Page 19 of When You’re Broken (Finn Wright #11)

Finn stood at the evidence board in the Hertfordshire Constabulary’s main briefing room, absently tapping a pen against his palm.

On the cork surface hung photographs of crime scenes, pinned maps with roughly scribbled notes, and a web of pinned string connecting possible locations.

The chaotic arrangement mirrored the swirl of tension Finn felt inside.

He’d been staring at this board for the better part of an hour, trying to see if anything new jumped out, but his mind kept drifting back to the morning’s arguments and the friction he couldn’t shake.

Behind him, Detective Clint flipped through thick folders brimming with interviews and suspect lists, occasionally shaking his head with mild frustration. A tall, lean figure, Clint wore a perpetually focused expression, brows furrowed as if always searching for a missed clue.

Across the table from Clint, Amelia sat, posture rigid, eyes fixed on a laptop screen.

The hush of her presence pressed on Finn.

He couldn't forget the tense atmosphere between them—he'd suggested she leave the country for her own safety, and she'd reacted with anger and hurt.

Now, as the day wore into evening, her silence felt like another barbed reminder that she was upset with him.

Exhaling quietly, Finn turned from the evidence board to face the room. The large overhead fluorescents reflected on the polished floor, while sunlight struggled through the tall windows. A pair of constables walked by in the hallway, their voices echoing faintly in the corridor.

Finn tried to break the tension. “Anyone need coffee?” His words sliced into the hush. “I can run to the machine.”

Clint offered a small smile, shaking his head. “No thanks, I’m good.”

Amelia’s gaze flicked toward Finn—briefly, without warmth. “I’m fine too.” Then she returned to scanning the text on her screen, tapping out a few notes with terse keystrokes. She didn’t meet Finn’s eyes, her posture upright in that quietly furious way that told him she still simmered with anger.

Biting back a sigh, he set his pen down. “All right,” he said softly, trying not to sound crestfallen. “I’ll take a quick breather, then.” He left the briefing room, feeling the subtle weight of an unresolved conversation trailing behind him.

In the corridor, the dull hum of air conditioning wrapped around him.

He paused by a row of vending machines, scanning the meager offerings of stale chocolate bars and bottled water.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to pick anything.

Instead, he closed his eyes, letting the low buzz of conversation from distant offices wash over him.

Before he could fully gather his composure, footsteps approached from around the corner. Inspector McNeill emerged, posture stiff as he clutched a ring-bound folder under one arm. The older man’s gaze locked onto Finn with a flicker of surprise, then narrowed. “Wright,” he greeted, voice neutral.

“Inspector,” Finn replied, summoning polite calm.

McNeill paused, as if deciding whether to continue. He settled on a faint attempt at cordiality. “Have you found anything new about Wendell Reed since this morning’s discovery?”

Finn shook his head. "Not yet. We're re-checking old files, checking CCTV around Harlin's bar. So far, no game-changer. Amelia, Clint, and I are in the briefing room." He kept his voice even though he recognized the tension taut between them.

McNeill nodded, glancing down the hall. "I see.

" He seemed about to leave, then turned back, something sharper in his expression.

"Look, I know you and Amelia are… strong-willed," he began.

"One of my constables said you had some sort of bust-up with each other at the scene this morning.

But I trust you're not letting personal drama hamper the investigation? "

A spark of frustration flared in Finn. “Our personal issues have nothing to do with how we handle this case, Inspector,” he said, controlling the edge in his voice. “We want to stop Wendell just as much as you do.”

McNeill exhaled. “You must know, if you look at this objectively, how dangerous it is to have Amelia involved on the team. It’s why I never...”

Finn felt the last of his self-restraint slip. “You keep bringing up how you ‘never wanted her on the team.’ You talk about it like it’s an inconvenience. She’s a skilled detective. She’s also risking her life. If you’d show a little empathy or respect—”

McNeill’s jaw tightened. “Don’t presume I haven’t noticed her skill.

But I also see how every new kill stabs at her psyche, making her worry her brother has suffered the same fate.

She’s compromised, and so are you. You two run off on your own leads—like the children’s home fiasco.

That’s exactly the kind of risk that can get you both killed or hamper the case. ”

Finn clenched his fists, keeping them at his sides.

“I don’t like how you treat her, plain and simple.

And I don’t like how you dismiss me, either.

But this isn’t about personal likes. We’re in the middle of a manhunt.

Maybe we can try to see each other as allies, or at least not sabotage each other. ”

McNeill’s eyes flashed. “I’m not sabotaging anyone. I just don’t want another fiasco. Wendell kills people systematically, and we can’t afford misguided heroics.”

Finn forced calm into his voice. “I’m not the hero type, Inspector. I just want to find Wendell and keep Amelia safe.”

McNeill’s tone softened marginally, as if conceding the point. “We all want him stopped. Let’s focus on that, then.”

He started to step away, but Finn caught him with a final remark. “Just so we’re clear: Amelia’s one of the best detectives you’ve got. Don’t treat her like a burden.”

McNeill glanced back, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “If it helps catch Wendell, I’ll swallow my pride. But watch her. She’s a target, and you know it.”

Finn stood there a moment, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. Better than punching each other, I guess. Sucking in a breath, he headed back to the briefing room. As he entered, he found McNeill already striding in behind him, that folder still tucked under his arm.

Amelia and Clint looked up. Amelia’s glance lingered on Finn for a second, as if scanning his face to gauge the tension. Clint had paused mid-sentence, a printout in hand.

“Well,” McNeill said briskly, “any developments?”

Clint shook his head. “Not so far, sir. I’m re-checking older statements. Amelia’s scanning the phone and email records of the bar owner at Harlin’s, but nothing that suggests Wendell was in touch with him before his murder.”

McNeill grunted, placing his folder on a corner of the large table. “I have a team running face recognition software across local station CCTVs. If Wendell is wandering about, we’d see him. So far, zero sightings. Typical. The man’s cunning enough to avoid big cameras.”

Amelia spoke up quietly, but with conviction. “He’s too clever for that, as I said. He either stays off the radar or uses disguises. He’s not the type to walk brazenly into a city center unless he’s orchestrating a kill.”

McNeill’s expression briefly hardened, but he didn’t argue.

A hush settled. The overhead lights hummed quietly, and from the corridor came faint conversation. Clint jotted a note, then looked at them. “Any other angle? We’ve flagged associates of Kelvin Street, the bar owner’s contacts… but that’s all local dead ends so far. We’ll keep pushing.”

McNeill exhaled, rapping his knuckles on the table.

“All right. We keep the search wide. Meanwhile, you—” He hesitated, as if about to point at Amelia, then changed his approach.

“All of you—keep me in the loop if anything shifts. Right now, we’re short on direct trails.

We rely on sifting every scrap of data. Let’s get to it. ”

Before Amelia or Finn could reply, Finn’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. The caller ID read “Director Seward.” FBI? Surprised, he quickly excused himself from the table, stepping to the side. “I’ve gotta take this,” he murmured.

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Director Seward! Good to hear from you. Everything okay?”

A warm chuckle resonated from the speaker. “All good stateside, Finn. I got your message about the Wendell Reed fiasco. Figured I’d see if we can help from across the pond. I put one of my best on it.”

Finn felt a grin tug at his lips, ignoring McNeill’s watchful stare. “That means a lot, sir. I appreciate your time. Wendell’s tricky. He’s leaving a trail of bodies.”

Seward’s voice grew serious. “Yes, I read the background. Now, we picked up chatter. It involved a man named Harry Renfield—gun runner, ID forge, that sort of thing. FBI had eyes on him in a fentanyl smuggling ring, even though he’s based in the UK.

Word is Renfield told an informer that Reed contacted him about a week ago. Then Renfield vanished.”

Finn’s grin faded into concentration. “Vanished? As in, no trace?”

“Exactly. The ring’s upset—they think he took money and ran.

But we suspect Reed might have gotten rid of Renfield after getting what he needed—guns, passports, that kind of contraband.

So, it’s possible Wendell’s traveling under a false identity or armed with new weaponry. At least that’s our guess.”

Finn processed the information, adrenaline stirring.

“That’s big. Wendell had given a gun to an accomplice, and we had no clue how Wendell was acquiring arms or forging documents.

This ties him to Renfield. Maybe Renfield’s missing because Wendell dealt with him the same way he deals with everyone who no longer serves a purpose. ”

“Precisely.” Seward paused. “We can’t confirm it yet. But keep your eyes open. If we hear more from our side, I’ll let you know. And you do the same. I might even fly to the UK soon, see how my old subordinate is handling things working with UK cops.” His tone held a teasing warmth.

Finn laughed. “I’d love that, sir. I can show you the best pubs—if you’re not still a lightweight.”

Seward laughed lightly. “You do that. Good luck, Finn. Don’t hesitate to reach out.”

They ended the call. Finn drew in a deep breath, excitement tempered by the usual dread. Finally, a new thread. He moved back to the table where McNeill, Amelia, and Clint were waiting. Their expressions signaled curiosity.

Finn relayed the conversation: “Director Seward from the FBI—my old mentor—just found some intel. Seems Wendell got in touch with a known gun runner and identity fraud specialist, Harry Renfield. Renfield’s apparently gone missing, rumored to have run off with money involved with a drug smuggling ring.

But it’s more likely Wendell used him and disposed of him.

The ring’s furious, so presumably no one’s found him. ”

Amelia perked up, an edge of relief in her eyes at something new. “So if he’s got a gun, that’ll be how. He’s probably traveling under an alias, maybe armed.”

Clint leaned forward. “If Renfield is missing, we can comb his known associates. Might find a clue—maybe an old stash house or a safe spot. Wendell could hide there, or used it for the transaction.”

Finn nodded, aware of McNeill’s thoughtful stare. “We have zero leads on where Wendell’s physically operating and holding Brendan, but if Renfield has met up with him at some point, it could point us in that direction.”

McNeill pressed his lips together, as if reluctant to concede the point. Then he spoke curtly. “All right, we check Renfield’s known network. The National Crime Database might have flagged him or his associates. Let’s see what we have on record.”

Without waiting for a nod from the group, Amelia spun her laptop around, tapping at the keyboard.

“Renfield… searching now.” She muttered low, reading lines off the screen.

“Yes, here—he’s in the system for ID forging charges a few years back.

He also has connections to arms dealing, as Seward said.

No known current address. But he does have connected associates.

One name stands out as a listed contact: a business manager named Lewis Smeaton.

Possibly laundered money for him or handled finances. He’s on a watch list with Mi5.”

McNeill grunted. “Then we talk to Smeaton. He might have a clue about Renfield’s last known location. Let’s see if we can press him.”

Clint chimed in, “I can run Smeaton’s name for an address or current employment.” He jotted a note, then checked the database. “Yes, we have a local business address on file. Looks like he’s a bigger deal than we thought.”

McNeill flicked a glance at Amelia, then Finn. He looked ready to object but ended up sighing. “Good. Investigate. Just keep me in the loop. If you find anything that might lead to Wendell, you call in backup—no hero stunts, you hear me?”

Amelia’s jaw tensed, but she nodded. “Understood. We’ll notify you if we get anything substantial.”

McNeill briefly narrowed his eyes, then waved them off. “Just let us know what you find. We can’t afford more casualties.”

Finn exhaled, a small sense of victory at getting the approval—albeit reluctant. He turned to Amelia with the faintest of smiles. “Well, looks like we have a business meeting to attend. Should I wear a suit and tie?”