Vance reached down, his fingers catching the edge of the unsigned trespass warning. He slowly, deliberately crumpled the carbon paper into a tight ball inside his fist.
"You think you’re smart, Mercer," he murmured, his face coming down within six inches of mine, his teeth bared in a furious, cornered grimace. "You think you’re untouchable because you’ve got two pages of server logs. But Olympia doesn't pave these county roads. The people who own those haulers live here. They sit on the county commission. They fund our retirement board. Even if your sister talked, those state auditors have to refer charges back to our district prosecutor. And our prosecutor doesn't move a single docket without our sheriff’s blessing."
He straightened up, his hand shoving the crumpled trespass slip deep into his pocket. He turned his head slightly toward Briggs. "Clear the concourse. We’re going back to the substation."
"Deputy Vance," I said before he could take a stride.
He stopped, his spine stiffening beneath his dark utility vest.
"The state auditors didn't come alone," I told him, keeping my voice level and quiet enough that only he and Briggs could hear. "Sarah didn't just copy the weigh tickets. She copied the GPS transit pings from your patrol vehicle’s automatic location beacon for the last ninety days. Every single night an overloaded hauler rolled through the scale bypass, your cruiser was parked at the crossroads, running traffic block so the state troopers wouldn't intercept them. That’s not an administrative oversight, Deputy. That’s a commercial conspiracy under color of authority."
Vance didn't turn around to face me again. His neck flushed a deep, mottled crimson beneath his cropped gray hair. He tapped Briggs hard on the bicep with the back of his hand, a sharp, urgent shove that sent the younger deputy scurrying toward the service hallway exit.
I didn't move. I sat in the hard booth until their boot heels stopped squeaking against the polished floor tiles. Then, with steady hands, I gathered the manila folder, slid the certified audit sheets back inside, and tucked it securely into the breast pocket of my wool coat.
My phone vibrated once against my ribcage. I pulled it out.
A text message from an unknown 360-area code sat on the screen, sent two minutes earlier: Auditor team has Sarah at the regional annex. We need the original physical jump drive from the locker before Vance realizes the terminal port was logged. Meet us at the south loading dock in ten minutes.
I pushed back from the table, picked up my coat, and walked toward the freight corridor.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
The metal crash bar on the loading door gave way under my palm with a loud, hollow thud.
Outside, the October air hit my face like cold tap water. The loading bay sat four feet below grade, framed by concrete retaining walls stained dark with diesel soot. A single unmarked gray sedan idle-chattered near the trash compactor, its tailpipe puffing white vapor into the gravel alleyway. The passenger door opened before I reached the bottom of the concrete steps.
A woman in an uncreased navy trench coat stepped into the draft, a laminated state credential hanging around her neck from a black lanyard. "Nathan Mercer?"
"I'm Mercer," I said.
"Get in," she said, nodding toward the open rear seat. "I'm Special Agent Alvarez. State Auditor’s Special Investigations. Keep your head below the headrest until we clear the frontage road."
I slid onto the vinyl bench. The car was already warm, smelling faintly of stale black coffee and heater dust. In the front passenger seat, Sarah was hunched forward, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her hair was pulled back in an untidy knot, strands coming loose around her temples, and her shoulder trembled slightly beneath her gray fleece jacket. When she turned to look at me, her eyes were rimmed with red, but the panic that had shattered her voice over the diner payphone four hours ago had settled into a hard, exhausted focus.