step away from the coffee shop's glow and dial Harrow. He picks up on the first ring, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

"Ocampo. Tell me you've got Parrish in cuffs."

"Not yet. But I've got something bigger. Maya Villanueva named a third Vance brother before she died — Thomas Vance. He's the one who really runs St. Jude's. Robert was the face, Maya was the board connection, but Thomas is the operator. He's still out there."

A long pause. "Thomas Vance. You have a location?"

"Nothing yet. But if he's half as careful as his siblings, he's already gone to ground. I need federal resources to track him — financial追踪, travel records, known associates. This is bigger than Sacramento PD."

Harrow exhales slowly. "I'll call the FBI's Sacramento field office. Get you a liaison by morning." A pause. "Ocampo — you've done good work. But if Thomas Vance is as connected as you think, he's going to have lawyers, politicians, maybe even federal contacts protecting him. You sure you're ready for that fight?"

You look back at the coffee shop window. Parrish is still inside, watching you through the glass.

"I didn't come this far to stop now."

You push through the coffee shop door and cross to the table. Parrish looks up, something between hope and dread in his eyes.

"Stand up. You're coming to the station for a formal interview."

He doesn't argue. Just rises slowly, hands visible, as Hendricks steps to his side. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"You can call one from the station. But right now, you're coming with us voluntarily, or I make it an arrest. Your choice."

Parrish nods once. "Voluntary."

Hendricks escorts him out to the car. You follow, your mind already turning to the questions you need answers to — Thomas Vance's operations, his contacts, his location, his endgame. Parrish was Maya's last call. He knows more than he's told you.

The station comes into view, fluorescent lights glowing through the windows. The night shift is still moving inside, processing evidence, building cases. You guide Parrish through the back entrance and into Interview 2 — a small room with a table, two chairs, and a recording system.

You sit across from him. Hendricks takes the corner.

"Let's start from the beginning. Tell me everything you know about Thomas Vance."

You lean forward, your voice steady. "The payments. Fifty thousand in consulting fees over three years. How were they structured? And did Thomas Vance personally approve them?"

Parrish shifts in his chair, sweat beading at his temple. "They came through a shell company. Crestwood Consulting Group. Quarterly deposits, always the same amount — twelve-five. No paper trail back to St. Jude's directly."

"And Vance?"

"I never dealt with him directly. The payments were handled by Maya. She'd call, confirm the deposit, and I'd sign off on whatever permit or zoning variance they needed next." He pauses. "But the amounts — they had to be approved at the top. Maya didn't have that kind of authority on her own."

"So Thomas Vance signed off on every payment."

"I assume so. I never saw his signature, but Maya made it clear he was the one calling the shots."

Hendricks steps forward. "Crestwood Consulting — you have any contact information for them? An address, a phone number, a contact name?"

Parrish hesitates, then pulls out his phone. "I've got an email address. crestwoodconsulting@protonmail.com. That's all I ever used."

You stand, pushing the chair back. "Interview's over for now. Hendricks, get him processed and hold him for now — voluntary hold, pending the warrants."

Parrish's eyes widen. "I gave you Crestwood. I gave you everything—"

"You gave me a shell company email address. I'll decide how much that's worth after we verify it." You turn and step out of the interview room, the door clicking shut behind you.

You pull out your phone and dial Harrow. He picks up on the second ring.

"Ocampo. Please tell me you've got something concrete."

"Crestwood Consulting Group. Shell company. Used to funnel payments from St. Jude's to Parrish and probably others on the council. Email is crestwoodconsulting@protonmail.com. I need it added to the federal warrant — financial records, registration documents, any associated accounts."

A pause. You hear Harrow typing. "Crestwood... got it. I'll add it to the warrant request. Anything else?"

"Thomas Vance is still out there. Maya confirmed he's the one running things. If we find Crestwood's real address, we find him."

"Understood. Good work, Ocampo. Get some rest — tomorrow's going to be a long day."

The line goes dead. You stand in the hallway, the hum of the station around you, the case file growing heavier with every turn.

Your desk is a landscape of case files, coffee cups, and sticky notes. You drop into your chair and pull up the state business registry database. Crestwood Consulting Group. The search returns a single result — registered in Delaware, 2020, with a mailing address at a UPS store in downtown Portland.

You dig deeper. The registered agent is a law firm in Wilmington — standard shell company setup. No officers listed. No financial disclosures. The paper trail dead-ends at a PO box.

You switch to property records. Crestwood Consulting doesn't own any real estate. No vehicles. No assets. It exists only on paper, a ghost company designed to move money.

You lean back, staring at the screen. The UPS store address in Portland — that's a lead. Someone had to rent that box. Someone had to pick up the mail.

Your phone buzzes. Hendricks: Got something. Cross-referenced the Crestwood email against other St. Jude's financial records. Same pattern shows up in three more cities — Seattle, Phoenix, Denver. St. Jude's has clinics there too.

The network is bigger than you thought. Three more cities. Three more sets of ledgers. Three more councils of people paid to look the other way.

You dial Harrow's number, the weight of three more cities pressing against your chest. He picks up on the first ring.

"Ocampo. Tell me you've found something."

"Crestwood Consulting's payment pattern shows up in three more cities — Seattle, Phoenix, Denver. St. Jude's has clinics there too. Same shell company, same structure, same network." You pause. "I need federal warrants for all three locations before Thomas Vance can shut them down or destroy the evidence."

The line goes quiet. You hear Harrow exhale slowly. "Three more cities. That's a multi-state operation."

"Which is why it needs to be federal. Sacramento PD can't serve warrants in four states. But the FBI can."

Another pause. "I'll call the U.S. Attorney's office. Get the warrants drafted tonight." A beat. "Ocampo — you realize what this means. If St. Jude's is in four cities, the patient count isn't dozens. It's hundreds."

The words settle in your chest like cold lead.

"I know."