"Then look at what he told you to carry," I said, holding the board fast against the iron frame.
Beneath the pink civilian property slip, the yellow courier routing manifest from Redline Transit was pinned by its top perforation. Clamped directly behind it was an official precinct evidence release voucher—Form 109-B—stamped with the red wax impression of the County District Attorney’s Special Narcotics Division. The voucher authorized the emergency transfer of twelve sealed steel shipping lockers containing thirty-four kilos of confiscated synthetic narcotics and unregistered firearms seized three weeks earlier from the Corliss warehouse raid.
The state repository in Albany was listed as the intended destination, but the routing stamp had been struck through with two diagonal lines of black marker. In the margin, written in Sullivan’s heavy, angular handwriting, was a new delivery destination: Redline Transit Yard 4 - Commercial Freight Gate 12. Attached to the bottom was Sullivan's personal shield number, #4182, alongside an electronic gate override code scheduled for activation at 02:15 AM.
This was no hot-tempered patrolman roughing up an unannounced auditor over a breach of perimeter protocol. Sullivan wasn't trying to protect his pride or hide a messy intake room. He was running a state-level evidence theft ring directly out of the precinct's impound basement, utilizing the scheduled overnight network diagnostic window to strip high-value contraband from the evidence vaults and load it onto an unmonitored commercial freight truck.
Miller stared down at the yellow manifest, his face draining of whatever color remained. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking in the silence.
"I didn't sign that voucher," Miller whispered, his voice cracking into a desperate plea. "He told me it was auxiliary surplus being relocated for incinerator clearance. He told me it was county scrap metal."
"You logged the diagnostic blackout on terminal two, Miller," I told him, holding his gaze through the wire mesh. "You disabled the intake cameras while he stripped the evidence room. When Redline clears the impound gate at two-fifteen, the digital logs will show you were the only officer sitting at the terminal when the cages were opened. Sullivan isn't sharing the payout with you. He’s leaving your badge number on the electronic footprint."
The panic in Miller’s eyes shifted instantly into raw, animal self-preservation. But instead of releasing the latch or reaching for the radio on his shoulder, his fingers clamped around the top of the aluminum board. He didn't try to help me. He twisted the clipboard with all his strength, tearing the yellow manifest free from the clamp, though the corner bearing Sullivan's written gate override code ripped off and stayed locked between my fingers inside the cell.
"I can't undo it," Miller stammered, stumbling backward as he broke free from the slot. He shoved the crumpled paperwork into his jacket pocket, his breathing ragged and shallow. "If Derek goes down, he takes everyone who touched this shift with him. I have three months left on my probationary period. I have a family."
"Miller, open this door," I commanded.
Miller didn't answer. He turned his back on Tank Four, ran two paces to the wall console beside the booking desk, and flipped the heavy red toggle controlling the isolation blackout shield.
With a dull, pneumatic hiss, a solid slab of sheet steel dropped over the viewport from the outside, sealing the observation slit completely. The rectangle of yellow light vanished. Tank Four plunged into total, suffocating darkness, leaving only the smell of damp concrete and the copper taste of my split lip.
Through the heavy steel slab, I heard the electronic chirp of the console locking the cell's magnetic deadbolt from the main panel, followed by Miller’s hurried footsteps retreating toward the rear sally port. Then, from two floors beneath my feet, the deep, rhythmic vibration of a heavy diesel engine turned over, rattling the iron plumbing pipes inside the wall as the hands of my wristwatch crept past two in the morning.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
The nylon band snapped with a dull pop that drove my knuckles hard into the floor slab.
I pulled my hands apart, rubbing the numb meat of my thumbs until the blood returned in needles of burning heat. Standing upright, I reached into my trousers pocket to verify the torn corner of Sullivan’s yellow courier manifest. The fibrous paper was damp with my sweat, but the ballpoint ink remained legible: 02:15 AM, accompanied by Sullivan’s badge number and the six-digit alphanumeric entry string for Bay 3.
Before I could reach the food wicket, the heavy intake door at the end of the outer hall banged open against its rubber stop.