Marcus reached into his pocket one more time. He didn't pull out a paper. He pulled out a heavy brass padlock key, scratched and scored from years of use, attached to a red plastic tag marked with Arthur’s handwriting.
"We don't need your court order to look at the gate, Harlan," Marcus said, laying the brass key squarely in the middle of the sheriff’s half-eaten breakfast. "Arthur kept the spare master key from when he built that fence in ninety-four. The gate is already unlocked. What we need to find out now is who gave Brody the combination to the staging yard safe."
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
Arthur sat back on the counter stool, his boots barely grazing the lower chrome rail. He had kept the pressure on his temple, but the terrycloth had stiffened with dark crust where the blood had slowed to a steady seepage. "You told me the state closed the file on that timber line two years ago, Harlan," Arthur said, his voice stripped of anger, carrying only the dull weight of a neighbor who had realized too late that an old friend’s word had expired. "You sat on my well cover and watched Sarah tend the garden, and you told her the state markers had rotted out in the wet spring of ninety-six. You knew then."
Miller’s eyes shifted from the brass key to Arthur’s gray face, but his voice stayed low, pitched for the four walls of the booth. "You don't understand the township budget, Arthur. The county was four hundred thousand short on bridge replacements along the north fork. If the state seized Section 14 under the conservation easement, the school district lost the road tax credit. Brody was clearing salvage wood to fund the culverts."
"Brody wasn't clearing culverts," Marcus Vance said. He didn't raise his voice, but the paper in his hand rattled slightly against the laminate as he spread Arthur’s carbon sheets flat. "The timber mill in Oakhaven logged sixteen loads of prime black walnut across their scales over the last fourteen days. Every check went to Pine Creek Aggregate, an LLC incorporated in Delaware with one listed principal officer: Laura Miller. Your sister, Harlan. Brody’s wife."
Brody twisted his neck against the cedar paneling, his handcuffed wrists straining against the chain. "That’s private commercial equipment leasing, Marcus! You can't tie equipment rental to state timber tallies! Harlan doesn't run the LLC!"
"Agent Thorne," Marcus said without turning his head. "Escort Mr. Cole to the transport vehicle. Place him under custodial hold for felony theft of federal property, assault on a witness, and interfering with a federal officer. Do not release him to county custody under any circumstances."
Thorne gripped Brody’s bicep and steered him toward the aluminum door. Brody dug his work boots into the linoleum, his canvas coat riding up, but Thorne’s leverage was absolute. The brass bell over the lintel clattered hard as the door swung open, letting in a bitter wash of morning frost and diesel exhaust before latching shut behind them.
The diner felt instantly larger and colder.
"I need to wash this," Arthur murmured, looking down at his jacket front where the coffee and blood had soaked through the faded denim. He started to stand, but his balance gave way, his knees trembling under his weight.
I moved around the register, caught Arthur under his left arm, and steadied him against the counter ledge. "Sit back down, Arthur. Take it slow. Let Davis get the kit from the truck."
"I can walk, Ben," the old man said, though he didn't pull away from my grip. His hand closed hard around my forearm, his calloused fingers knotting into the sleeve of my flannel shirt. "I don't need an ambulance to tell me my head hurts. What I need is my survey receipt back from Harlan’s office. He took the original township tract ledger out of the recorder's desk last Friday before the courthouse closed."
Marcus looked up sharply from the yellow sheets. "The original ninety-four tract ledger? That’s county property, Arthur. It belongs in the public deeds room."
"It was on Harlan's desk when I went in to pay my road parcel tax," Arthur said, his jaw tightening as he spoke through the pain. "I saw the blue cloth binding right under his dispatch clipboard. When I asked the clerk why the plat map wasn't in the vault drawer, she looked at Harlan, and Harlan told me the binding had split and he was having it rebound at the print shop in town. But he never sent it. He’s got the whole nineteenth-century surveyor’s log sitting in his personal locker."