"Raymond Miller was my first sergeant at Dak To," I told him, dropping the transfer case into four-wheel drive as the rear tires hit the muddy grass along the easement fence. "And he doesn't like thieves wearing county brass any more than I do."
The Ford bounded over the drainage ditch, the leaf springs groaning as we cut behind the salt sheds and through the narrow opening between two rows of stacked road culverts. Behind us, through the rearview mirror, I saw the double glass doors of the substation fly open. Marcus Vance stepped out onto the concrete stoop, a yellow slicker thrown over his wide shoulders and a black heavy-duty flashlight in his left hand. The white beam of the torch cut through the sheets of falling sleet, sweeping across the empty space where my pickup had been sitting thirty seconds before.
Vance didn't run. He stood on the edge of the stoop, raised the radio mic to his lips, and clicked the transmit button twice. Across the yard, the amber beacons on Pete Willis’s utility truck flared to life, its diesel engine belching a thick plume of black exhaust into the gray air as the heavy rig lurched into gear to follow our tracks through the mud.
I didn't touch the brakes. I pushed the gas pedal down until the speedometer needle reached thirty-five, the steering wheel kicking violently in my palms as the tires chewed through the frozen weeds along the abandoned rail spur that led straight toward Church Street.
Beside me, Hayes pulled his service weapon from its leather holster with two shaking fingers. He didn't point it at me; he rested the barrel against his own knee, the safety still clicked firmly in the upward position.
"If he catches us before we reach the teletype," Hayes whispered, "he’ll say I was in the cab with you trying to negotiate an illegal kickback. He’ll say you bribed me with the two thousand to drop the lane violation."
"He can say whatever lies his mouth can shape," I said, shifting into third gear as the truck hit the broken macadam of Church Street. "Because Clara Henderson’s purple ink isn't just on his glove anymore, Hayes."
Hayes looked at me, his eyes wide and blank. "What are you talking about?"
"Look down at your right cuff," I told him.
Hayes looked down. Right on the edge of his starched khaki sleeve, where he had reached into his trouser pocket to pull out the brass key, was a faint, clean smudge of violet bank ink. It had transferred from the safe’s secondary dial when Marcus had forced the lock shut thirty minutes ago, and Hayes had rubbed his wrist right across the brass face while he was stealing the key off Vance’s blotter.
"That ink doesn't wash out with kerosene," I said, leaning over the wheel as the red brick tower of the old firehouse loomed through the freezing mist. "And Raymond Miller still keeps his magnifying glass in his pocket."
CHAPTER 4: What The Morning Disclosed
The firehouse boiler kicked on with a heavy iron shudder, sending a thin metallic tick through the pipes overhead as the dawn broke over Church Street. Outside the garage bay windows, the sleet had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle that coated the municipal power poles in clear, brittle glaze.
Raymond Miller did not rise from his metal folding chair when the two state cruisers turned into the gravel apron at six-fifteen. He sat beside the dispatch radio with his spectacles balanced halfway down his nose, his thumb resting flat on the mahogany case of his pocket watch. On the green blotter between us lay three physical exhibits: the brass precinct lockbox key, the purple-stained carbon duplicate of my bank withdrawal, and the single carbon strip that had printed out of the state teletype forty minutes before dawn, logging Marcus Vance's personal safe access from the night terminal.
When the side entrance opened, Captain Thomas from the Cold Springs barracks walked through, shaking the sleet off his wool garrison cap. Two uniformed state troopers followed him into the narrow office, their holsters buckled shut against the weather, their rain capes dripping onto the ribbed rubber floor runners.
"Raymond," Captain Thomas said, touching the brim of his cap. "The district attorney received your priority telecopy at five-ten. We have the township building sealed off, and the district judge signed the preservation order ten minutes ago."