"You aren't executing an order, Marcus," Clara said, leaning forward on the walker, her knuckles white where the arthritis twisted the joints. "You're trespassing on a dedicated federal right-of-way. And you're doing it while carrying stolen company payroll vouchers."
Dent let out a short, harsh breath through his nose. "What are you talking about, old woman?"
"The envelope," Clara said, pointing a trembling, blue-veined finger at his coat pocket. "You took the bank envelope out of the green cash box behind the hydraulic press. Frank drew that cash this morning from the credit union down on Springwells. It's marked on the back with the teller's purple stamp. And tucked inside that envelope, behind the hundred-dollar bills, isn't just Kovacs' pink haul ticket. Frank put the original nineteen-fifty-one right-of-way certificate in that safe after breakfast so the county assessor couldn't claim we lost the chain of title."
Dent’s hand twitched against his pocket. His eyes darted toward the open cab of his cruiser, then back to the yellow remote in my hands, then to Clara standing five yards away under the low aluminum eaves.
For the first time since he had driven his cruiser past the scrap gate, Marcus Dent looked uncertain.
"You're lying," he whispered, though the bravado had drained out of his voice. "He didn't put a land title in a cash envelope."
"Reach in and pull it out, Marcus," I said, stepping forward out of the tool-room threshold, my hand still holding the heavy cast-iron shunt lever, the pendant dangling ready against my chest. "Pull out the papers. Let's see what's written on the blue carbon copy under the cash. Let's see if it's got the Wayne County Registrar's seal from nineteen-fifty-one, or if it's got Kovacs' tax ID."
Dent didn't reach into his pocket. He couldn't. Because he hadn't opened the envelope after he took it from my counter; he had shoved it straight into his coat the moment his fingers touched the paper, eager to get the cash hidden before someone drove past the fence.
The precinct radio inside his car suddenly squawked again—louder this time, the dispatcher's voice cutting through the falling sleet with sharp, rhythmic clarity.
"Unit three-fourteen, confirm your location. We have a priority three automated service notification from Conrail dispatch regarding an unauthorized commercial vehicle obstructing sector nine track access at Fort and Dearborn. Unit three-fourteen, acknowledge."
Dent froze. The color drained from his neck, leaving his skin the color of dirty chalk.
"You called them," he hissed, turning his head toward me, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You didn't just drop that truck on the gate. You tripped the track sensor when you lowered the hoist."
"The crane doesn't just run on my power, Marcus," I said, stepping fully into the yard, letting the cold wind hit my face. "The ground cable for the secondary gantry is tied into the track signal circuit for the rail crossing fifty feet behind my shop. When the dropped cab hit the dirt, the crane's grounding clamp completed the circuit across the north rail. The railroad's automated safety board thinks a derailed freight car is sitting across the main spur."
I took another step toward his cruiser, my boots crushing the brittle ice over the mud.
"In about four minutes, the railroad police cruiser from the Delray yard is going to turn off Fort Street right behind your bumper," I told him. "And behind them will be the district supervisor with the federal right-of-way master ledger. When they get here, Marcus, they aren't going to ask to see Kovacs' pink haul slip. They're going to search every vehicle within fifty feet of this crossing to find out who grounded the main trunk line."
Dent’s hand dropped from his sidearm. He looked down at the cruiser, pinned tight against the scrap fence by five tons of compacted truck frame, its wheels unable to turn, its rear bumper three inches from the heavy steel rail of the gantry post. He looked at the locked machine shop shutter, then at Clara standing resolute in the doorway with her oxygen hissing in the freezing air, and finally back at me.
"You're an old bastard, Frank," Dent said, his voice shaking with a cold, desperate fury.
"I'm a mechanic who pays his bills," I answered. "Now take the envelope out of your pocket, drop it on the hood of your cruiser, and unclip your duty belt."