I didn't step back. Instead, I pointed at the adhesive strip securing the bottom corner of the plastic wrap.
"Look at the barcoded inspection tag on that brick," I told him, keeping my voice level despite the dry burn in my throat. "Terminal security uses blue-ink stamps for contraband intake. That package has a red depot-clearance sticker from Vance Freight Logistics, stamped at five-thirty this morning—an hour before I even arrived at the terminal parking curb."
Gregson’s fingers stopped on the steel chain of the cuffs, his jaw hardening as he realized I had spent forty-two years reading freight routing manifests for a living.