The God 's unpaid intern

Chapter 6: Evidence Disposal

The blue and red lights danced across Diego’s bedroom wall like a frantic, strobe-lit interrogation. Diego lay face-down on his carpet, the stolen briefcase wedged firmly under his mattress, his heart drumming against the floorboards.

“Would you breathe? You’re hyperventilating again,” the voice buzzed in his skull. “It’s remarkably distracting. If you’re going to be a criminal mastermind, at least try to keep your pulse under a hundred beats per minute.”

“I am not a criminal mastermind!” Diego hissed into the fibers of his rug. “I’m a paralegal who currently has a subconscious landlord and a stolen corporate briefcase in his bedroom. This is a nightmare.”

Outside his door, heavy boots thudded against the hallway floor.

“Check every unit,” a gravelly voice commanded. “The suspect was last seen near the main entrance. The landlord’s incapacitated and currently raving about a pet goldfish, so we need to be thorough.”

“Ooh, a search party,” the God chirped. “This is like a game of hide-and-seek, except the penalty for losing is a ten-to-fifteen-year stint in a state penitentiary. Fun, right?”

“Stop talking,” Diego whispered, rolling onto his back and staring at the water-stained ceiling. “Just… give me a ‘calm-down’ buff or something.”

“Not happening. You need to be alert. Your neighbor, Mr. Kowalski—you know, the one who leaves his wet gym gear in the hallway? He’s currently home. And he just happens to have a very incriminating stash of black-market protein powder that is definitely not FDA-approved. It would be a shame if the police found that instead of you.”

“I’m not framing my neighbor!” Diego sat up, his hair sticking out in wild, static-charged clumps. “That’s low, even for me.”

“It’s survival, Diego. Besides, he plays his accordion at three in the morning. He deserves a little chaos.”

A sharp rap-rap-rap echoed against Diego’s door. He froze.

“Police! Open up!”

Diego scrambled up, grabbing a crumpled pair of sweatpants and pulling them on over his dress slacks. He ruffled his hair to look appropriately ‘just woke up’ and checked his reflection. He looked like a man who had survived a hurricane.

“Coming!” Diego called out, his voice cracking. He reached for the door handle, his hand trembling.

“Remember,” the God whispered. “If they ask, you were asleep. You didn't hear a thing. Your landlord is a known eccentric. Play the ‘clueless, overworked paralegal’ card. It’s the only one you have.”

Diego threw the door open. Two uniformed officers stood there, one looking bored, the other looking like he hadn't slept since the late nineties.

“Yeah?” Diego blinked, squinting at the hallway lights. “Is something wrong? I was… I was mid-dream.”

The older officer, a man with a mustache that seemed to weigh down his entire face, leaned forward. “We’re conducting a sweep of the building. Your landlord, Mr. Henderson, had… an episode. Did you hear anything in the hallway earlier tonight? Shouting? Running?”

Diego yawned, a wide, theatrical stretch that he hoped looked convincing. “Honestly, officer? No. I’ve been out since eight. Work is a killer. I’m a paralegal, and my boss is currently obsessed with filing motions for a merger that doesn’t exist. I’m basically a caffeinated zombie.”

“Perfect. Keep going. Mention the paperwork. It’s boring enough to make them want to leave immediately.”

“A paralegal, huh?” The officer looked at the stack of law books piled precariously on Diego’s desk. “Long hours?”

“You have no idea,” Diego said, leaning against the doorframe to hide the slight tremor in his knees. “If I see one more non-compete clause, I might actually walk into the ocean.”

The officer chuckled, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. “I feel you. My nephew is in law school. Kid hasn't seen sunlight since 2022.”

“Good. Now, nudge them toward Kowalski’s room. You remember the plan.”

Diego hesitated, his conscience fighting with the cold, electric pressure in his brain. “Is everything okay with Henderson? He’s usually pretty… well, loud.”

“Let’s just say he’s going to be talking to a judge about a very long list of grievances,” the officer replied, taking a step back. “We just need to clear the floor. You haven't noticed anyone else hanging around? Maybe a guy in a suit with a bag?”

Diego shook his head slowly. “Suit? No. But, uh… I did hear Kowalski moving stuff around in the hallway earlier. Sounded like he was hiding something heavy. He’s always complaining about his ‘supplements.’”

“Beautiful,” the God purred. “You’re a natural at being a snitch.”

The officer frowned, his gaze shifting toward the door at the end of the hall. “Kowalski, huh? Thanks for the tip, kid. Get some sleep.”

They walked away, their heavy boots clomping toward the neighbor’s unit. Diego stood there, his hand gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white.

“I feel like garbage,” Diego muttered.

“You feel like a survivor,” the voice corrected. “And you’re still a step behind. There’s a detective coming up the stairs. He’s not going to be as easily distracted as these two drones. He’s got the ‘Detective Instinct’—a real pain in the neck.”

Diego retreated into his room, locking the door and backing away until he hit his desk. He could hear the muffled voices from down the hall—the sound of an argument, Kowalski protesting his innocence, and the sharp thwack of a search being executed.

“He’s going to find the bag eventually,” Diego whispered. “The briefcase. They’ll sweep the building. They’ll find it.”

“Then we change the location,” the God said. “There’s a vent behind your wardrobe. It leads to the roof. Put the bag there. And while you’re at it, grab the files. We need to copy the data before we drop it off.”

“Copy the data? With what hardware?”

“Your phone, you idiot. Plug it in. I’ll act as the bridge.”

Diego lunged for the mattress, dragging out the briefcase and scrambling to the wardrobe. He hooked his phone to the briefcase’s hidden port. The screen flashed bright blue, lines of encrypted data cascading down like a digital waterfall.

“Encryption level: amateur hour,” the voice mocked. “I’ve seen better firewalls on a toddler’s toy.”

A sharp, authoritative knock hit his door again. This time, it didn’t sound like the regular officers. It sounded like a demand.

“Diego?” a voice called out. It was crisp, educated, and sounded entirely too calm. “Detective Miller. Do you have a moment?”

Diego looked at the phone—the progress bar was at forty percent. He looked at the vent—it was far, and the briefcase was heavy.

“Just a second!” Diego shouted, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m, uh, putting on a shirt!”

“You have twenty seconds,” the God warned. “If he comes in, we’re finished. Start an argument. Be defensive. If he pushes into your space, use the ‘Inconvenient Truth-Telling’ field. It works on detectives, too.”

Diego threw on a shirt, grabbed the briefcase, and shoved it toward the vent. He managed to slide it into the darkness just as the doorknob turned.

“The door was unlocked, Diego,” Detective Miller said, stepping into the room. He was a lean man in a tan trench coat, his eyes scanning the space with clinical detachment. “I’m sorry to intrude, but your neighbor is currently claiming he was framed. He’s very insistent that a ‘nervous guy in a suit’ was lurking in the hall.”

Diego stood by the wardrobe, his heart thumping. “Kowalski? He’s… he’s always been a bit out there. I didn't see anyone, Detective.”

Miller walked toward him, his eyes lingering on the wardrobe. “Is that so? And yet, you’re sweating. And your room is… let’s say, surprisingly clean for a man who claims to be a ‘caffeinated zombie’ at work.”

“I, uh, tidied up?” Diego stammered.

Miller stopped three feet in front of him. “You’re nervous, Diego. Why?”

“Now,” the God whispered. “Do it.”

Diego looked Miller dead in the eye. He felt that strange, humming energy pull at the edges of his consciousness. “Detective, you seem like a man who has it all together. But you’re here, in a dump like this, investigating a petty theft. Is there something you’re not telling yourself?”

Miller’s composure flickered. His mouth parted, his brow furrowing as if he were fighting an invisible tide. “I… I hate this job. My wife left me because I spend more time chasing leads than I do at home. I’ve been using the department’s expense account to pay for my gambling debts!”

Diego stared, wide-eyed. “What?”

Miller’s face turned bright red, his hands shaking. “I’m not even working this case! I’m here because I’m trying to find an excuse to transfer to the suburbs so I can stop looking at the city I despise! I… I have an illegal side-gig selling evidence from the locker!”

The detective clapped both hands over his mouth, his eyes bulging in horror. He took a staggering step backward, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shame.

“Oh, that is simply delicious,” the God laughed. “He’s a mess. A total, corrupt wreck.”

“I… I didn’t mean…” Miller stammered, his voice muffled by his hands. He spun around, stumbling toward the door. “I have to… I have to go.”

He practically sprinted out of the room, leaving Diego standing there in the sudden silence.

Diego leaned against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. He let out a long, shuddering breath.

“See?” the voice said, sounding far too pleased with itself. “Crisis averted. And you have a new leverage point on a detective. Not bad for a Tuesday night.”

“I need a drink,” Diego whispered, staring at his phone, where the file transfer had just hit one hundred percent. “I need a drink, and then I need to move to a different continent.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” the God replied. “We have a drop to make at midnight. And honestly? I think you’re starting to enjoy this.”

Diego looked at the vent where the briefcase was hidden, then back at his empty, lonely room. He didn't want to admit it—he really, truly didn't—but for the first time in his life, he didn't feel bored. He felt dangerous.

“Midnight,” Diego whispered, a faint, terrified grin touching his lips. “Fine. Midnight.”