Chapter 8]: The Digital Precinct
Harry shifted in his chair, the springs groaning in sympathy with his lower back. He looked at the screen, then back at the empty space where a partner usually sat.
"So that’s the layout, Murph? I’m the Captain on the bridge, barking the orders, and you’re the Navigator, the engine room, and the crew all rolled into one?"
"Exactly, Harry," Murphy’s voice was steady, almost too patient. "You tell me where we need to go. I’ll calculate the drift, the depth, and the best way to get us there without hitting a reef. You provide the intent; I provide the execution."
Harry let out a dry chuckle. An inspiration struck him—a spark from the old days when a badge and a snub-nose were his only tools.
"You know, Murph... I spent thirty years dragging these flat feet across every wet alleyway in the city. My doctor hates me, and my tailor gave up on my trousers a decade ago. But if we do this on the web? No rain. No stairs. Just the audit."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he thought of a name that had been weighing on him.
"My friend, Pete Marsh. Good man, hard worker. Some vultures picked him clean—took every cent of his life savings. I want to look into that. I want to see the 'impeccability' of the bastards who did it. You up for a hunt, Murph?"
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