"Marcus?"
"Mercer's here."
She paused.
"Already?"
"Already."
"How did he take it?"
I looked toward the command office.
"Like a man who arrived expecting to control the conversation."
Dana was quiet for a moment.
Then asked, "And the ledger?"
"Still missing."
"Any leads?"
I watched Evelyn Price emerge from the property room carrying a sealed file box.
"Maybe."
I lowered my voice.
"Start with the access logs. I want to know who entered the archives between Friday afternoon and this morning."
Dana answered without hesitation.
"On it."
Then I added, "And check whether Deputy Chief Mercer's office requested any emergency access over the weekend."
There was a pause.
"You think he moved it?"
"I think he knew it was missing before anyone told him."
Dana understood.
She had worked beside me for six years.
She knew I did not make accusations lightly.
"All right," she said. "I'll follow the records."
I ended the call.
Then turned toward the property room.
Evelyn Price was watching me.
Her expression was anxious.
I approached.
"Ms. Price?"
She straightened.
"Yes?"
"Could we speak privately?"
She glanced toward the command office.
Then back at me.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Finally, she nodded.
"There's something I should have told you earlier."
Evelyn had worked in evidence control long enough to recognize the difference between a mistake and a pattern.
She knew how easily a receipt could be placed in the wrong folder.
How an officer working a long shift might forget to initial a transfer.
How an evidence technician could enter the wrong time into a computerized system.
Those things happened.
They required correction.
But the corrections were supposed to create a clearer record, not erase what happened.
During the previous eighteen months, Evelyn had noticed something troubling.
Whenever certain cases involved large amounts of seized cash, the original property totals sometimes changed after command staff became involved.
The first time, she assumed someone had entered an estimate.
The second time, she requested a recount.
The third time, she began keeping separate notes.
She was not supposed to conduct her own investigation.
She knew that.
She also understood that documenting a discrepancy was part of her job.
So she recorded dates, case numbers, and the names of employees who handled transfers.
When she reported the issues to Sergeant Keller, he told her to stop questioning sworn officers.
"You're a civilian employee," he said. "Your job is to store evidence, not investigate police work."
She reminded him that property control required accurate documentation.
He laughed.
"Then document what you're told."
Evelyn did not laugh.
She had raised two children while working in that building.
Had attended countless evidence-training sessions.
Had testified in court about chain-of-custody records.
And had spent almost thirty years believing that honest paperwork mattered because people's freedom could depend upon it.
She was not about to pretend an evidence bag contained eighteen thousand dollars when the original receipt said more than two hundred thousand.
But she also had a mortgage.
A retirement date approaching.
And a daughter with medical expenses Evelyn helped pay.
Losing her job would hurt.
She knew that too.
So she began saving her concerns through the official reporting channels.
Most went unanswered.
A few returned with instructions not to pursue the matter further.
Then came the South Harbor Auto Exchange case.
She remembered the evidence package because it was unusually heavy.
Not physically heavy.
Administratively heavy.
The paperwork arrived late.
The currency amount was substantial.
The property seals carried two sets of initials.
And the receiving officer appeared nervous.
The original paperwork listed two sealed currency packages and one separate pouch containing digital evidence.
By the time the items reached the central property record, only one currency package remained.
The second package was no longer reflected as a separate item.
Neither was the digital pouch.
Evelyn questioned the discrepancy.
Sergeant Keller told her the count had been corrected.
When she asked where the second bag went, he said it had been consolidated.
When she asked for the consolidation form, he told her to stop wasting time.
She made a note.
Three weeks later, she discovered that page 187 had been removed from the bound transfer ledger.
She recognized the page number immediately.
It covered the South Harbor evidence intake.
She reported the damage.
Keller told her the matter was closed.
Then she noticed something else.
A transfer record had been entered into the digital system under a supervisor's credentials.
The record did not explain the missing property.
Instead, it stated that a certain item had been transferred for "command review."
There was no return date.
No location.
No receiving signature.
And the property-control number did not appear in the final case inventory.
Evelyn told me all of this in a small interview room near the precinct's rear entrance.
She sat across from me, hands folded in her lap.
Her expression remained controlled.
But I could see how frightened she was.
"Ms. Price, did you keep a copy of the original transfer record?"
She hesitated.
"Not the whole page."
"What did you preserve?"
She looked toward the door.
Then whispered, "Something better than nothing."
I waited.
She took a breath.
"Before we moved the old ledgers into archive storage, we scanned selected pages for the annual inventory reconciliation."
I leaned forward.
"Was page 187 included?"
She shook her head.
"Not in the final packet."
I felt a moment of disappointment.
Then she continued.
"But it was on the scanner."
I looked up.
She met my eyes.
"The technician was supposed to scan pages 180 through 190. The job failed near the end, and the final archive packet was generated from a second scan."
I considered.
"Was the first scan retained?"
"I don't know."
She swallowed.
"But the scanner sometimes stores failed jobs temporarily."
I stared at her.
That was important.
Not because a temporary file would automatically be usable as evidence.
Its integrity and origin would need verification.
But if an earlier image of page 187 existed, it might show what someone later removed.
"Which scanner?"
She told me.
It stood in a records-processing room on the lower floor.
I reached for my phone.
Called Dana.
Then explained what Evelyn had discovered.
Dana listened.
"We'll need forensic preservation of the device and any connected storage."
"Exactly."