The Officer Thought the Calm Man Beside the Luxury Sedan Was Someone He Could Push Around. Twenty Minutes Later, One Phone Call at the Precinct Made Every Officer in the Room Go Silent.

Chapter 8

Theme:
Font Size:
24px

The two road deputies stopped their typing. The room went unnervingly quiet.

"You pulled those green ledgers out of a bolted compartment that was secured under State Comptroller Seal number four-zero-two-nine," I continued, looking around the room. "And you didn't call county tow. You called Ed at Oakhaven Salvage on your personal mobile to cut the floorboards before shift change. Tell Sergeant Miller what's underneath the rear floorboards, Vance."

Coyle's face flushed dark red, the veins along his temples swelling against his skin. "Shut your mouth. Frank, cuff him to the wall pipe. He's trying to disrupt intake."

"Hold on, Vance," Miller said. The sergeant stood up, his chair rolling back against the steel filing cabinets. His eyes shifted from Coyle's tense, defensive stance down to the three ledgers on the desk. "The wire seal on this evidence bag is missing."

"The latch was broken when I stopped him," Coyle said immediately, his voice rising an octave. "The car was an abandoned hazard."

"The latch was sheared with a wedge," I stated. "The paint chips from Coyle's trunk crowbar are stuck to the Lincoln's bumper right now. And if you open the third ledger on your counter—the one with the marbled green spine—to page eighty-eight, you will find four check disbursements made out to Coyle Drainage & Grading between March 2021 and August 2023. All four checks were drawn on the county flood abatement fund. All four were signed by County Commissioner Marcus Coyle, Vance's uncle."

The squad room dropped into complete stillness. Even the computer fans seemed to fade.

Sergeant Miller looked at Coyle. Coyle didn't move. He stood with his jaw locked, his hand clamped so tight around his flashlight that his knuckles were stark white.

Miller reached out with one thick finger and flipped the green ledger open. He turned the heavy, rag-paper leaves. The rustle of paper was the only sound in the precinct. When he stopped at page eighty-eight, his eyes scanned the hand-inked columns. A typed municipal voucher was paper-clipped to the corner, bearing the blue embossed seal of the county commissioners' office and two signatures: Marcus Coyle, and an illegible approval line below it.

News in the same category

The Officer Thought the Calm Man Beside the Luxury Sedan Was Someone He Could Push Around. Twenty Minutes Later, One Phone Call at the Precinct Made Every Officer in the Room Go Silent.

11 Part