I moved to the passenger side, reaching deep under the seat where the heater vents met the floorboard. My knuckles scraped against a heavy canvas strap.
I pulled it out. It was a faded blue duffel bag, stained with motor oil. I unzipped it, glancing nervously toward the garage doors to make sure I was alone.
Inside were folded, worn clothes, a few wrenches, and a thick manila envelope. I opened the envelope. A stack of cash sat inside—maybe ten thousand dollars in worn bills—along with a certified birth certificate and a photograph.
I held the photo to the harsh fluorescent light. It showed the man from the parking lot—the drifter with the dreadlocks. Only in the photo, his hair was cut short, he wore a clean mechanic's uniform, and he was smiling warmly. Beside him stood a beautiful, wealthy-looking blonde woman holding Baby Leo.
I recognized her instantly from the society pages. It was Chloe Vance. Richard Vance’s only daughter, who the media claimed had abruptly moved to Europe a year ago following a “mental breakdown.”
I looked at the birth certificate. The mother was listed as Chloe Vance. The father was listed as Elias Caldwell.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The drifter wasn't a thief. He was Elias Caldwell. He was the baby's father.
At the bottom of the bag, wrapped in a cloth, was a heavy silver pendant matching the exact one Elias had been wearing around his neck when I tackled him. It was a family crest.
I shoved the envelope and the pendant into my jacket pocket and pushed the blue bag back under the seat just as the heavy metal doors of the impound bay rattled open.
“Find your keys, Miller?” a voice echoed.
I stood up slowly. It wasn't Larson.
It was Greg Thorne. He stood in the doorway, flanked by two men in dark suits who didn't look like lawyers. They looked like professional violence.
Thorne’s eyes flicked to the SUV, then to my empty hands.
“You know, David,” Thorne said softly, spreading his hands. “Mr. Vance was worried you might have a lingering hero complex. It’s a tragic flaw in former cops. They just don't know when to leave a crime scene alone.”
CHAPTER 3
The cavernous space of the impound bay suddenly felt entirely too small. Thorne’s two suits stepped inside, fanning out slightly, cutting off my exit to the main precinct doors.
“I didn't find my keys,” I lied, keeping my posture relaxed, my hands in plain view but ready to drop to my belt. “Must have lost them in the grass near the planter.”