"This is an active impound scene, Trooper," Briggs said, his tone dropping an octave, losing its professional warmth. "Detroit Police Department maintains primary territorial jurisdiction over code enforcement on this easement. Your dispatch was an automated relay. You don't have cause to enter a private office on an administrative tow call."
"An officer-involved distress signal was triggered from this physical address," Vance replied, his posture stiffening. "That gives the State Police supervisory oversight over the physical scene until the alarm origin is cleared. If there's an active recording device that captured the initial confrontation, that card is physical evidence. Step away from the tow chains."
Briggs didn't move. He stood planted between the wrecker's rear tires and the Laurentian's front grille, six feet two inches of solid muscle and heavy winter wool. "I hooked this rig under a city warrant, son. You touch those chains without a supervisor on scene, and you’re obstructing a municipal officer in the execution of his sworn duties."
"Step away from the chains, Officer," Vance repeated, his voice dropping into the flat, lethal cadence of a state patrolman who was not going to ask a third time.
Across the alley, the second trooper shifted his grip on the Remington, taking two deliberate steps toward Briggs's flank.
Briggs looked at the second cruiser, then down at the yellow citation pad in his hand. Very slowly, he tucked the pad into his vest, let his hands drop to his sides, and took two paces back toward the alley wall, leaving the path to the Pontiac open.
"Key's on the red pegboard, Arthur?" Vance asked me, keeping his eyes on Briggs.
"Red pegboard," I answered, the steel cuffs cutting deep into my skin as I straightened my spine. "Small brass barrel key with blue tape on the ring. But you need to hurry. That solid-state drive is wired to a twenty-minute auxiliary timer. If the main battery terminal loses connection, the drive initiates an automatic thermal wipe to protect customer data."
Briggs's gaze snapped to the front fender of the Pontiac, where the wrecker's steel hook was jammed inches from the primary battery cable. He knew the wiring in those older cars; he knew how close his chains were to severing the twelve-volt main line. If he tripped that boom lever, the evidence wouldn't just be seized—it would be erased forever.
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUED
The second trooper, Hollis, shifted his boots on the wet asphalt, his shotgun barrel dipping just enough to cover the narrow space between the Laurentian’s front bumper and the wrecker’s hydraulic winch. Across the yellow line, Briggs let out a dry, rattling chuckle, though his jaw muscles bunched tight against his collar.
"You're stepping outside departmental protocol, son," Briggs said, his tone dropping into that smooth, practiced gravel he used when he wanted a junior officer to think about his career. "You're taking the word of an unpermitted grease-monkey over an active municipal impound order. That car has been red-tagged since Tuesday. If that battery drops out, it’s because he rigged a fire trap in a commercial zone."
"Shut your mouth, Officer," Vance said without turning around. He stepped into the dim, solvent-smelling warmth of my front office.
Through the wired safety glass of the office partition, I watched him scan the tool boards. The red pegboard hung directly behind the ancient cast-iron register, crowded with rusted distributor wrenches, timing lights, and spare brass fittings. Right in the center, hanging from an unpainted drywall screw, was the brass barrel key wrapped in blue electrical tape.
Vance reached out, lifted it from the peg, and pulled the carbon paper field receipt from the corkboard where I had pinned it an hour before. He held the yellow slip to the bare overhead bulb, his eyes tracking the purple ink stamped by the teller at the Detroit Municipal Credit Union: Cash Withdrawal — $3,000. 00 — Account Holder: Arthur Cole — 1:18 PM.
When Vance walked back into the bay, the paper was folded neatly in his breast pocket. He knelt beside the driver's door of the Laurentian, his shoulder brushing the cold chrome sill.
"Keyhole is beneath the heater box, Trooper," I said, leaning my ribs against the zinc bench to keep the nausea from rising. "Two turns clockwise. If you force the tumbler, the backup ground will trip the relay."
Vance didn't answer. He slid his hand beneath the dash, his uniform sleeve pulling taut over his forearm. The alley went completely still except for the hollow drip of runoff from the rusted eaves above the bay door. For five seconds, the only sound was the metallic tick of the brass key finding the housing.