“Huh. Give me that.” Mike held out a huge hand and Pete dumped a pile of mail into it. “Ack.” Mike carefully put it down on his desk, then picked up his coffee and took a sip. “Bilge water.”

“One of these days you’d better try and kick the habit,” Pete said mildly. “It can’t be doing your kidneys any good.”

“Listen, I run on coffee,” Mike insisted. “Lessee—”

He thumbed rapidly through the internal mail, sorting administrative memos from formal letters—some branches still ran on paper, their intranets unconnected to the outside world—and a couple of real, honest, postal envelopes. He stacked them in three neat piles and switched on his PC. While he waited for it to boot he opened the two letters from outside. One of them was junk, random spam sent to him by name and offering cheap loans. The other—

“Holy shit!”

Pete started, nearly going over backwards in his chair. “Hey! You want to keep a lid—”

“Holy shit!”

Pete turned around. Mike was on his feet, a letter clutched in both hands and an expression of awe on his face. “What?” Pete asked mildly.

“Got to get this to forensics,” Mike muttered, carefully putting the letter down on his desk, then carefully peering inside the envelope. A little plastic baggie with something brown in it—

“Evidence?” asked Pete, interestedly: “Hey, I thought that was external?”

“You’re not kidding!” Mike put it down as delicately as if it was made of fine glass. “Anonymous tip-offs ‘R’ us!”

“Explain.”

“This letter.” Mike pointed. “It’s fingering the Phantom.”

“You’re sure about that?” Pete looked disbelieving. Mike nodded.

“Jesus, Mike, you need to learn some new swear words, holy shit doesn’t cut it! Show me that thing—”

“Whoa!” Mike carefully lifted the envelope. “Witness. You and me, we’re going down to the lab to see what’s in this baggie. If it’s what the letter says, and it checks out, it’s a sample from that batch of H that hit New York four months ago. You know? The really big one that coincided with that OD spike, pushed the price down so low they were buying it by the ounce? From the Phantom network?”

“So?” Pete looked interested. “Somebody held onto a sample.”

“Somebody just sent us a fucking tip-off that there’s an address in Belmont that’s the local end of the distribution chain. Wholesale, Pete. Name, rank, and serial number. Dates—we need to check the goddamn dates. Pete, this is an inside job. Someone on the inside of the Phantom wants to come in from the cold and they’re establishing their bona fides.”

“We’ve had falsies before. Anonymous bastards.”