The outside security buzzer sounded with a sharp, pneumatic hiss.
The overhead floodlights in the sally port flashed yellow on the wall monitor above Harris’s desk. Through the grain of the closed-circuit camera, a white county transport van backed slowly down the concrete ramp, its exhaust churning thick white clouds into the river fog. The engine shut down. The driver’s door clicked open, and Officer Dale Miller stepped into the light.
Miller wasn't wearing his tactical vest now. He wore his heavy black patrol jacket, unzipped to the sternum, his duty belt slung low over his hips. In his left hand, he carried a clipboard holding three carbon transport transfers; in his right, he carried a cardboard cup of black coffee from the all-night diner near the docks. He stepped up to the reinforced steel security door, pulled his magnetic keycard from his shirt pocket, and swiped it through the reader.
The reader flashed green. The hydraulic arm pulled the steel door open with a dull scrape across the concrete sill.
Miller entered the intake room, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. "Morning, Frank," he said, setting the coffee cup on the corner of the booking counter. He didn't look toward the cells. "Van’s idling out back. I spoke to the annex superintendent on the radio. They’ve got a single-occupancy isolation cell open in the basement block. Vance is going to spend the weekend where nobody can hear him shout."
Harris stood behind the counter, perfectly still. He did not touch the clipboard Miller shoved across the Formica.
"Sign the transfer custody line, Frank," Miller said, reaching for his uniform pen. "I want him on the highway before the road crews hit the river bridge."
"I can't sign that, Dale," Harris said softly.
Miller stopped. His hand hovered over the clipboard, his eyes narrowing as he finally looked at the desk sergeant. "What did you say?"
Harris pointed one blunt finger toward the computer screen on the rolling cart.
Miller turned his head. The red cadmium glow lit the side of his weathered face, casting sharp, unnatural shadows beneath his cheekbones. He stared at the flashing block text: TERMINAL LOCKED BY ORDER OF STATE AG.
For five full seconds, Miller didn't breathe. The cardboard coffee cup began to crush inward under the sudden grip of his right fingers, dark liquid welling up over the plastic rim and spilling across the counter. He dropped the cup, lunged around the counter partition, and hammered his heavy palm against the keyboard spacebar.
The terminal emitted three rapid, low-pitched error tones. A pop-up box covered the center of the display: USER CREDENTIALS DELEGATED TO STATE POLICE SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS. ACCESS DENIED.
"What the hell is this, Frank?" Miller snarled, his voice dropping into a guttural, furious register. He spun around, his hand dropping instinctively toward the retention snap on his duty holster. "What did you put into the system?"
"I didn't put anything in that wasn't on the desk," Harris said, refusing to back away from the counter. "You brought Case 23-0411-B into this intake room, Dale. You laid it right there under the glass. The state system caught the duplication from the Spokane incinerator logs."
Miller's eyes darted toward the cells. He caught me standing behind the bars of cell three, my hands resting on the horizontal crossbeam. His mouth twisted into an ugly, contemptuous snarl. He stepped past the booking divider, his boots striking the floor with heavy, deliberate thuds until he was standing twelve inches from my face, separated only by the cold iron grate.
"You called them," Miller whispered, his breath hot and rancid with black coffee. "You got him to open the box."
"The state knows about the Spokane certificate, Miller," I said, looking straight into his eyes. "They know the packet in your pocket was marked as ash two months ago. And they know where you got that watch."
Miller’s left arm twitched. He pulled his sleeve down violently, trying to cover the gold casing, but the cuff caught on the oversized bezel. The gold-filled lugs gleamed under the white strip lights. The split crystal across the numeral three caught the glare, sharp and distinct, right against his tendon.
"Nobody cares about a dead kid's watch, Vance," Miller hissed, leaning until his forehead nearly touched the steel. "A junkie mechanic who couldn't keep his mouth shut about county salvage. You think Olympia gives a damn about what happens to you or him? By five o'clock, this town runs exactly the way it’s always run. I'll take that key from Frank’s pocket, drag you out to the river road, and write up an escape attempt before the state cruiser clears the summit."
"The evidence isn't in Frank's pocket," I said.