Coyle let out a short, nasal laugh. "His wallet had a civilian license, Frank. No county badge. Just a dead man's keys and an attitude."
"My badge was in the center console of the vehicle your private tow truck just towed to an unlisted yard," I said, speaking directly to Sergeant Miller. "And the transit order isn't missing. It was filed electronically with the state administrative office of courts at three-fifteen this afternoon."
"Electronic registry closed at four," Coyle barked. "He's bluffing to keep himself out of lockup."
"Check the emergency probate transmittal line," I said, keeping my gaze locked on Miller's face. "The transmittal requires a telephone verification before any estate custodian can be detained. It's State Code 14-B. If you book an bonded probate officer without running the carrier code, the county faces personal statutory liability for every minute of unlawful detention."
Sergeant Miller paused. The wooden handle of the ink stamp hung an inch above the blue paper. He was fifty-six, eight years from his pension, and unlike Coyle, he had seen enough county audits to know that probate laws were written with teeth.
"What carrier code?" Miller asked, setting the stamp aside.
"Miller-Seven-Seven-Alpha," I replied clearly. "Call the administrative clerk's after-hours dispatch line. Not road dispatch. The clerk's direct probate desk."
Coyle stepped into my space, his chest grazing my shoulder. "Frank, don't waste time on this old guy's fairy tale. Pete’s already logging the car into the lot. We sign the property sheet, drop him in the back, and let the magistrate sort it out at eight tomorrow."
"You broke the comptroller's seal on the trunk box with a crowbar at mile-marker nine, Coyle," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the ceiling ballasts.