The Last Call

The neon lights outside Charlie’s Bar flickered erratically, casting strange shadows onto the pavement. Inside, the place was nearly empty, save for a few regulars nursing their drinks. It was a slow Wednesday night—the kind where secrets had space to breathe.

Detective Jake Monroe pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, scanning the room. At the far end of the bar, sitting alone, was Scott Harmon—the bartender who had called in the crime.

“You the one who found her?” Monroe asked as he slid onto a stool.

Scott nodded grimly, wiping his hands on his apron. “She was in the alley behind the bar. I—I didn’t know what to do except call the cops.”

The victim, Rachel Keller, had been a frequent customer. Young, ambitious, always deep in conversation about something—until tonight. Tonight, she was lying in that alley, her purse untouched, her phone shattered beside her.

“Did she seem nervous earlier?” Monroe asked.

Scott hesitated. “She was waiting for someone. Kept checking her watch. Looked…anxious.”

That was enough to start.

Monroe pulled out his notebook. “Did you see who she was meeting?”

“No. But she got a text, then walked outside. That was the last I saw her.”

The message on her phone had been deleted, but the tech guys could recover it. For now, Monroe needed a lead.

By morning, the detectives had something solid: Rachel’s text had come from a burner phone. But the last known number she had called belonged to a well-known defense attorney—Darren Caldwell.

Monroe didn’t waste time. Caldwell’s office was sleek, cold—too clean for a man who had spent years defending people with dirty money.

“Detective Monroe,” Caldwell greeted smoothly, barely looking up from his files. “What can I do for you?”

“Rachel Keller,” Monroe said. “You spoke to her last night.”

Caldwell leaned back. “I did. She was looking for advice.”

“Legal advice?”

“You could say that. She claimed she had evidence against a very dangerous man—someone she believed had killed before.”

Monroe’s pulse quickened. “Who?”

Caldwell didn’t hesitate. “Martin Briggs.”

That name hit hard. Briggs was untouchable—a crime boss who had evaded justice for years.

“Rachel had proof,” Caldwell continued. “She was scared. Said she needed protection.”

The case exploded from there.

Briggs had been in the same neighborhood that night. Surveillance placed him just blocks away from Charlie’s Bar, minutes before Rachel was found dead.

But there was one problem—no physical evidence. No fingerprints, no weapon, no direct link.

Then Monroe had a thought: Rachel was smart. If she was onto Briggs, she wouldn’t carry the proof on her. She’d hide it.

A search of her apartment proved him right. Inside her closet, stuffed in an old shoebox, was a USB drive. The contents? Bank transactions, recorded conversations—everything tying Briggs to a murder-for-hire operation.

Briggs was arrested within days.

And Monroe? He raised a glass at Charlie’s Bar, staring at the flickering neon sign. Justice had been served—but he knew, in the quiet shadows of the city, another crime was already brewing.