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T he moment Anna Palmer saw the screenshot of the data they’d compiled, her jaw tightened, her gaze darted around, then abruptly she ordered them to follow her. Dutifully, she and Simon trailed the reporter for a couple of blocks before turning onto a narrow lane. Juliana didn’t recognize the area, but Anna Palmer was a San Francisco native; chances were, she knew exactly where to take them to talk. A conversation that couldn’t—or shouldn’t—be held on the street.

“Here,” Ms. Palmer said, pushing on a heavy wood door lacquered in thick black paint. It had no markings or way to see through to what lay inside. Having encountered enough unknown situations in the past few days, Juliana hesitated.

Simon nodded to the small plaque screwed to the wall. “Omar’s Tea and Social.” She was pretty sure she’d never find this place on Google, but the sign, and her own sense of adventure, urged her in.

The door swung open and a small room, no more than twenty feet by twenty feet, sat at the bottom of two steps. In the back, a counter stretched half the width of the space, and behind that, a narrow window that led, presumably, to a kitchen. Beige vinyl flooring, stained with age and the scuff of thousands of shoes, covered the floor, but the tables, all five of them, and the chairs looked clean and sturdy. A chessboard sat on one and a box of mahjong tiles on another.

A tall, thin Black man ducked through a door in the back and eyed them. He was old enough to have wrinkles, but beyond that, Juliana wouldn’t hazard a guess as to his age.

“Omar,” Ms. Palmer said. “You have any of that sweet potato cheesecake left?”

His gaze flickered to her and Simon before returning to the reporter. “No, but I got peach cobbler pound cake. You want sweet tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” she said, apparently answering for all of them.

The reporter nodded to a table on their left, and Juliana almost laughed at the way her two companions jockeyed to face the door. In the end, Simon won, and after pulling out a chair for her, he took the seat at her side. Ms. Palmer sat across from them.

“Omar has the best desserts in the city, but he’d appreciate it if you don’t blab about it. He has no interest in becoming the next big thing for young hipsters who want a story about slumming it to find the ultimate red velvet cake. His father started the place fifty years ago and the current Omar has been running it for the past twenty. He just wants to serve his community.”

A warning—a nicely worded one, but a warning nonetheless.

“I’m not on social media,” she said. “And you have my word we won’t say anything.” Simon nodded his agreement.

Ms. Palmer eyed them. Then coming to some conclusion, she nodded as Omar walked out carrying a tray filled with plates and mugs. The sweet scent of fresh peaches, coupled with spices, maybe cinnamon or nutmeg, wafted toward her, making her stomach growl.

She picked up her fork but froze when Ms. Palmer spoke. “You have an interest in Gregor. I’m guessing Lowery and Polinsky, too, since they’re peas in a pod.”

Juliana set her fork down. Simon’s hand came to rest on the back of her neck.

Over the next ten minutes, she relayed the conversation she’d overheard as Anna (which they’d been directed to call her) peppered her with questions.

When Juliana finished the retelling, Anna sat back, her cake gone but her coffee in hand. “Eat the cake,” she ordered, although her mind appeared to be in a thousand other places.

Juliana glanced at Simon. “It’s really good,” he said with a ghost of a smile.

She’d lost her appetite, but she could pick. And pick she did. While tiny bites made their way into her body, Anna remained silent, one arm crossed over her chest, the other holding her coffee. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at something in the far corner of the café.

When Juliana finished the cake (which grew easier with each bite, because holy fuck was Simon right) and pushed the plate away, Anna’s gaze zeroed in on her.

“So what’s your plan now?” she asked.

Juliana blinked. “Um, keep digging, I guess. Research is sort of my thing.”

Anna switched her gaze to Simon. “You know she’s in danger, right?”

“ I know I’m in danger,” she interjected, annoyed that the reporter would look to Simon when it came to the subject of risk and protection. I mean, sure, he didn’t look like someone people would want to tussle with—not in his jeans, boots, and cut—but still…

“Two men followed me to Mystery Lake. Well, they didn’t physically follow me there, but we think Lowery grabbed my plate number. It would be an easy thing for his partner in crime to find my address with that,” Juliana said.

Anna studied her with weirdly watery blue eyes that were somehow also sharp. “That is unfortunate,” she said.

“We have guys watching them. One of them broke into her house this morning and planted listening devices and cameras,” Simon added.

Anna frowned. “I would have expected them to just kill you. Set a bomb or something like that. Devices like cameras can be found and traced.”

Juliana thought a bomb could be traceable, too, but Anna did have a point. What were they hoping to learn with cameras and listening devices?

“Maybe they haven’t escalated to killing and it’s a step they aren’t willing to take yet?” she suggested.

Anna arched a thin brow. “The drugs that Polinsky’s people let out on the street have killed four people. One was a kid. I wouldn’t go around attributing any morality to them.”

“So construction sites are being used for deals?” Simon said. Anna nodded, confirming their assumption. “Which is why we’re seeing an increase in petty crime in the areas. It’s collateral to the main crime.”

Again, she nodded. “I started looking into the drugs when the family of the kid, a fifteen-year-old girl, came to me. I’ve known them a long time—the parents went to school with my nephew. I agreed to look into it because what else would I say to grieving parents? I didn’t expect to find anything.” She paused and sipped her coffee. “I traced the drug—which the girl was exposed to at a party—to a dealer in Outer Sunset. I kept an eye on him and after about six weeks, I realized most of the deals with his supplier were taking place at construction sites.”

“Which led you to Gregor,” Simon said.

She nodded. “From there, I followed the money to Polinsky. It was chance that I saw Polinsky and Lowery talking one day. Arguing, really. It isn’t unusual to see politicians and police talking, but the argument caught my attention and the one word I heard: Lomas.”

“What’s Lomas?” Juliana asked.

“A small area near Pine Lake Park that recently opened up for development. I’d already figured out that Polinsky had his people turning a blind eye to the deals, but talking with a supervisor about development?—”

“When all the deals were happening at construction sites,” Juliana said, the image crystallizing in her head.

Anna inclined her head and set her empty coffee mug down. “Exactly. So I started looking into Lowery as well. They served together. If you’re wondering about their connection.”

Juliana glanced at Simon. “We were wondering. We reached out to contacts last night. We haven’t heard back yet, but thanks for confirming,” he said.

“You army?” she asked Simon.

“Former.”

“I’d guess Green Beret?”

“Delta, but that life is behind me.”

Anna gave him a look that communicated her doubt. “I know about the Falcons,” she said. “My friend Sheri runs the Rosie Riders.”

Simon turned to her. “Female motorcycle club based out of Portland, Oregon. They…work with us sometimes,” he explained. On helping people escape abusive relationships, he left unsaid but not unheard.

“Sheri’s great. Lula is even better, but if you tell either of them what I said, you’ll regret it,” Simon said.

Anna’s lips twitched. “Lula is Sheri’s daughter,” she said to Juliana. “That girl is either going to jail or will run the country. Not that the two are mutually exclusive these days. So once you have your research, what’s your plan?”

Simon remained silent, considering the question. Juliana grimaced. “Hand it over to you and let you figure out what to do with it.”

Anna gave a low laugh. Or so Juliana thought. Whatever it was sounded like a rusty screw being pried out of tin. “You’re in this now, Ms. Morgan.”

“Morganstern,” Juliana corrected, although the second she said it, she knew Anna’s mistake hadn’t been a mistake at all. She glanced at Simon, who stared at the opposite wall in thought about something.

“I suppose we’ll hand the info over to law enforcement. Not the police, though,” she continued. “I work at the presidential library. I don’t run in the same circles as the Secret Service, but I might be able to find a contact to give the information to.”

“We have plenty of contacts with the FBI,” Simon said, bringing his attention back to the conversation. “The Falcons have worked with a few, but Charley’s cousin is former FBI. We’ll go to him, we trust him.”

“Which one?” Juliana asked. She didn’t know any of the Warwicks well enough—or really at all—to know their backgrounds.

“Chad, the oldest,” Simon answered. “I’ve never met her, but I’ve heard his wife is well connected in that world, too.”

Anna studied them, then nodded. “That’s a better plan than handing it over to me. My usual FBI contacts aren’t so fond of me right now. There’s the little issue of me exposing their corruption and general fuckery during the Rosenblum case. They’ll get over it. They always do. But if I were to take them something, they might sit on it longer than I’d like.”

“And let it continue? Just because you pissed them off?” Juliana asked. She probably sounded like a naive fool, but she had a vague overarching faith in the concept of the justice system. Then again, if the past few years had shown the world nothing else, it was that justice was indeed not blind.

“They’re good people. They’d sit on it, but not for long,” Anna said. Silence fell over the table, then Anna leaned forward and pulled something out of her back pocket. “My card. Keep in touch and if I hear anything that might be useful, I’ll pass it along.”

Juliana nodded as Simon took the card and slid it into the pocket of his leather jacket. “You know how to reach us?” he asked.

Anna snorted as she rose. “I’m a reporter. If I can’t figure that out, we’re in trouble.”

They watched her leave. As the door shut behind her, Omar set the check down on the Formica table.

“That was oddly…uneventful,” she said when Omar walked away. “One might say, even dissatisfying.”

“She wasn’t going to sweep in and take the matter off our hands,” he said with a smile.

Juliana huffed. “I know. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hoping otherwise.”

“I’m glad we met her, though. It doesn’t feel like it did much good, but it did.” Juliana raised a brow, and he continued. “She’s a seasoned reporter who’s seen—and uncovered—a lot of shit in her career. We confirmed we’re on the right track. We may not know how we’ll reach the end destination, but we’re going the right way.”

She considered that perspective and had to give Simon credit—it might be a slightly optimistic perspective on the conversation, but it wasn’t wrong. Anna had been working on the story for a long time. She wouldn’t have invested in it unless there was something there. If nothing else, she validated their take on the situation.

“Is that all we got from the conversation?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We learned we have an ally. And never underestimate a good ally.”