"Suspected narcotic compound," Vance announced for the room's open ceiling mic. "Recovered from the subject's inside coat pocket during an alley stop off Fourth and Canal. Field weight approximately two hundred grams. Tag it for precinct property lock until county transport arrives on Monday."
"Whose case number?" the sergeant asked, not looking up as his fingers kept pecking the keyboard. "Lieutenant Miller left word forty minutes ago that the interdiction log had to balance before shift change."
"File it under the Bell inquiry," Vance said without missing a beat. His tone was casual, practiced, and entirely devoid of hesitation. "Supplementary sweep evidence. Subject was loitering near the recovery grid."
My chest tightened until drawing breath felt like pulling wire. Marcus Bell’s name had been on the midday news radio while Toby and I were greasing the backhoe tracks out at the quarry. The boy had been found dead behind an auto dismantler’s fence on Wednesday night, his pockets turned inside out and his jacket missing. The county medical examiner had ruled the death an accidental fentanyl overdose before his family even arrived to identify the body.
Now Vance was tying that boy's death file directly to the bag he had forced into my canvas coat.
"Hey," Vance said, turning back toward me. He rested one hand on his leather duty belt, directly above his holster. "You got personal property to declare before we run your prints?"
"My wallet," I said. "And the registration for Toby’s hauler in my back pocket."
"Empty them out. Slowly."
I reached back, pulling out my worn leather billfold and the folded blue carbon of Toby’s commercial vehicle permit. As I placed them on the bench beside me, Vance stepped in close, blocking the counter sergeant’s view with his wide shoulders. He leaned down, his voice dropping into a harsh, tight whisper beneath the hum of the overhead fluorescent tubes.
"Your brother’s truck is parked outside bay three at the municipal lot," Vance whispered. "If the lab tech flags that brick on Monday, the county prosecutor takes the whole file. But if you take a summary misdemeanor plea at ten tomorrow morning before the magistrate, Miller marks the bag as unverified street scrap and discards the supplementary chain. Toby keeps his hauler. You do ninety days suspended. You try to play hero, and I sign the felony warrant connecting you to Bell’s final supply."
"You took that bag from Bell's impounded coat," I said, keeping my voice low enough that it didn't travel past his chest. "The slip dropped in the alley."
Vance’s face did not pale, but his jaw muscles bunched until the skin across his cheekbones pulled white. His right hand dropped three inches, settling onto the grip of his sidearm.
"You didn't see anything in that alley except wet asphalt, Jesse," he said, the words spaced out like gravel dropped onto a steel deck. "Because if you saw paper, that means you were tampering with a county scene. And that makes you an active participant in an open death inquiry."
He turned on his heel and motioned toward the processing cage at the end of the hall. "Sergeant, get his prints rolled. I'm heading out back to finish the exterior sweep."
The heavy metal door clicked open, and the booking sergeant led me into the print alcove. Through the wire-mesh window, I watched Vance push through the heavy rear exit, heading straight back out toward the rain-slick parking lot.
He was going back for the other half of that yellow voucher.
"Right thumb," the sergeant droned, grabbing my wrist and rolling my finger across the glass scanner plate. The machine beeped, flashing green. "Left thumb. Press down."
"Officer," I said, my voice steady despite the hammer of my pulse against my temples. "Does Lieutenant Miller handle all the property releases for county transfers?"