He had his gun belt off, carrying his service holster in his left hand while he held a foam cup of coffee in his right. He stopped three feet behind Hayes, his heavy brows drawing together as he looked through the window at my face. The black leather patrol gloves were gone, tucked into his back trousers pocket, but his sleeves were rolled up to his thick forearms.
"What's he doing in here, Hayes?" Vance asked, not looking at me.
"Wants a receipt," Hayes muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "Says he’s tracking a statutory clock."
Vance let out a short, dry laugh through his nose. He took a sip from the foam cup, set it down on Hayes's blotter, and leaned his knuckles against the inside counter. He brought his face close to the speak-through grill. The red welt on my chin was level with his left eye.
"You're making a serious mistake, old man," Vance said softly. "You come into a secure substation making wild accusations about missing currency, you can find yourself charged with filing a false instrument against a peace officer. That’s a Class D felony in this county. That carries twenty-four months in the state facility up at Fortner. You think your joints can handle two winters on concrete?"
"I think my joints handled seventy-one in the central highlands," I told him, holding his gaze until his jaw muscles twitched. "And I think if you had that money logged into the county locker, you'd have slid the property voucher through this tray two minutes ago just to see me walk out empty-handed."
Vance’s eyes narrowed into slits. "Get him out of here, Hayes. Write him up for criminal trespass if he doesn't clear the glass in thirty seconds."
"Go ahead and write the summons," I said. "Put your badge number on it, Vance. Because the moment you book me into the county system, state dispatch has to receive the arrest manifest, and the magistrate has to open an intake file. And the first thing I’m handing the magistrate is this."
I pulled the yellow carbon slip from my pocket and flattened it against the thick polycarbonate glass with the palm of my hand.
The black ink of Clara Henderson's teller signature was sharp and dark across the bottom margin. But right across the transaction box, where the four five-hundred-dollar straps were itemized by serial range, was the purple ink stamp of the agricultural branch—the exact oval seal that Marcus Vance had smeared onto his thumb when he dragged the bills from my shirt.
Vance looked at the slip. He didn't move. For four long seconds, the only sound in the cinder-block room was the hum of the fluorescent tube flickering directly over his head.
"You think you’re smart, Arthur," Vance said, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register men use when they realize an easy mark has laid an anchor in their path. "You think a yellow slip proves where that paper went after you drove away from the bank."
"It proves what was in the pocket your hand reached into," I said. "And it proves the exact amount missing from my yard account tonight. Clara’s brother might be your cousin, Marcus, but the vault cameras at the drive-up don't belong to your family. They belong to the federal reserve district. And Albright over at the main office doesn't burn federal tape for anybody."
Hayes looked up at Vance, his eyes wide and uncertain. "Marcus," Hayes whispered. "Let's just—"
"Shut up," Vance snapped without looking down.
He stepped closer to the plastic barrier, his chest pressing against the inner ledge. He didn't look like a deputy sheriff then; he looked like a man who had backed his own truck into a ditch and realized the water was rising faster than his winch could pull.