The first time I met Carla “C.C.” Daines, she was laughing.
Loud, deep belly-laughing. The kind of laugh that filled the hallway and made heads turn. She was standing near the squad room door, leaning on one hip, retelling her favorite story—again. The one about the time her unmarked car got shot up during a surveillance gone wrong.
“I swear on my mama, the whole damn car lit up. Pow-pow-pow!” Carla mimed a drive-by with her fingers, complete with sound effects. “I didn’t even flinch. I was like, bring it on, bitch. Midtown Central don’t run.”
The young officers around her chuckled nervously. One clapped. Another leaned in, visibly trying to be part of the group.
I stood a few feet away, unseen. Or ignored. Probably both.
Carla’s eyes caught mine. She gave a crooked grin and said, “You’re the quiet one, huh? Dreamy eyes. New girl. You with us or with the ghosts?”
I didn’t know what that meant, so I just gave a small nod. Carla turned back to her audience, already onto the next exaggerated retelling.
Later, I learned the real story.
Carla had gone rogue during surveillance. Left her post. Chased after someone she thought was a gang member. Alone. Broke every protocol in the book. Got lost. Then got shot at in her car. She wasn’t hit, but the windows and doors were shredded.
She should’ve been reprimanded. Instead, she became a legend.
“She’s got juice,” someone whispered to me one day. “Drinks with the brass. Grew up with Rodriguez.”
Fred Rodriguez. My supervisor. The same man who’d later write me up.
It all unraveled the day the repo man came.
It had been a slow morning. I was catching up on reports when the man walked into the station, holding a yellow folder and a clipboard.
“Here for the Dodge Charger,” he said. “Tow yard said to bring paperwork here for release.”
I checked everything. VIN matched. Court order clean. The system showed nothing—no flags, no holds. I signed the release.
Three hours later, I got a call.
“You released a vehicle that was used in the commission of a rape,” Rodriguez said flatly, not looking up from his desk. “You know that?”
“What?” my blood froze. “There was no hold. Nothing came up in the system. I checked.”
“Well,” he said, sipping his coffee, “Carla’s not happy.”
Carla.
It turned out the Charger had been used in a sex crime three days earlier. Three days. But no one had entered it into the database as evidence. No hold. No tag. Nothing. It had just been sitting in the tow yard, forgotten.
And the detective assigned to that case?
Carla Daines.
I expected an apology. Or at least a clarification.
Instead, Rodriguez wrote me up.
“Chain of custody compromised,” he said with no expression. “Next time, triple-check.”
“But the system was clear,” I said. “It wasn’t my—”
He held up a hand.
“Carla says you should’ve known. Take it as a learning experience.”
Learn what?
Later that day, Carla strutted into the breakroom, grabbing a soda from the fridge. She passed me, gave me a wink, and whispered:
“Gotta stay sharp, Dream Girl. Midtown Central ain’t for the soft.”
Then she popped the soda open, tossed her braids over her shoulder, and walked off laughing.
Off duty, Carla and Rodriguez were inseparable—clinking glasses at bars, posing for selfies at weekend parties, and tagging each other in inside-joke captions on social media. The same officers who turned a blind eye to misconduct during the week were now broadcasting their loyalty to each other every Saturday night. There was no line between work and play, and the message was clear: protect your circle, and you’re untouchable.
I sat in silence, the chill of betrayal sinking deeper than my thought possible. No one spoke.
Another page in the story.
But the version being told wasn’t mine.
