Hollister was reading the specials board above Martha’s head. "Coffee first, Martha. Then go out back and check the compressor on your reach-in cooler. You’ve had an open condenser leak on that alley wall since August. Building inspector hasn't written the stop-work order yet because I haven't told him to."
Martha didn't reach for the glass pot. She was sixty-one, with bad veins in both legs and a husband who had spent thirty years behind the counter before his heart gave out in the dish pit. Her apron strings were knotted so tight they bit into her waist. She looked from Hollister’s gun belt down to my shoulder where my jacket had torn along the seam.
"He's bleeding, Wayne," she said. Her voice didn't shake, but it was thin, like paper pulled too tight over a frame. "You knocked a seventy-two-year-old man into my pastry case."
"He tripped over his own boots because he won't accept an eviction," Hollister said. He turned the salt shaker upside down, watching the white grains mound on the dark brown table. "Walter’s scrap yard sits on five acres of county road right-of-way. The lease expired at midnight. He knows the statute. He’s had sixty days to haul his junk iron north of the river, and instead he comes in here trying to shove private mail in my face."
"It wasn't private mail," I forced the words out between my teeth. The blood had tracked down into the crease of my mouth, tasting of salt and iron. "It came from the county assessor's clerk. Addressed to the Board of Commissioners. But your name is on the pickup receipt."
Hollister didn't flinch. He reached into his vest pocket, took out a gold toothpick, and tapped it against the edge of his water glass. "Everything in this township comes to my desk first, Walter. That's not a crime. That's administration. When a parcel gets abandoned, the sheriff secures the title until the public auction."
"It wasn't abandoned," I said, my knuckles tightening on the manila sleeve. "The property taxes were paid through December. My girl wired the escrow from Norfolk three weeks ago."
Over the open line on the floor, the background noise changed. The hum of Karen’s office in Virginia vanished, replaced by the distinct, rhythmic clacking of high-speed keyboard strokes and a dead, flat silence that I knew better than anyone. It was the tone she used when an underway replenishment went sour or a boiler room took on water.
"Dad," she said, her voice dropping into a register that cut straight through the diner’s exhaust fan. "Do not move. Keep the line open. Who is the officer speaking?"
Hollister finally heard the tinny rattle from the floorboards. His heavy brows drew down. He didn't look startled; he looked annoyed, the way a man looks when an old kitchen clock won't stop ticking while he's trying to read the paper.
He pushed back from the booth, the vinyl screeching against his uniform trousers. His polished black service boot came down three inches from my fingers, pinning the bottom corner of the envelope to the floor.
"Who are you talking to, Walter?" he asked softly.
He bent down, his leather holster groaning under the strain of his gut, and picked the flip phone off the linoleum by its antenna. He held it up to his ear for three seconds, his jaw working as he listened to the silence on the other end.
"Look, lady," Hollister said into the receiver, his voice dropping into that smooth, condescending baritone he used at town hall meetings when widows complained about gravel trucks. "Whoever this is, Walter had a little fall at Ruby Lane. He’s confused. We’re getting him an ambulance, but right now you’re tying up a county emergency line. Hang it up or I'll have the Oakhaven switchboard flag the number for harassment."
He didn't wait for a reply. His thumb pressed down on the red disconnect button, and he dropped the phone into his jacket pocket.
Then he reached down and yanked the manila envelope out from under my fingers. The paper tore along the gummed edge, leaving a ragged triangle of brown stock between my bloody fingernails.
"You should've stayed out at the creek, Walter," Hollister said. He slipped the appraisal into his inner jacket, right next to his gold shield. "Now get up off Martha’s floor before I charge you with creating a public nuisance in an eating establishment."
He turned his back on me and walked toward the cash register, pulling a five-dollar bill from his clip.
I didn't try to stand. I knew my ribs were cracked, and the dizziness behind my right ear meant if I tried to lever myself up against the counter, I'd end up flat on my back again. Instead, I dragged my knees under me, using the lower shelf of the pie display to steady my weight.