Graham had forgotten to account for traffic that morning when arriving at work, not to mention that thanks to his hectic activities the day before, he had also forgotten to fill up the cruiser's tank. All in all, he arrived half an hour late to work. Normally, that wouldn't matter that much--Dara couldn't care less who arrived when as long as things got done--but he had received a message at three am ordering him to be early that day. He could still feel Dara's nails on his throat. He was walking a tightrope with Dara, and gusts were blowing.

When he did manage to arrive, he ran as fast as she could to Dara's office, trying his best to ignore his coworker's stares. He practically rammed the door to enter, even though the door was open to begin with. To his surprise, he was not the only one to be summoned there. Officer Jonah Eriksson, Maria Mendez, and even Detective O'Donnell were in the room, all staring at him, all in the Lynch family's pocket. Sitting on her high castle, Dara stared him down, giving him her usual smile that never really translated to the rest of her face.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Dunne," she said, leaning on her desk for emphasis. "Now that everyone's here, we gotta discuss a few matters, namely, how we are gettin' fucked!" she said, pounding her fist on the table with uncharacteristic rage.

Everyone in the room immediately perked up, shifting uncomfortably in their place, trading awkward looks between each other.

"Ya might wanna close that there door, Dunne," she said while pointing back. Everyone outside was peering into the office, scrambling back to their duties as soon as they were spotted. Graham quickly closed the door, shutting the noise outside.

Dara stood up, walking towards a small stereo to the side of the office. With the flick of a button, an obnoxiously loud bagpipe track began to sound off. She waved everyone in, huddling up like a football team between plays. "Sorry for that, but I dunno who might be listening."

They all shared a look of confusion, wondering what was up.

"Now, I summoned ya here 'cuz we're in deep shit. Last night, Klein was patrollin' a crime scene when he got a visit from internal affairs, and...."

"I.A?" asked Eriksson, always the pushy one, "that's impossible. They know better than to mess with us."

"Yeah, 'bout that," said Dara, "there's no us right know. I'm pullin' your plugs."

"Wait, what the hell does that even mean?" asked O'Donnell, fiddling with his mustache.

"Means that, until this thing blows over, we have to lay low," added Mendez.

"Right ya are, Mendez," said Dara, "Or at least, in a way. No new jobs will come from us. No new communications. No new gigs. Nothing. Nada, Zilch. We're in blackout mode until we find out what's happenin'. But y'all got a homework to fill up durin' yer recess."

She brought them closer to her, whispering as quiet as possible. "As Eriksson said, this crap shouldn't happen. We have enough dirt on everyone to keep 'em quiet, unless..."

"They have dirt on us, right?" interrupted Eriksson.

"Ya know, I'm gettin' really tired of yer shit. Can ya let me finish here?" Dara said with her best smile, grabbing Eriksson by the back of the neck. He nodded, looking at the floor in shame.

"Good. But yeah, most likely they have some dirt on us. Thin' is, we don't leave dirt. Someone is feedin' em info, and it's comin' from inside."

Everyone froze. None dared to look around. After all, she had just accused one of them of betraying the Family.

Dara did look, closely, meticulously. At O'Donnell's pensive face. At Mendez's panicked facade. At Eriksson's inquisitive eyes, trying to read the mood left and right. Graham's face, however, showed a kind of incredulous epiphany fitting for a cheap TV soap opera, for in that room, he was the only one who knew who was the whistle-blower. After all, he had practically confessed to him.

"You have made your choice, and with it, you've also made mine. I hope you can forgive me."

"Chill. It ain't one of ya. I checked. If you were, you would be tied up in a warehouse bein' skinned alive. Ain't dat a lovely thought?" she said while grinning. "But when I say from the inside, I meant from inside the station. Someone saw somethin' they shouldn't and went babblin' around to Internal Affairs. Mendez, Eriksson, yer job is to flush out our little friend. Remember, we are bein' watched, so no wackin'. Just find me a name, an' I'll point someone at 'em. Gonna have ourselves a sashimi party."

"Can do," said Eriksson, licking his lips.

"I know ya can. O'Donnell, I want ya to find anythin' ya can 'bout this I.A broad. Her name is Adrian Sour. Sauer. Shower. Whatever. She didn't bother to spell her name. I wanna see some dirty, anythin' we can use to shut 'er down."

"I'll pull some strings," he replied.

"Peachy," replied Dara. "Don't speak to me until ya have yer homework ready. Y'all have to act like regular ass cops from now on. We're being watched. Ya get it?"

Everyone nodded.

"Good. Class dismissed," she said, letting a couple of playful claps that were mostly drowned by the music.

They all quickly went outside, except Graham, who stood like a sore thumb in the middle of the room, with his mouth agape like a fish.

"Dunne! What can this lady do for ya?" Dara said, leaning back on her desk, unaware of Graham's internal struggle.

Should I rat out Marvin? If I do, I might get back on her good sides. I should do it. I must do it.

But he didn't. The words got stuck in his throat.

I can't, I simply can't. He was the only one who tried to save me. Why should he be punished for my sins? I should keep quiet. I must.

But he couldn't. His mouth wouldn't shut down.

Loyalty and mercy all welled up inside of him, playing a tug of war with his will. If he kept quiet, his future, and the future of the family, was at risk. But if he did speak, he would be killing the only one who tried to steer him onto the right path.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Dara's cold fingers prodding his neck.

"Ya poor thing. Ya still have some marks from yesterday's... moment of weakness."

In a move that was made especially awkward by their height's difference, Dara leaned down to kiss Graham's neck. He stood still, frozen in fear and disbelief. Her lips were cold and slimy, making their way through each of the nail marks on his neck.

"Oh, stop quivering. Ya don't need to make me hornier than I am," she said before licking Graham's cheek. This sent a shiver down his spine that shook his very core.

"I-I-I just wanna know what should I do. With the case," he muttered.

"Oh," she said, pushing him away lightly. Her business smile took over her wicked grin. "I thought it was pretty clear. She said twenty-four hours to give her enough evidence to keep that man-bitch in. You need to find it. Simple."

"Why not look into Mr. White? She had some good points and-"

"I said," Dara whispered, invading Graham's personal space to the point where their noses were practically touching, "find me some more evidence to lock that kid up. Search his hime again. Review the tapes. Whatever."

"Okay, okay," he replied, "I just wanna know-"

"Because I', fucking telling ya!" Dara said. "I pay ya to obey, not to think. Stay clear of White, focus on Wolfe. Did I make myself clear, Dunne?"

He nodded.

"Good. Now, scram," she said, pushing him out of the room, but not before giving him a spank in the butt.

As soon as Graham closed the door behind him, the bagpipe music stopped. All sound stopped. In front of him stood Marvin, oblivious to the bustling activity around him. His gaze pinned on Graham's eyes, keeping him frozen in place.

Inside those eyes, Graham found confirmation and understanding. The flickering on Marvin's eyes was defiant, scolding even. He was not going to back down. But they were also inquisitive. Pleading. They wanted to know if Graham had ratted him out.

With a brief nod, Graham assured him that he hadn't.

Marvin also nodded, shuffling back to his station. Did I make the right choice this time, Marvin?

Sadly, he wouldn't know the answer to that question, nor did he have the time to answer it himself. He had less than a day to find new evidence.

Graham decided to go back to basics, reviewing all the evidence he had, starting with the tapes. He sat down in front of his dusty desk, taking out the laptop from his briefcase. But no matter how many times he rewinded and played, the tape showed the same thing. Nothing new, nothing he didn't know. The affidavits still held true, but with what Gabriela said, they were practically useless. He needed a game changer.

He closed the last video of the folder. Nothing. He grabbed a pen from his desk, clicking it on and off out of frustration, a tick that helped him think on a stump. Did I miss anything? He asked himself, a piece of gum on the floor of the car, a witness, something.

He went to the laptop again. Two more folders were stored on the CD, one labeled Zinet Geber and one labeled Henry White. Clicking twice on the Zinet folder didn't show anything new. Same hallway. Same path. Nothing.

Maybe, just maybe, I can make her change her mind, thought Graham, after all, we didn't get too much time to talk. Plus, it might help take the heat off from us in the investigation.

Remembering that she left her info at the front desk Graham ran to the lobby to retrieve a small business card unlike anything he had seen before, simply by the fact that instead of the D.A's office seal in the background, it was a very fat Pug puppy looking sad at a salad bowl.

It took three rings for her to pick up. "Aloha, Gabby speaking," said the voice at the other side of the phone. It sounded campy and with echo, as if being spoken in a small room.

"Hello, Ms. Reyes, is Detective Graham Dunne, from the Geber case?" said Graham, leaning back in his chair.

"Of course. Detective Dunne, from the Geber case. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if we could talk a little bit about the case."

There was a brief silence from her side, followed by some tumbling and scratching. After a few seconds, her voice called back. "Sorry! Yes, of course, I would love to discuss the case."

"Good. It's about the evidence. I thought that you made an erroneous assumption-"

"Oh, I don't make assumptions, Detective, and even if I did, I assure you they are not erroneous."

Be charming Graham, be charming. "C'mon, we all make mistakes. We are supposed to be together on this one. Throw a guy a bone. All evidence points at Mr. Wolfe. The tapes, the affidavit-"

"C'mon, Detective, we all know that evidence is circumstantial. The tapes don't show anything, and without fingerprints on the car, you can't really tell he did it or not. You did comb the car for fingerprints, didn't you?"

"No, the car was a wreck. It would have been a waste-"

"Wait, so you are telling me the car was in good enough condition to determine that the brakes had been destroyed, but not enough to recover a print? That seems awfully convenient."

"Well, I... okay. That's one I'll give you, but-"

"And you know that affidavits without evidence might as well be just waste paper."

"What about the tapes?!" asked Graham, starting to lose his patience.

"Didn't we just discuss it?"

"No, no we didn't. You said it didn't prove anything, and I agree."

"Then why-"

"Wait, lemme finish," said Graham, standing up from his seat, "It also doesn't prove that Mr. White had anything to do with the murder in any way or form,"

Silence. Again, a scratching sound was heard, followed by a bit of muffled static. After a few seconds, she spoke again.

"Detective, did you personally ask for those tapes?"

"What do you mean? Of course I-"

"No. Think hard. Did you request to be shown the tapes yourself? Did you call them and asked them to show you those specific tapes?"

Graham tried to remember that day. For some reason, the only thing he could remember was that sandwich he was given. "No, I don't recall. But wait a second, I recorded that conversation."

"Mind if you put it on speaker so I could listen?"

"I don't see why not. Hold on."

With one hand, he placed the speaker on, while with the other he rummaged his briefcase for his recorder.

"Okay, got it. You still with me?"

"Yeah. Hit it."

Graham pressed the button. The weird robotic voice of Patrick Donahue sounded raspy and coarse through the small speaker. "Of course not, Detective. I will also give you a copy of the tapes I am about to show you, for evidence. Before we start, I must make a small disclaimer. We at the Park Plaza hotel have a full cooperation policy. You are free to watch the tapes, make inspections of the premises; basically, everything that would help any investigation. We, however, defend the privacy of our guests and attendants above all else. We will not disclose any information regarding a guest who is not a part of an investigation. We explained this to your Captain and she-"

"Wait," interrupted Gabriela, "Two things I wanna point out."

"Be my guest."

There were a few seconds of silence from her side before she spoke again. "First, you didn't ask for the tapes, or the copy. Did the Captain request them?"

Graham thought hard, but he did not remember ever asking for either, but he did remember that the Captain had sent him to the hotel in the first place.

"Yeah, I guess."

"And, they just said that they would not disclose information about anyone not on the investigation, correct?"

"Indeed, but-"

"Then why did they give you Mr. White's information? Was Mr. White part of the investigation at that point?"

"No," admitted Graham.

"Don't you find it a bit odd, then?"

A loud knock came from the other side, cutting her off.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. As I said, look into Mr. White. You will eventually find something interesting. Bye."

"Wait!" said Graham, but it was too late, she hung up.

'Don't you find it a little odd?' still resonated in his mind. Odd indeed.

He opened up the laptop again, opening up the folder labeled Henry White. He played the video.

Just as before, Henry gets out of the elevator, running towards the room. And just as the last time he saw the video, he saw him go back, with barely a minute difference. He played it again. And again. And again.

Why is he running? Asked Graham, trying to find a way to make sense of anything wrong. If he just came from below, where is his blazer?

He played it again. He began to notice brief differences in each part. When he came from the elevators, his shirt was untucked from the back. When he went to the elevators, his fly was open. There was something weird.

He played it once more and noticed a peculiar bug. Whenever the footage from the hallways changed from Henry going to the room to Henry going to the elevators, the camera would briefly fizzle. Less than half a second, but it was there. He played that moment over and over again, waiting for something to happen. And it did.

Just in the background, almost imperceptibly, the number plaque of one room changed from 902 to 1402. Because the transition from shot to shot was so seamless, he thought they were from the same floor.

Someone had tampered with the tapes.