M-E-R-C-E-R, S-L-O-A-N-E.
The hard drive inside the county terminal chirped as it queried the state criminal justice information system and the federal law enforcement database. For four seconds, the only sound in the booking vestibule was the hum of the fluorescent tubes overhead and the low murmur of dispatch traffic through the wall speaker.
Then the system cleared the lookup.
Miller leaned in closer to the monitor. His eyebrows pulled together. The casual indifference in his posture evaporated completely; his spine straightened against the back of his mesh chair until his uniform shirt pulled taut across his chest. He stopped breathing for a beat, his gaze scanning the red security clearance banners and the high-level DOJ credential flags that lit up across the screen.
He didn't speak to Harlan.
He didn't look at the arrest affidavit.
Miller raised his right hand, reached across the counter, and gently slid the metal intake bin out of the way. Then he looked straight into my eyes, his face pale beneath his graying stubble.
"Deputy Chief Mercer?" Miller asked, his voice cracking slightly on the title.
"Yes, Sergeant," I said. "United States Attorney's Office, Criminal Division. Public Corruption Section."
Harlan let out a short, scoffing breath from the side of his mouth, shaking his head. "Come on, Frank. It's an alias or a stolen profile. She was squatting in a dead woman's yard in sweatpants. Nobody from the district lives in Crestview without—"
"Shut up, Grant," Miller said. The command wasn't loud, but it was hit with the blunt weight of a desk sergeant who suddenly smelled an administrative homicide.
Before Harlan could process the order, the red landline telephone sitting on the supervisor's desk began to ring. It wasn't the regular administrative line. It was the direct, unlisted tie-line connecting municipal headquarters to the county district attorney's watch desk.
Miller picked up the receiver on the second ring, his knuckles white around the black plastic.
"Desk, Sergeant Miller," he said.
He listened. The silence stretched for six long seconds. Miller's eyes never left Harlan's face, his expression darkening with every word coming through the earpiece. The voice on the other end was loud enough that even from the prisoner dock, I could hear the rapid, furious cadence of an assistant district attorney reading a county emergency notification that had just bounced off the regional federal liaison desk.
Miller closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, exhaling through his nostrils.
"Yes, sir," Miller said into the receiver. "She's standing right in front of the counter. Understood. Immediately."
He hung up the heavy receiver, the plastic clicking into the cradle with a sharp, sickening finality. Miller stood up, bypassed the swinging half-door of the counter, and walked directly toward where I stood. He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a small brass universal handcuff key, and caught the chain between my wrists.
"Sergeant," Harlan blurted out, taking a panicked step forward, his hand instinctively falling toward his holster before he caught himself. "We haven't cleared the inventory search. She's still under active arrest for—"
"Harlan," Miller said, his voice deadly quiet as the first cuff snapped open, releasing the purple ridge across my right wrist. "If you say one more word before the watch commander gets down those stairs, I am personally going to relieve you of your sidearm and log you into cell three for filing a false official report."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED