Briggs reached through the document pass-through slot. His fingers, thick and liver-spotted, picked up the clear sleeve. He held the pink carbon close to his glasses, angling it beneath his green desk lamp. He looked at the printed ink, the purple ink stamp from the Oakhaven Municipal Credit Union, and the list of forty sequential serial numbers starting with federal bank code B-7741.
Then he turned to his computer monitor. His keyboard clattered with five sharp keystrokes as he accessed the state court liaison interface, which mirrored the county sheriff's CAD server. His jaw set into a hard, uneven line.
"Unit 404," Briggs read quietly from the glowing screen. "Logged clear of Sector Three at eleven-thirty-eight. CAD entry signed by secondary operator Miller, Kevin. Entry text: 'Routine sector patrol. Zero citations, zero warnings, zero citizen contacts.'"
Briggs let out a long breath that smelled of peppermint lozenges. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing the bridge of his nose where two red indentations showed against his pale skin.
"Arthur... if I sign this preservation freeze, it orders the immediate impoundment of two active-duty duty belts, two personal lockers, and the cruiser's forward dashcam hard drive before the shift changes. It requires the on-duty lieutenant to execute an administrative search on his own men."
"The law says you have to sign it if there is reasonable cause to believe evidence of a felony is subject to imminent destruction," I said.
Before Briggs could answer, the heavy wood door beside the intake window clicked open.
Greg Vance stepped out into the hallway, holding a twenty-ounce plastic soda bottle in one hand and his black leather duty ledger in the other. His utility belt was already unclipped, hanging loose from his left shoulder, and his tactical vest was unzipped down the center to show a gray gym shirt. He was laughing over his shoulder at someone still inside the room, but the laugh cut off mid-breath when his eyes landed on my back.
His frame stiffened. The easy, swinging stride died in his boots. For two full seconds, he simply stood beneath the fluorescent tubes, his mouth slightly open, staring at my canvas coat like he was looking at a dead man who had climbed out of the ditch weeds.
"Pendelton?" Vance said, taking three slow, deliberate steps toward the counter. His voice was smooth again, but the skin around his temples had tightened, turning the color of skim milk. "What the hell are you doing hanging around the annex after hours? I told you, public dispute hours are Monday morning nine AM. You’re loitering in a restricted justice facility."
He looked past me, his eyes locking onto the papers Briggs was holding behind the glass.
"Ronald," Vance said, leaning his shoulder against the Lexan frame, his tone shifting into that heavy, manufactured friendliness small-town bullies use when they need to remind an official who pays for the parking lot. "Old Artie had a bad taillight out on Route 9 earlier. I cut him a break because of his age, told him to limp the truck home before he got somebody killed. Looks like he’s confused about what happened out there."
"He says you took two thousand dollars from his coat, Greg," Briggs said. The magistrate didn't look up from the petition. His voice was flat, carrying none of the deference Vance was expecting.
Vance let out a sharp, incredulous snort, shaking his head. "Two thousand dollars? On a farm mechanic with dry rot on his tires? Come on, Ronald. He was drifting over the centerline near the rail bridge. I ran a quick sobriety check, looked in his bed for loose cargo, and told him to get off the asphalt. Check the CAD log. We cleared zero contacts. If he’s claiming he lost an envelope, he probably dropped it in the gravel when he was stumbling around his cab."
"I didn't lose an envelope, Vance," I said, turning my head slowly to look him dead in the face. Up close, I could see the damp sweat along his hairline, and the heavy bulge in the left breast pocket of the gym jacket he was carrying over his arm. "The credit union scanned the serial numbers on every fifty-dollar bill before I left town. The ledger is sitting on Ronald’s desk."
Vance’s eyes flickered to the plastic sleeve in Briggs's hand. The smug, dismissive curl on his upper lip twitched once, a tiny, involuntary spasm of pure calculation.
"Miller!" Vance yelled, turning his head back toward the open muster room door without breaking his stance. "Miller, get out here!"
Deputy Kevin Miller appeared in the doorway three seconds later. The boy hadn't taken off his gear. His duty belt was cinched tight, his campaign hat pulled down so low the brim shadowed his eyes, and his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists against his trouser seams. He looked at me, then at Vance, and finally at the magistrate behind the glass. The kid was breathing shallowly, his chest hitching like he’d just run two miles uphill through the sleet.