"Deputy!"
The voice came through the intake glass, sharp and metallic over the desk intercom.
Marilyn Chen, the senior docket clerk who had worked fourth-floor records since my father ran county surveying, stood upright behind her terminal. Her microphone switch glowed amber beneath her palm.
"Deputy Vance," she repeated, her eyes tracking the blue lanyard hanging beside his radio. "Mr. Miller holds a scheduled delivery slip issued at four-fifteen yesterday afternoon. The presiding judge has not vacated the morning reconciliation. Release the item or I will log an active security obstruction on the lobby surveillance manifest."
Vance’s grip did not slacken immediately. His fingers twitched against mine, the leather digging into my knuckles until the brass rivets groaned. He knew every camera angle in the vestibule; two dome lenses pointed directly down at the inspection arch, their tiny red indicators blinking through dark smoked glass. If he tore the case out of my hands by main force under recorded audio, the county attorney would have to address the seizure on the morning docket.
Slowly, his fingers uncurled. He stepped back three inches, his chest rising and falling beneath the crisp wool of his uniform, leaving the gray imprint of his knuckles white against my reddened skin.
"Step through the lane, Miller," Vance said, his voice dropping into a flat, venomous whisper. "Empty your pockets into the plastic tray. Bag stays on the roller belt for manual swab."
"The order grants chamber inspection only," I said, holding the briefcase tight against my ribs with both arms.
"Everything on the belt gets opened if the sensor flags density," Vance said. His hand tapped the side of the X-ray console. The monitor screen was dark, its power switch toggled off with a piece of red electrical tape plastered across the primary breaker. "And looking at that thick spine, you've got uncataloged metal bindings inside. That requires manual separation."
He had disabled the primary scanner before the public doors unlocked at eight. If the bag touched the rollers, he had pretext to rip the interior folders out under the guise of an explosive trace, scattering eighty loose vehicle manifests across an unmonitored plastic bin.
I turned toward Marilyn Chen's booth. "Marilyn, can you call Bailiff Douglas from courtroom four?"
"Bailiff Douglas was redirected to the annex parking structure ten minutes ago," Vance interrupted, shifting his stance to block my line of sight to the intake window. "Transport detail. There is no bailiff on this floor until the nine-fifteen calendar."
The perimeter was deliberate. Every official who possessed authority to accept paper filed under seal had been systematically pulled from the corridor.
I looked down at the blue spiral lanyard dangling against his thigh. The maintenance archive key was six inches long, cast in solid brass with three distinct notched teeth along its lower blade. It belonged inside the master lockbox in the county administration building across the courtyard, checked out only under dual signature from the facilities supervisor and the department director. Yet here it was, clipped to the belt of an off-duty patrol supervisor who claimed he was working emergency security.
"You were down in the sub-basement this morning," I said, keeping my tone measured.
Vance’s left hand dropped immediately, his fingers closing over the brass key, curling it into his palm to hide the white tag. "Watch your mouth, Miller."
"Room B-12," I continued, taking half a step toward the metal stanchion so the overhead directional microphone could catch the numbers. "The auxiliary fleet records room. That's the only lock in the Clark County system that takes a five-lever barrel key with an offset ward."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his eyes darted toward the ceiling camera before returning to my throat. "You've got thirty seconds to clear the entrance zone. If you refuse the screening sequence, you are trespassing on municipal property."
"Let's look at the white tag, Deputy."