"You set me up," Vance whispered, the blood leaving his face until the stubble along his jaw stood out like iron shavings.
"You took the envelope yourself, Miller," I said, rising slowly from the bench and letting my bad knee lock straight.
"I didn't hand it to you."
Above us, the heavy steel security gates at the Schermerhorn entrance rattled on their tracks, slammed shut, and chained.
Footsteps—not two men, but half a dozen wearing hard-soled department boots—flooded down the central stairwell behind him.
Vance spun toward the noise, reaching instinctively for the heavy zipper of his vest to ditch the envelope onto the tracks, but the iron gate at the base of the landing crashed open before his fingers could even clear the pull tab.
CHAPTER 2: The Stolen Vouchers Clicked Inside Vance's Vest While The Gate Chained Shut
Captain Arthur Rourke did not rush the stairs.
He took them two at a time in heavy, salt-stained duty boots, his service overcoat hanging open to clear his holster, his radio handset already pinned against his collar.
Five uniformed transit security officers fanned out behind him along the tiled corridor, their rubber-soled shoes gripping the greasy grit of the Hoyt-Schermerhorn mezzanine.
They did not shout commands or draw sidearms.
They moved with the cold, rhythmic precision of men executing an administrative warrant signed six hours before the street lamps came on.
Vance stood frozen on the bottom riser, his spine rigid, his right thumb still hooked uselessly near his belt buckle.
The sneer had vanished from his mouth, replaced by a hollow, gray slackness that made him look ten years older than the brass badge pinned to his breast pocket.
"Captain," Vance managed.
His voice came out dry, catching in his throat like unground sand.
"What is this? I’m securing the lower concourse. We had an unscheduled vagrancy contact on the southbound bench."
Rourke stopped at the foot of the iron stairs, three paces away.
He was fifty-eight years old, his neck thick and weathered from thirty winters on platform details, his eyes pale and entirely devoid of surprise.
He did not look at Vance’s face.
His gaze dropped immediately to the left utility flap of Vance’s duty jacket, where the thick brown corner of the bank packet pushed a sharp, rectangular bulge against the ballistic nylon.
"Step down onto the concrete, Miller," Rourke said evenly.
"Captain, listen to me—"
"Step down to the platform and keep both hands flat on the iron handrail," Rourke repeated.
The tone was not angry.
It had the terrible, level finality of a court clerk stamping an eviction notice.
"Lieutenant Diaz,
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
"The package isn't torn," I said, setting my canvas bag on the corner of an oak desk that had lost its varnish before I was born.
My bad knee locked with a dull, sickening grind as I sat down on the cane-bottomed chair by the radiator.
"And it isn't ordinary transit paper."
Rourke stood over the desk, pulling off his black leather gloves finger by finger.