"You took your time, Ed," Coyle snapped, stepping between the driver and the back seat of the cruiser where I sat pinned.
"Bridge traffic’s crawling," the driver answered, his voice rough with gravel. He didn't glance at me. He looked straight at the Lincoln’s rear axle. "Pete’s already clearing the rear bay at the yard. Said if the rear suspension's got the reinforced carriage plates, the tank has to drop before we touch the floorboards. Who’s in the cage?"
"Nobody who's walking away from this turnout with a license," Coyle muttered. "Hook the front control arms. Don't use the sling. I want the underside clean when it rolls into Bay Two. And don't touch the trunk box until Pete gets his hands on the bolts."
"The seal’s already busted, Vance," the driver said, nodding his chin toward the lifted trunk lid.
"I opened it. Just pull the rig."
Coyle didn't wait to watch the winch cable unspool. He walked back to the cruiser, wrenched open the driver's door, and slid behind the wheel. The car dipped under his weight. He shoved his personal phone back into his pocket, kicked the cruiser into gear, and spun the wheels against the oyster bed, spewing gravel against the side of the idling flatbed as he swung the cruiser back toward the north causeway.
"You're not heading toward the magistrate's precinct in Beaufort," I said, leaning toward the wire partition. The cold air coming through the front vents smelled of stale tobacco and scorched wiring. "The district intake is south across the inlet. The clerk of courts is waiting for that transit log."
"Clerk’s office closed at five," Coyle said, staring straight into the rain-slicked highway. "You're going to the holding annex at the substation. We'll verify your clearance in the morning."
"The probate transfer order requires the courier log to be time-stamped upon receipt, Vance. Judge Miller personally signed the delivery instruction. Arthur Pendelton's estate doesn't pass through a substation annex."