"Then what are you going to do?" Pete asked.
"Under the state notary act, every notary must keep an intact, chronologically bound journal of all official acts," I said, gripping the edge of the workbench. "Under section twelve of that code, any person whose acknowledgment was purportedly taken has an absolute legal right to inspect the entry in the notary's presence upon demand. If the notary refuses, or if the signature does not exist, the commission is subject to immediate summary revocation by the district judge."
"You're going back inside that bank," Pete said.
"If I go to Judge Bennett's chambers without the physical book, it's my word and a waste manifest against a certified state seal," I answered. "Judge Bennett won't issue an ex parte injunction against a licensed financial institution based on an assumption. But if I walk to Sterling's desk, demand my statutory inspection in front of the lobby, and force him to open the physical journal, he has only two choices: show an empty line with no signature, or let that woman forge it right in front of the security cameras."
"Carl Harris is standing by that gate," Pete warned. "He’s got orders to trespass you."
"Carl knows my father," I said. "And Carl knows what a felony looks like when it's shoved under his nose."
I left the shop at ten-twelve. The drive back to First Federal took less than five minutes, but the street had shifted. Parked in the alley fire lane directly behind the bank’s executive wing was the blue Lincoln Town Car Carl had mentioned, its engine idling with a steady puff of white exhaust in the cold drizzle. Through the tinted rear glass, I could see an older man in a charcoal overcoat with a heavy leather trial binder open across his lap, a cellular antenna mounted on the trunk lid.
Sterling’s closing was not waiting for noon. They were executing the transfer right now, thirty minutes before the probate court recessed for lunch.
I parked my pickup against the curb, cut the ignition, and stepped out onto the wet asphalt. I didn't reach for my purse or my wallet. I held only the yellow carbon manifest in my left hand and the county probate printout in my right.
The lobby doors slid open with a whisper of conditioned air.
The high-ceilinged room was emptier now. The elderly depositors had cleared out. The only people on the floor were two commercial tellers behind the counter and Officer Harris, who stood with his back to the teller line, his thumbs hooked in his belt, watching the frosted glass of Sterling’s conference room.
Inside the conference room, through the translucent pane, two figures sat opposite each other. Vance Sterling had an oversized, navy-bound ledger open flat on the mahogany table. The blonde woman leaned forward, the silver desk pen gripped in her right hand, poised directly above the open page.
Harris turned as the lobby draft hit his neck. His expression tightened into immediate alarm, his hand dropping toward the snap of his holster.
"Sarah," Harris said, his boots closing the distance between us before I reached the brass stanchions. "I told you not to come back here. If Vance looks through that glass and sees you, I don't have a choice. I have to put the cuffs on."
I stopped two feet from his chest, holding up the yellow transport bill.
"Carl," I said, my voice cutting through the silent room like a cold chisel. "Call the clerk of the district court on your radio. I am executing an official statutory demand under the state notary code to inspect the journal entry bearing my name. If Vance Sterling lets that woman touch that pen to that book, you are an accessory to an aggravated felony in progress."
CHAPTER 3: The Ledger Under The Glass
Officer Harris did not unholster his sidearm, but his thumb stayed rigid against the retention strap. He looked from my face to the bright yellow carbon of the hazardous waste manifest, his gaze snagging on the mechanical clock stamp—six-fifteen in purple indelible ink—and Wayne Briggs’s heavy, looping signature alongside my own. Behind him, through the frosted partition, the blonde woman’s hand descended toward the open page of the notary journal.
"Carl," I said, keeping my voice cold and flat. "Under Title Nine, Section Twelve, an official notary register in an active commercial transaction is public upon direct demand by the acknowledged party. If she signs my name in that book while you stand watch, that isn't security work. That's aiding and abetting a falsification of a public instrument."
Harris swallowed, the tendons in his throat tightening against his starched uniform collar. He had worked the south county patrol for fourteen years before taking the bank’s private security detail; he knew every misdemeanor citation, every impound protocol, and the exact boundary where an administrative trespass crossed into a felony conspiracy. He looked at the conference room, then back at the yellow receipt in my fingers.
"Stay right behind my left shoulder," Harris muttered under his breath. "Do not reach across the desk. Do not touch the book yourself."