As Graham slowly crawled through the Monday morning traffic, his hand idly tapped the screen of his smartphone. A million things crossed his mind simultaneously, and he was restless and uncomfortable in his own skin. Nothing seemed to add up anymore.

It had been Dara who pushed Henry out of the spotlight and jammed in William instead. Or was it him that did it? He was going to search William's apartment anyway, but that supposedly anonymous phone call Dara received pushed his resolve further.

But, again, there's no evidence of that call, he thought. Graham immediately dismissed the thought; questioning the Captain was never a good idea, especially after she got a taste of him the other day. Graham could see it in her eyes: he had become a prey for Dara.

Then there were the tapes. They were faked. But by whom? Graham asked, and why?

Had he tackled this the wrong way? He tried thinking of the evidence, one piece at a time.

William's tapes weren't faked, or at least, I don't think so. Mr. White's actions were tampered with, but why?

It was Dara who asked for the tapes, he thought. Could she have ordered the tampering?

Again, Graham dismissed the thought. Dara was the one who gave him the case. She's not to be trusted, said the voice again. His own mind was betraying his logic.

What about the affidavits? Graham asked. No, those are legit. Nobody would risk legal prosecution for a cover-up.

Graham's eye popped open. Cover-up was a strong word, not to be said lightly, but Graham couldn't deny it. There seemed to be a cover-up involving Henry, but why? And by whom?

Why and who, questions that keep appearing.

Graham stopped at a red light, cursing under his breath. He wanted to get to the hotel as fast as he could, to find the answers he was seeking. But was he ready to face the truth? He couldn't help but feel that prodding the nest would result in something nastier than a bee sting. Quit while you're ahead, obey Dara. William is guilty. You got everything you need. You can turn back now. Convince Gabriela. You can do it.

Bailing out was the best choice. He was still in time to convince her. With a push of a button, Graham's phone came to life. What little resolve he had to call Gabriela faded the second he saw his background photo.

The big doe-like eyes of Tracy Esposito stared deep into his soul. Her smile was a constant reminder of his own failure, mocking him, taunting him for even thinking of giving up. He kept her picture on his phone as a reminder that his lack of action had cost a life.

In the darkness of her eyes, Graham could see the woman he shot. The panic of her last moments. Did she have a family? A boyfriend? A grandfather? Parents that missed her? What's the difference between her and Tracy?

He did not know the answer, but he knew what they had in common: the blood of both was on his hands.

A honk woke him up from his trance-the light had turned green. In that portrait of his failures, Graham found resolve; he was going to see this through, no matter the consequences.

It wasn't long until he pulled in front of the Park Plaza again, but this time, he was not going to wait to be escorted in. He stormed right through the lobby, pushing down the staff door.

"Sir. Sir!" a receptionist--a different one from the last time--yelled from the desk. When she saw that Graham wasn't stopping, she motioned towards a security guard, who quickly followed Graham through the door.

Graham navigated the labyrinth of hallways to the best of his memory trying to find Patrick Donahue's office. He finally reached the wooden door but was taken by the plaque hanging from his office.

Patrick Donahue - Head Custodian

His blood started to boil. Graham didn't even hear the security guard yelling at him to stop. He was done being played as the fool.

With all his might, Graham kicked the door open, busting the door and handle in one stroke. Patrick immediately stood up from his desk, scattering a bundle of papers he was holding.

"You!" Graham boomed, pointing a finger straight at Patrick's face, "You stay right there, you fucking snake!"

"Sir! Stop right there!" ordered the security guard, finally catching up to Graham.

With practiced ease, Graham took out his badge, flipping it in front of the guard, but never breaking eye contact with Patrick.

"BPD, official business. Stand down," Graham ordered the man. "If you have a problem, go find the General Manager--the real General Manager, not this turd stain."

"What's the meaning of this, officer?!" cried Patrick, trying to push himself against the back wall.

"Patrick Donahue, you are under arrest for tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice," said Graham, pulling Patrick from the wall. "You have the right to remain silent," Graham continued while placing Patrick in handcuffs, "everything you say can and will be used against you."

"What?! I'm innocent! I didn't do anything wrong! Let. Me. Go!" yelled Patrick. Seeing him wriggle and squirm like a worm sent Graham over the edge.

"Oh, you're innocent, right?! Right?!"

Graham pushed Patrick outside the office, taking hold of the back of his head. Once outside, Graham smashed Patrick's face against the plaque, squishing him against it.

"What does it say?!" asked Graham, putting his whole weight on it.

"He...lp," said Patrick.

Graham pulled his head back, whispering into Patrick's ear. "I can't hear you. I asked," he said smashing his face against the plaque over and over again, punctuating his words, "What. Does. It. Say?!"

The plaque was covered in blood--Patrick's blood. His nose was broken and bruised from the abuse. Graham knew what he was doing was highly stupid, but he was no longer in control of his actions. His body moved without his consent.

"Custodian! It says Custodian! Let me go, I beg you!" cried Patrick. Graham wanted to squish him for making him look like a fool.

"Then, you aren't innocent. You impersonated a hotel representative. You lied to a police officer in the middle of an investigation."

A pair of heavy hands came between Graham and Patrick, pushing them apart with surprising force. The security guard was back.

"I told you this was police business!" yelled Graham, reaching for his gun.

"That's enough, officer," said a female voice with a heavy British accent. From behind the guard, an elderly woman stood with her arms behind her back.

"Who are you?" asked Graham, trying to step in, but was blocked by the security guard.

"My name is Claire Mayer. I'm the General Manager of this hotel. I'm sure you have a lot of questions for me."

Claire's office was a stark contrast to Patrick's. While his' was musky and old, this one was sleek and modern. An entire wall was made of windows, showing the Boston skyline in all its splendor. Plush couches and glass tables adorned the floor, filled with leaflets, some assorted sweets, and even a metronome. The whole thing was painted a soothing blue that did little to soothe Graham's anger at the woman in front of him.

"Are you sure you don't want anything? Tea? Coffee? A Sandwich?" asked Claire.

"No," said Graham dryly. "Last time, your Custodian tried to distract me with food."

"Yes, he did," said Claire, exhaling a held breath.

She thought she could get me with the same trick, Graham thought.

"I'm sorry for all of this," said Claire, "but-" she began to say, but was interrupted by Graham roughly throwing his recorder onto the glass table between them.

"Please, continue," said Graham with his best shit-eating grin, "and be aware that you are being recorded."

Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat, eyeing the recorder suspiciously. "Why don't you ask what you want to know and I'll do my best to respond?"

"Very well," said Graham, scooting to the edge of his seat. "You lied."

"That's not a question, officer."

"The implicit 'why?' would be the question here."

Claire took a deep breath, closing her eyes as to collect her thoughts. "I cannot answer your question. I'm sorry."

Graham stood up in a fit of rage. "What do you mean you can't? Is this a game to you?!" he yelled.

Despite that, Claire never wavered, presenting her best apologetic face. "As I said, I am very sorry, officer. But there are forces beyond our control that are keeping me quiet."

"What? What forces? I'm a police officer; I could have you arrested for this!"

Claire stood up slowly, ignoring Graham's outbursts. She opened a drawer from a cabinet behind her desk, taking out a bottle of scotch and a glass. She poured a full glass, downing it in one go. Graham was dumbfounded. "If you must, then please, make it quick. If you allow me to be escorted out with dignity, I promise not to run."

Graham felt as if a cold bucket was poured over him. Something about her actions, her melancholic eyes resigned to her fate, which told Graham that something was very, very wrong.

Claire picked up on his hesitation, pouring a fresh glass for him. "Here, you seem like you need it."

Graham took the glass without thinking. The murky amber liquid reflected his face perfectly. Do I really look that worried?

"I think you know what I'm talking about, officer. You might be a police officer, but you are not the law. Not in this city."

He was well aware of that. He was part of that law. Graham followed her example and downed the liquid in one go. His throat was burning, but it gave him courage. Her silence and her inability to answer his questions were all he needed to put two and two together.

Somehow, the Lynch family was involved with this.

"Good. Then you know I can't answer that question. Ask another."

What else could he ask? She had said everything that needed to be said. Except why. Why had Dara sent him on a wild goose chase? What is the relationship between the Lynch family and Henry White? That's hardly something Claire could answer. He had to be smart about it.

"Who asked you to tamper with the tapes?"

Claire nodded, seemingly content with answering that question. "Murray Prendergast."

That was not a name Graham thought he would hear; he could have sworn Dara was the one behind it.

"Are you sure it was Murray Prendergast?"

"I am certain," she said without wavering.

Graham breathed in. He had hit a wall in his investigation

"Murray Prendergast is dead, ma'am."

Claire took another deep breath, pursing her quivering lips. Her eyes were wandering from side to side as if looking in her mind for a way out of this mess. But none was given.

"Well, let us hope that is not an omen for me. If I play roll job right..." she trailed off, mumbling something to herself.

"I suppose I can't see the original tapes, can I?"

"No, you cannot."

There goes the lead, thought Graham. The Lynch amily was between him and her, like a wall he knew he could never break.

"I understand. I'm sorry," he said, standing up from his seat.

"No, officer. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more assistance. But," she said, looking out her window, "I can point you to someone who could."

Graham stopped in his tracks, looking at her straight in the eyes.

"That night, you-know-who was with a woman. Not his wife, but another woman. She might be able to tell you something."

"Do you know who she was?" he asked.

"Yes. Let me get you her info. She was the one who checked in the room."

Claire went to the desk. After typing a few words on the keyboard, she beckoned Graham closer.

"Do you have a pen and paper? Look, this is her: Linda Herschel. I can also give you the address if you like."

Graham took a look at the address and found it familiar. After all, he had been there only a few days ago, delivering a package for Frankie.

"Who is it?" said a woman's voice from inside the townhouse. The door was open a notch, and once again, a bespectacled eye peered from inside. "Oh, it's you again. What do you want?"

"Linda Herschel, right?" he asked.

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm-" began to say Graham, but thought that saying he was a policeman would be detrimental. "...a member of the family."

"What? My family doesn't live in this area," she added, trying to close the door.

Graham jammed the door with his foot, insisting to be let in. "Not your family. The Family. The Lynch family."

The door quickly bolted open, and Graham felt a hand pull him in by the collar. He was practically thrown to the floor inside.

Linda quickly slammed the door shut, closing all kinds of locks that Graham had never seen in his life. "Are you kidding me?! You can't say that name out loud! This is a nice neighborhood, you fucking donkey."

Graham was aching all over, but he couldn't deny that the fall was an effective way of clearing his head. He regarded the curvaceous woman in front of him, with an almost see-through tank-top and daisy duke shorts.

"Hey! My eyes are up here, perv."

With some effort, Graham stood up; he could have sworn he chipped a tooth in that fall.

"So? What does the family want with me now? Whose dick do I gotta suck?" she said.

"Excuse me?" said Graham.

"Or pussy. I hope's not a pussy."

"No, no," said Graham, waving the thought off, "No sucking anything. I just want some info."

"Good," she added, crossing her arms, "I couldn't take another wrinkly dick. I got enough with the old man you pushed me to."

Graham's eyebrow bowed up. "That's what I wanna ask you. You were an assistant to Henry White, right?"

Linda rolled her eyes in annoyance, "I was his girl toy, so to speak. I was paid to do it."

"By him?"

"By the family. They wanted him content and happy, in exchange for information."

"I see," said Graham, reaching his hand down into the pocket of his coat, where he turned on the recorder. He needed this info. "On the night of Zinet's accident, you were with Mr. Whi-Henry, correct?"

"Ya-hu. Got told to bring him to the room. Did him nice and nasty. He's practically sixty. Have you screwed a sexagenarian? Everything's soggy."

Thanks for the mental image, thought Graham. "So, he was cheating on his wife with you?"

"Without a rubber. Which reminds me. I gotta pay a visit to that bastard. I know you guys said not to see him again, but I can't pass up this opportunity."

"See him?" asked Graham. "Why for?"

"Well, I'm pregnant, so I gotta milk him for all he's got."