Echoes of the Last Call: (Part Two: The Web)

Detective Michael Carter stared at the city skyline from his Brooklyn apartment, the rain blurring the glow of Manhattan’s towers. Somewhere across that bridge, Elena Rossi’s life hung in the balance. The journal had drawn a straight line to Vincent Moretti, yet the system wrapped itself around him like armor.

Michael poured two fingers of whiskey into a chipped glass and let the burn settle in his chest. He thought of Sophia Delgado’s lifeless face in the morgue, another casualty in a city that chewed through women like currency. The thought of Elena ending up the same gnawed at him. He couldn’t let that happen.

The knock on his door startled him. It was Sarah Mitchell, hair plastered by the rain, eyes sharp as ever.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said, stepping inside.

“Just one,” he muttered.

“Good, because we’ve got a problem.”

She tossed a manila folder onto his coffee table. Inside were photos from traffic cameras. At 1:50 a.m. seven minutes after Elena’s call, Moretti’s Lexus was spotted heading toward the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Hours later, the car was seen again near his penthouse.

“They cleaned the vehicle,” Sarah said. “Not a drop of blood, not a print. But forensics pulled fibers from the seat cushions. Matches Elena’s scarf.”

Michael’s pulse quickened. “That’s enough for a warrant.”

Sarah’s silence was heavy.

“What?” he pressed.

She sighed. “The DA won’t touch it. Says we don’t have probable cause.”

Michael slammed his glass down, whiskey splashing onto the table. “She’s out there, Sarah. She’s out there and they’re letting him get away with it.”

Sarah’s voice softened. “Then maybe we don’t wait for the DA.”

The following night, they staked out The Gilded Room. The club pulsed with neon and bass, models and moguls spilling through its velvet ropes. Michael and Sarah waited in an unmarked sedan across the street, coffee growing cold in their hands.

Just after midnight, Moretti arrived. Navy suit again, hair slicked back, confidence dripping from every step. But he wasn’t alone.

Walking beside him was Councilman David Kessler, a rising star in city politics, his smile polished for campaign posters.

Michael cursed under his breath. “That’s why the DA won’t touch him. He’s got half of City Hall in his pocket.”

Sarah leaned forward, watching the two men disappear into the club. “If Elena knew about this, it explains why she was silenced. She wasn’t just a hostess. She was a liability.”

Michael’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. He hated politics more than bullets. At least bullets were honest.

Inside The Gilded Room, Elena Rossi’s name still lingered. Bartenders remembered her laughter; waitresses remembered her kindness. But they also remembered the arguments. One bouncer recalled Moretti shouting at her two weeks ago, dragging her into a back room where the music drowned out the sound of her crying.

Michael listened carefully, jotting notes. Sarah pressed harder, slipping photos of Sophia Delgado onto the bar. The staff went pale. No one wanted to talk. Fear was thick in the air.

It was the DJ who finally broke. A skinny kid with anxious eyes pulled Michael aside.

“Elena was trying to get out,” he whispered. “She told me she had evidence. Bank accounts, offshore stuff, names. She was going to sell it to a journalist.”

Michael’s heart thumped. “What journalist?”

The DJ glanced around nervously. “Emilio Vargas. New York Ledger. She trusted him.”

By morning, Michael and Sarah were sitting across from Emilio Vargas in a Midtown diner. The journalist was gaunt, with nicotine-stained fingers and eyes that darted like a hunted animal.

“Elena came to me,” he admitted, voice low. “Said she had enough dirt to bury Moretti and half the city with him. But she got spooked. She canceled our last meeting, said someone was following her. Then she vanished.”

“Do you still have what she gave you?” Sarah asked.

Vargas shook his head. “She never handed anything over. Just promised she would. But if she’s gone, that evidence is gone too.”

Michael studied him. “Or someone already has it.”

Two nights later, Michael found himself walking the East River under flickering streetlamps. His phone buzzed. Unknown number again.

“Detective Carter,” a distorted voice said, “if you value your life, stop looking for Elena Rossi. She’s gone. Accept it.”

Michael gritted his teeth. “Who is this?”

The voice chuckled coldly. “Think of her as a lesson. Some truths are too dangerous to chase.”

The line cut.

Michael’s knuckles whitened around his phone. This wasn’t just a case anymore. It was personal.

Sarah was waiting for him back at the precinct with new intel. “Guess what I pulled from DMV records? Moretti’s Lexus wasn’t the only vehicle at the pier that night. A black Escalade, tinted windows. Registered to a shell company.”

Michael frowned. “And who owns the shell?”

She slid the paper across his desk. The name hit him like a brick.

“Councilman David Kessler.”

The puzzle pieces clicked painfully together. Moretti wasn’t working alone. The politician was tied to it all, the money laundering, the threats, maybe even the murders.

But accusing a councilman without proof was career suicide.

Michael stared at the paper, then at Sarah. “We need that evidence Elena was hiding. It’s the only way.”

The break came unexpectedly.

An anonymous tip directed them to a storage unit in Queens. The lock had been broken recently, the air thick with dust and neglect. Inside were boxes of ledgers, receipts, and hard drives.

Sarah opened one box and froze. “Michael… this is it.”

Bank records. Offshore accounts. Wire transfers. Enough to ruin men like Moretti and Kessler.

But there was more. A blood-stained scarf. Elena’s scarf.

Michael’s stomach sank. “She was here.”

Sarah touched his arm gently. “Then maybe she still is. Somewhere.”

The celebration was short-lived.

That night, Michael returned home to find his apartment door ajar. Inside, drawers were overturned, papers scattered. And on his kitchen counter, a single photograph lay waiting.

It was a picture of Elena, bound to a chair, eyes wide with terror. A newspaper was propped beside her, yesterday’s date.

Michael’s blood ran cold. She was alive.

But beneath the photo, scrawled in red ink, were the words: STOP OR SHE DIES.

The next morning, Michael paced the precinct, fury boiling. Sarah tried to steady him.

“They’re watching us,” she said. “They know every move we make. If we charge in blind, she’s dead.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “So what do we do? Sit on our hands while they torture her?”

Sarah didn’t answer. The silence was heavier than any words.

Later that evening, Michael received another call. This time, the voice was clear. Vincent Moretti.

“Detective,” he drawled, “I believe you have something of mine. Boxes, files, things that don’t concern you. Bring them to Pier 17 tomorrow night. Come alone. Do that, and maybe your pretty little friend walks away alive.”

Michael’s breath caught. Pretty little friend. Elena.

“You hurt her and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Moretti interrupted, his tone amused. “You’ll shoot me? Arrest me? Please. This city belongs to men like me. But I’ll give you a chance, Carter. Tomorrow night. Midnight. Come without your partner. Or she dies screaming.”

The line went dead.

Michael stood there in the dim glow of his office, the city buzzing outside the window. His reflection stared back at him, haunted.

Sarah entered quietly. “What did he say?”

Michael’s throat tightened. He thought of telling her everything, the threat, the demand, the impossible choice. But if he brought her in, Moretti might kill Elena anyway.

So he lied. “Nothing useful.”

Sarah studied him carefully. “Michael don’t shut me out. Not now.”

He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I won’t.”

But inside, his decision was already made. Tomorrow night, at Pier 17, he would face Moretti alone.

Because sometimes, the only way to save someone is to risk losing everything.

-Click for Part 3-