Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 28: Best Served Cold
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 28: Best Served Cold - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Illustrated
At 7:30 on a clear Tuesday morning, the Yamato house in Lemon Hill was moving in its usual rhythm. Nothing chaotic, nothing dramatic—just the soft clatter of breakfast dishes, the smell of coffee, and the low hum of morning routine.
Lorraine Yamato—matriarch of the family—was at the stove, coaxing the last batch of eggs onto a plate. She still wore her robe and the same t-shirt she’d slept in. Her hair was pulled back, and there were small lines at the corners of her eyes now—time’s signature written gently across her face. She’d filled out a bit since she and Justin’s early days together; hips fuller, stomach softer, breasts beginning to surrender to gravity. But she still looked good to him. Real. Lived in.
Yamato had been a cop long enough to know what a bad marriage looked like, and his wasn’t one of them. Lorraine was steady. Smart. Funny in a quiet way. She’d raised their kids while he’d worked nights, days, evenings, weekends. She’d swallowed his mood swings, and never once complained about missed holidays. She didn’t ask about the job anymore—not because she didn’t care, but because she understood the line between curiosity and corrosion. Some things were better left unspoken.
He loved her for that. Hell, he loved her, period.
The sex had cooled, sure. Twice a month on a good stretch, maybe less when the schedule got stupid. She didn’t seem to need it anymore, and he didn’t hold it against her. They’d built too much life together to let that matter.
That’s why cops had chippies.
It wasn’t about betrayal; it was about balance. Survival. Someone to take the pressure off so home stayed peaceful. His latest chippie was a thirty-year-old teacher named Emily who’d smiled at him at a parent-teacher conference two years ago and hadn’t stopped since. She was easy, discreet, and asked nothing of him but what she gave in return. It worked. Lorraine had her peace; he had his outlet. The system worked because nobody pushed it too hard.
Courtney and Alex were at the table—fourteen and sixteen, bright, sarcastic, and close enough in age to argue without malice. Alex had a plate of eggs he was ignoring in favor of his phone. Courtney was dissecting her toast with a butter knife, making faces at her brother.
Lorraine set the plate in front of Alex. “Eat something that didn’t come out of a toaster.”
“I’m eating,” he said, scrolling.
“You’re typing.”
Courtney grinned. “He’s texting that girl again.”
Alex didn’t look up. “Mind your own business.”
“Kids,” Lorraine said mildly. “Please. Let’s pretend we’re a partially functional family.”
Yamato poured his coffee, leaned against the counter, and watched them. “You look functional to me,” he said.
Lorraine smiled over her shoulder. “Don’t ruin the illusion, Justin.”
The kids laughed. It was an easy moment—one of those quiet snapshots that made the job’s stress worth enduring.
“Who’s driving?” he asked.
“I am,” Alex said. “Traffic’s fine.”
“Then leave early,” Yamato said. “You won’t be fine if you’re late.”
Courtney gave him a mock salute. “Yes, Sergeant.”
He grinned. “Smartass.”
When they were done, Alex grabbed his keys and the two of them headed out, arguing about the stereo volume before they’d even reached the door.
Lorraine turned back to the sink, rinsing plates. “You heading in?”
“Right on time,” Yamato said. “The paperwork will start breeding by nine anyway.”
“That’s your polite way of saying you’d rather be anywhere but behind a desk.”
He smiled, stepped behind her, and kissed the side of her head. “You know me too well.”
“Someone has to. How much longer do you think you’ll have to stay a headhunter?”
He sighed. “They’re opening up the lieutenant’s exam in March,” he said. “My stint in IAD will look good on the resume. A good chance I’ll get selected.”
“Where will they send you?” she asked.
“The jail of course. Either the main jail or the branch jail down in Wheaton. Night commander. Then day commander. Then at least a year as a watch commander of a patrol shift before I can squirm back into a detective assignment.”
“And that’s better than just staying in IAD? Going back to the jail, the nightshift. Like when you first became a sergeant?”
Yamato thought about the shift he’d worked yesterday.
Among dozens of others, he had taken a complaint from a woman who claimed one of their deputies had “stolen her psychic energy” during a traffic stop. She’d wanted Yamato to order the department to reimburse her for “lost aura stabilization.”
Another caller a few hours later—a woman who said her profession was “empathic mood stabilizer”—insisted that a deputy’s K-9 “looked at me with hate in its eyes” and that this constituted a civil rights violation under the new inclusivity statutes. She also offered to help him get in touch with his dead mother. And Yamato’s mother was not even dead. She lived in South Heritage and came to visit on all the holidays and birthdays.
He didn’t need to think hard about the alternative. At least paperwork didn’t talk back.
“Yeah,” he told his wife. “It’s better.”
He lingered a second, breathing in the faint scent of soap and coffee, then stepped back.
Upstairs, he tucked in his department polo, strapped on his Glock, and clipped the gold badge with the SERGEANT rocker in front of it. The mirror showed the same lean face, the same sharp eyes, just more lines than there used to be. He gave the reflection a dry half-smile.
Downstairs again, Lorraine was wiping the counter. She looked up, gave him that small, familiar smile that said go be the cop so we can keep the life we have.
“Drive safe,” she said when he kissed her goodbye.
“Always.”
Yamato stepped out into the morning light, locked the door behind him, and headed for his old F-150. The air smelled like dampness and woodsmoke from a few fireplaces. He climbed in, started the engine, and rolled down the street toward another day as the chief headhunter.
He pulled into the county parking structure next door to the main sheriff’s building—a six-story concrete block that smelled like hot brakes and old oil spills. The executive parking lot, tucked neatly beneath the building, was for brass and dignitaries. Captains, Chief Deputies, a few politically insulated detectives who knew whose ass to kiss. Mere sergeants—even Internal Affairs ones—parked with the mortals.
The garage cost him a hundred dollars a month, deducted from his bank account like clockwork. The county didn’t reimburse it, and contrary to the hopeful mutterings of the older guys, the IRS hadn’t allowed work-commute deductions in years. It was just another line item in the personal budget of being a cop—somewhere between dry cleaning and shoe polish.
Security amounted to cameras that sometimes worked. No attendants. The gates were automated—fine for keeping unpaid vehicles out, useless for keeping people out. The theory was that the cameras were enough to keep the riffraff away, and mostly that was true. The garage had a reputation—cops came and went at all hours, all of them armed even off duty, most with low tolerance for bullshit. Word got around. The local dirtbags and homeless who haunted the downtown corridor gave the place a wide berth, choosing not to panhandle there, not to sleep there, not to even enter the structure.
Still, there were always a few stupid ones. That was a fact of life.
Over the years, maybe two dozen would-be robbers had tried their luck in this garage—jumping out of the shadows at what they thought were easy marks. Most were arrested at gunpoint by irritated cops who just wanted to go home. On three separate occasions, however, the robbers actually pulled guns and got shot for the effort. Two of those never made it to the hospital.
Yamato had read the reports on those incidents. He’d also heard the jokes in the locker room: If you’re dumb enough to pull a gun on an off-duty cop in a known cop parking garage, that’s just Mr. Darwin giving you a gentle tug out of the gene pool.
He parked his truck in his usual spot on the third level, killed the engine, and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel. The morning light slanted through the openings in long, sharp beams, striping the concrete. A pigeon strutted along the far rail, pecking at something that wasn’t food.
He stepped out and took a slow, deliberate look around—habit, not paranoia. The place looked clear. Just a mix of ordinary middle-class vehicles: sedans, compact SUVs, a few pickup trucks. Nothing on any of them to hint their owners carried guns and badges for a living. Cops were fanatics about that—no stickers, no decals, nothing that said look at what I am. A city maintenance guy was emptying a trash can near the stairwell, earbuds in, oblivious.
Yamato locked the truck, slipped his key fob into his pocket, and started toward the exit ramp. His footsteps echoed softly on the concrete. Somewhere above, a car alarm chirped and fell silent again. He breathed in the faint mix of exhaust and oil and city dust.
Another day in the ancient, cluttered old admin building. Another walk into the machine.
He hit the street a minute later, the jail squatting across the road like a massive gray tombstone, the admin building glinting beside it in the morning sun. He took a long sip of cooling coffee, squared his shoulders, and crossed toward the entrance.
He crossed the street, cut between two county sedans, and came up on the side door of the admin building. The front entrance—big glass lobby, metal detectors, and bored deputies with wands—was for the public. The side door was for people who actually worked there.
Yamato swiped his ID card—the plastic one clipped to his shirt—and the lock clicked open. Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and stale vending machine pastries. He liked using this door. It saved him the small talk and the ritual indignity of showing his badge and walking past the metal detector like he did in the courthouse.
Front-door duty was one of those light-duty purgatories reserved for injured deputies. It was technically an “administrative assignment,” but everyone knew it was punishment for getting hurt. You break your back chasing bad guys, and your reward is becoming a Walmart greeter with a gun.
Yamato had pulled three weeks of it himself five years ago after tweaking his back during a suspect interview. Robbery Division sergeant one day, part-time TSA agent the next. The irony wasn’t lost on him: he was far more likely to get hurt working the public entrance than sitting across from robbery victims or doing phone follow-ups.
The side door opened into a break room with beige tile and a perpetually humming soda machine. Next to it sat the old briefing room—still there for historical reasons, even though no patrol shifts had operated out of the main building since 1985 when the South Station opened. The room now mostly served as overflow storage and a quiet place for the admin staff to eat their lunch when they wanted to avoid the usual gossip.
Yamato made his way through the corridor toward the elevators, passing a few other early arrivals in plain clothes or department polos. Uniforms were rare here; the only people who still wore them were security guys and the occasional honor guard rehearsal.
The Big Sheriff himself wore one when he was doing PR work—community breakfasts, Rotary luncheons, photo ops with kindergarteners. There was a persistent rumor that his sidearm was unloaded because he hadn’t qualified in a decade, but Yamato didn’t buy it. The Sheriff was one of the good ones. Tried hard to balance politics with loyalty, and he still personally interviewed every new hire who made it through backgrounds before signing off on them.
Yamato stepped into the elevator, the stainless steel doors sliding shut on a tired hiss. Fourth floor. Backgrounds. Metro Division. Sex Crimes. Internal Affairs Division. The ride up was short and quiet.
When the doors opened, he turned left down the hallway and swiped into the IAD suite. The lights were half on, the way the motion sensors always left them overnight. Empty desks, stale air, and the faint tick of the wall clock.
He was the first one there.
Not surprising.
He hit the wall switch and the overhead fluorescents flickered to life with a tired buzz, washing the bullpen in flat white light. Four desks, three filing cabinets, and the eternal smell of old carpet and burnt toner—nothing glamorous about IAD.
He powered up his computer and crossed to the counter where the department’s ancient coffee maker sat. From the drawer he pulled his private stash—Peet’s Brazilian blend—and measured it into the filter. The red tub of Folgers sat beside it like an insult, waiting its turn for the second, inferior pot that always followed.
The good stuff wasn’t cheap, but one pot every morning for himself and his two detectives was a small price to pay for sanity. Two cups each if they didn’t overpour. After that, it was back to government issue.
He filled the carafe from the water cooler instead of the sink, hit the switch, and the aroma filled the room almost instantly—rich and dark, the smell of something far better than the job deserved.
Carrillo and Fischel came in a few minutes later, both dressed like him: khaki slacks, department polo, their sidearms and gold badges riding openly on their belts.
“Morning, Sarge,” Carrillo said as he set his gear down. He inhaled deeply. “Goddamn, that smells as good as wet pussy.”
Yamato didn’t look up. “You have a romantic way with words, Carrillo.”
Fischel grinned, already pouring himself a cup. “See, Sarge, that’s not an insult in his world. That’s high praise. You’ve reached the pinnacle of beverage achievement.”
Carrillo nodded solemnly. “You’ve got a gift. Some ancient Japanese Buddha coffee magic.”
Yamato turned, mug in hand. “I’m third-generation American,” he said. “I don’t speak Japanese, I don’t meditate, and there’s no Buddha involved. The secret is decent beans and using the water from the dispenser instead of that metallic crap from the sink.”
They both gave him looks of disbelief.
“Has to be more than that,” Carrillo said. “You probably chant something under your breath when it brews.”
“I chant about the cost,” Yamato said. “Peet’s isn’t free.”
They laughed, found their desks, and the morning settled in—screens booting, printers chirping.
Yamato poured his own cup, took the first sip, and let the warmth hit his system. He sat, logged in, and watched the gray desktop of county bureaucracy bloom to life.
Only seconds later, the phone rang.
Yamato let it go.
Fischel, sitting at his own desk, grabbed it. “Internal Affairs, Detective Fischel.” He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Yeah, hold up.” He hit the hold button and swiveled in his chair toward Yamato.
“It’s for you, Sarge,” he said. “Front desk.”
Yamato sighed and set down his cup.
Why was the front desk calling him? That was not a normal thing.
He picked up the phone and pushed the blinking button. “Yamato,” he said.
“Hey, Sarge,” said a female voice. “Biggers here.” Biggers was a patrol sergeant that had dislocated her patella during a foot chase. Now she was the sergeant in charge of the Walmart greeter detail for the next three weeks.
“How’s the knee, Biggers?” he asked her.
“I’m fine to go back to patrol,” she said bitterly, “but the fuckin’ occ health doctor won’t sign me off until I go to physical therapy for two weeks.”
“Typical,” Yamato said. “I bet that asshole has some kind of kickback scheme going with the PT place.”
“It never occurred to me that that was not happening,” Biggers said. “Anyway, there’s some 5150 chick out here demanding to see you. She showed up at seven and I’ve had her cooling her jets in the waiting room. Says it about ‘Watergate level corruption in your agency.’”
Yamato sighed. “Her name wouldn’t be Judith Linden, would it?”
“Yeah,” Biggers said. “You know her?”
“Unfortunately, we are acquainted. Can you have one of your peeps escort her up here?”
“You got it, Sarge,” Biggers said.
Yamato hung up the phone and set it back in its cradle. He took a long sip of coffee, then looked at his two detectives.
“Alright, boys,” he said, “I need you both to come over here when this whack-job gets here.”
Carrillo frowned. “What whack-job?”
“The one I just got the call about. Remember when I told you about the crazy bitch who’s got the hard-on for Dover and Winslow?”
Both detectives turned in unison.
Fischel’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, her. The psycho MILF?”
“The same.”
Fischel leaned back in his chair, grin forming. “I heard those two—Dover and Winslow—are fucking each other now.”
Yamato blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah,” Fischel said. “Word on the street is they’ve been doing the nasty. Couple of the guys from the north station said they heard it straight from the Northwood patrol cops that work with them.”
Carrillo snorted. “Bullshit. Winslow’s a canyon yodeler. I worked on her background when I was a new detective. She disclosed it right from the start and had zero swinging dicks in her life.”
“Exactly,” Yamato said. “She’s a lesbian. She made that pretty clear back when she was in the academy too.”
“Maybe Dover turned her,” Fischel said with mock solemnity. “The man’s got that mysterious outlaw vibe. Women love that shit.”
“Don’t let your wife hear you talk like that,” Carrillo said. “You’ll be living in your truck.”
Fischel shrugged. “I’ll just go stay with my chippie like the last time the old lady threw me out.”
Yamato shook his head, half amused, half exasperated. “Where exactly did you hear this? Give me a source so I can assign credibility—or throw it in the same pile as Bigfoot and chemtrails.”
“Like I said,” Fischel replied. “Northwood guys. One of them was down at the Chambers last week and said the word going around is Dover and Winslow got caught making out there—right in front of God and everyone. When someone called them on it, they just shrugged and said it was ‘roommate privileges.’”
Carrillo stared at him. “They were making out in the Chambers?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Jesus Christ,” Carrillo said. “You really believe that?”
Fischel shrugged. “Hey, rumors start somewhere. Supposedly when someone flat-out asked if they were banging, neither of them denied it. Just gave each other that little look.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it,” Carrillo said. “Winslow’s a clam diver. She’s not switching teams for Dover.”
“Maybe Dover’s her experiment,” Fischel said with mock seriousness. “Everyone’s got to try it once.”
Yamato shook his head. “You two ever notice how a story goes from a side hug to full-blown porn in about three retellings? There’s a reason detectives don’t work gossip cases.”
Carrillo grinned. “Still, if they’re pulling that kind of stunt in the Chambers, that’s legendary.”
“Legendary bullshit,” Yamato said flatly. “Nobody makes out in the fucking Chambers. That’s a fact of life.”
“That’s just what people are saying,” Fischel said, letting them know that he believed it with all his heart because it was kind of hot.
“Alright,” Yamato said. “Enough gossip hour. Nobody’s turning anybody, and I seriously doubt Dover’s sticking it to Winslow. They’re both too smart to dip their pens in that particular ink.”
Carrillo gave a little shrug. “It is a fun visual though.”
“Noted,” Yamato said dryly. “Now, back on topic. The crazy MILF herself is here, right now, and she’s on her way up.”
Carrillo groaned. “Why are we part of this circus? We’ve got that witness interview in the Smith case. You said we needed to roll on that first thing.”
Yamato leaned back, perfectly calm. “That shit can wait. The fuckin’ case is bullshit anyway. This is important shit. Shit that has to be heard to be believed. You’re gonna want to witness what is about to go down at this desk.”
“Why?” Fischel asked, suspicious.
“So that when I tell this story about my days in IAD once I get freed from this place, I’ll have credible eyewitnesses to refer to. Otherwise, no one will believe me.”
Carrillo chuckled. “Now that is a noble cause.”
“Exactly,” Yamato said. “So pull up a couple chairs and act like professionals. Nod wisely. Maybe jot a note or two so she thinks you’re engaged.”
Fischel rolled his chair closer to Yamato’s desk. “This is going to be good, isn’t it?”
“I don’t even know why she’s here this time,” Yamato said. “But it will be epic. I guarantee it.”
A moment later, the door opened.
Judith Linden stepped in, her posture as rigid as her hairstyle, escorted by Biggers herself—still in her soft knee brace and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
The room went still for half a second as the morning’s entertainment arrived.
Judith Linden looked exactly the way Yamato imagined she would—only worse in high definition.
She was attractive in the way expensive problems often were: late thirties, tight body, fake tits, dressed like a lifestyle blogger doing a segment on “Power Lunch Chic.” The hair was salon-perfect, the nails blood red, and the eyes—Jesus, the eyes. Sharp, bright, and already half unhinged.
I’d hit that, Yamato thought automatically, but I’d change my number before she woke up.
“Ms. Linden,” he said aloud, stepping forward with professional politeness. “Sergeant Justin Yamato, Internal Affairs. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
Judith smiled thinly, like she wasn’t sure if he meant that.
“This is Detective Carrillo,” Yamato continued, gesturing to his left, “and Detective Fischel. They’re going to sit in. They handle most of the field work when a complaint warrants it.”
Judith’s lips pursed. “You’re going to need more than just the two of them.”
Yamato raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“This isn’t about one or two bad apples,” she said, voice firm with missionary zeal. “This is systemic corruption. A complete collapse of transparency and ethics in your department. We’re talking misuse of public funds, falsified records, unauthorized surveillance—spying, Sergeant! Spying on the citizens you’re sworn to protect!”
Carrillo and Fischel exchanged a glance that hovered somewhere between fascination and holy shit.
Yamato gave a single, slow nod, like this all made perfect sense. “Alright. Why don’t you have a seat, Ms. Linden, and we’ll start at the beginning. You can walk me through everything.”
Judith sat, posture crisp, eyes bright and alive with the fervor of the recently converted. The detectives settled back in their chairs, expressions politely blank, coffee cups in hand.
Yamato sat across from her, pen poised over a legal pad he had no intention of writing much on.
“Okay,” he said evenly. “Let’s work through it from the top.”
Judith crossed her legs and leaned forward in the chair like she was about to deliver testimony before a grand jury.
“It’s about your deputies,” she began. “Deputy Dover and Deputy Winslow. I believe they’re ... having sex with each other.”
For a second, nobody said anything.
Yamato blinked once, then looked toward his detectives. Carrillo met his eyes. Fischel met Carrillo’s. Three professionals sharing one unspoken thought: possible independent corroboration of the rumor.
Yamato cleared his throat. “And ... uh ... what leads you to believe that, Ms. Linden?”
“I saw them,” she said, her voice rising a notch. “The other day. Outside their house. By the gas meter. They thought they were in a private place but I see all. Yes I do.”
“What did they do?” Yamato asked smoothly, all kinds of wild possibilities in his head.
“They kissed each other. On the lips.”
“Wow,” Fischel murmured, unable to stop himself.
Judith’s eyes flashed. “Exactly! You see? Even you’re shocked!”
“Something like that,” Fischel said under his breath.
Yamato gave him a small look that said shut up without words, then turned back to Judith.
“So,” he said evenly, “you saw Deputy Dover and Deputy Winslow kiss?”
“Yes.”
“Were they on duty at the time?”
“No. They were in civilian clothes. But that doesn’t matter.”
“It actually matters quite a bit,” Yamato said. “Department policy doesn’t govern off-duty personal relationships. Or kissing. Or full-on fornicating, as long as both parties are consenting adults.”
Judith recoiled slightly, like he’d just said a bad word in church. “You mean to tell me it’s acceptable for two unmarried deputies to engage in ... carnal relations ... with each other and remain employed?”
Yamato nodded slowly. “That’s generally how the Constitution works. Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness and all that. There’s no policy against deputies dating or sleeping together, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their work.”
Judith stared at him, aghast. “So you’re saying this is normal?”
“In the modern era, yes.”
She shook her head. “Unbelievable. No wonder this department is rotting from the inside.”
Carrillo hid a smile behind his coffee cup. Fischel coughed to cover a laugh.
Yamato leaned back in his chair, calm as stone. “So just to be clear,” he said, “the purpose of your visit today was to report that two off-duty deputies may have kissed.”
“They did kiss,” she corrected him sharply. “And if they’re kissing, they’re doing more than kissing.”
“Possibly,” Yamato said. “But again, that’s not really something Internal Affairs investigates. Unless it happens in uniform, in a patrol car, or during a shift, it’s not our business.”
Judith looked scandalized. “Then whose business is it?”
Yamato offered her a faint, polite smile. “Theirs.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the air vent and Fischel quietly whispering wow again.
Yamato took another sip of his coffee, hoping she was finished. “Is that all you came to discuss, Ms. Linden?”
“I just thought you needed to be aware of what kind of people you have working for you,” she said primly. “But no, that’s not why I’m here.”
Of course not, Yamato thought. That would be far too easy.
“I’m here,” Judith continued, “to report their illegal use of law enforcement resources to spy on a civilian.”
Yamato set his cup down. “That’s a pretty serious allegation, Ms. Linden. Why don’t you explain why you believe that?”
She straightened in her chair, drawing in a deep, theatrical breath. “Because I’ve seen the pattern. It started with the affair. Scott Dover and Samantha Belkin—everyone knows about that. The whole neighborhood knows that the two of them don’t just happen to like to run errands at the same time. At least not the kind of errands decent people run ... And then, when I began documenting it—purely as a matter of public concern, you understand—suddenly things started happening. I didn’t notice at the time—didn’t connect it anyway—but now that the meeting showed me what I’m actually dealing with, it all makes perfect sense.”
“It does?” Yamato asked. I seriously doubt it, but this should be good.
And it was.
“There were lights flashing outside my windows late at night,” Judith said. “Strange cars parked across the street. One of them even had one of those round things like an undercover vehicle. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
Carrillo raised his eyebrows slightly. Fischel pretended to jot notes.
Yamato kept his voice neutral. “You think Deputies Dover and Winslow were following you?”
“I know they were following me,” Judith said. “Tracking my every move. They have access to resources. They could find out what time I leave for work, where I shop, even what medications I take. And then there was my web browser.”
“Your web browser?” Yamato asked.
“I started getting ads for therapy,” she said, eyes wide. “Therapy and antidepressants. Things I never signed up for. That’s not coincidence, Sergeant. That’s targeted messaging. Subliminal advertising! They probably tapped into the databases that the county uses for public health referrals.”
Fischel shot Carrillo a look that said holy shit, she’s serious.
Yamato nodded slowly, scribbling a single meaningless squiggle on his notepad. “You think they hacked a county medical system to send you therapy ads?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “And that’s only the beginning. They’ve manipulated traffic enforcement too. Every time I drive past that speed trailer on Heritage Parkway, it flashes 31 no matter what speed I’m going. I checked with a friend who’s an engineer—he said that’s impossible. It’s calibration. They did that to harass me.”
Carrillo coughed into his coffee. “The ... speed trailer.”