The physical murder weapon was sixty yards behind this office, buried under two tons of scrap iron.
Vance hadn't just watched Chloe drown. He had run her off the road, rammed her through the rotted guardrail into seven feet of icy water, and ordered radio silence while her car sank.
The fear left me completely.
I brought the phone to my lips. "Miller."
"I'm listening, Marcus. Be smart."
"My mother spent thirty years working the laundry line at the county hospital," I said, my voice dead calm. "She taught me how to scrub filth, and she taught me how to take care of her without crawling through the dirt for Arthur Vance. Tell the Chief if he wants this paper, he'll have to tear it off my chest in public."
I ended the call before Miller could answer.
Outside, the spotlight snapped off. Red brake lights flared as Miller shifted into reverse, backing down the lane toward the bridge to lock the perimeter until reinforcements arrived.
"We've got thirty minutes before the tactical van gets here," Hank said, ejecting the thumb drives and handing one to me. "Miller won't breach the gate until he has long guns."
"Can the old Dodge flatbed make the marsh cut to Route 9?" I asked, zipping the drive into my inner pocket beside Chloe's tape.
"Chains are on the tires," Hank said, tossing me the ignition key and grabbing his heavy coat. "Route 9 crosses into the capital district, but you can't go to the State Police. Vance has friends in regional command."
"I'm not going to the State Police," I said.
Tomorrow at ten in the morning, the County Board of Commissioners was convening its annual public budget session in the main auditorium of City Hall. Arthur Vance was scheduled to stand at the center podium to receive the county's Distinguished Public Service medal and sign the final certification closing the books on the Blackwood Creek road funds. The press corps, the county executive, and three hundred citizens would be seated in the gallery.
"Get the truck started, Hank," I said, stepping toward the rear door that led into the dark scrap yard. "We're going to City Hall."
CHAPTER 3: The Podium He Could Not Hold
The heavy tires of Hank Mercer’s Dodge flatbed chewed through frozen mud along the marsh cut, bypassing the highway patrol checkpoint on Route 9 by three miles. In the bed beneath a stiff canvas tarp sat the battered steel push bar Pete Vargas had hidden in Bay 4 seven months ago, bolted to a wooden pallet so it wouldn't slide against the tailgate. Hank drove with both hands locked on the wheel, the smell of burnt motor oil and winter damp filling the cab, while I kept my hand pressed against the inside of my canvas work coat, feeling the rigid plastic of the thumb drive and Chloe’s cassette tape against my ribs.
We hit the city center at twenty minutes before ten. Salt trucks had cleared the avenue leading to the municipal complex, leaving gray ridges of slush along the curbs where local news vans were already parked with their microwave masts raised. A banner strung between the limestone pillars of City Hall announced the annual County Board of Commissioners budget convocation, with Chief Arthur Vance’s portrait printed beside the county seal under the heading: Honoring Three Decades Of Dedicated Leadership.
Hank pulled the flatbed into the loading lane behind the municipal auditorium, cutting the engine beside the trash compactors where delivery trucks idled.
"Vance has municipal patrol officers on the front steps checking press credentials," Hank said, watching the rear-view mirror as two cruisers rolled past the corner. "Miller will have the service corridors covered."
"He's covering the doors because he thinks I'm trying to break in," I said, unzipping my coat to check the manila envelope containing Vargas’s certified fleet logs, the printed scan of the dispatch transmission, and the Dover corporate filings Hank had pulled at dawn. Beneath my civilian jacket, I still wore the torn navy uniform shirt from Miller & Croft, the shredded wool above my heart hanging loose where the badge pins had snapped. "He doesn't know the municipal charter guarantees any county resident five minutes at the floor microphone before a infrastructure grant closure is voted into law."
Hank reached behind the bench seat, pulled out a heavy two-wheeled steel hand truck, and stepped into the slush. Together, we hauled the canvas-wrapped push bar off the tailgate and strapped it vertical against the steel frame. The impact marks on the black metal were buried under canvas, but the rectangular silhouette was unmistakable.
"If Miller pulls iron in the foyer, Marcus, this ends in the hall," Hank said.