I gripped the black thumb drive, yanked it from the port, and dropped it into the front pocket of my denim work trousers. I reached up and hit the power switch on the small LCD monitor, killing the display before the blue standby light could draw an eye. I swung the cabinet door shut, turned the brass key in the lock, and dropped the key ring back onto my belt carabiner.
"Keep your register lane open," I told Cynthia. "Don't let Vance send the customers out the side doors."
"What are you going to do with that drive?" she asked.
"Give Miller something he has to put on the state log," I said.
I stepped out from behind the counter just as Deputy Miller unclipped a pair of hinged steel handcuffs from the rear of his duty belt.
"Mr. Bell," Miller said, his tone carrying the polite, practiced fatigue of a small-town officer who wanted the call finished before his shift ended at six. "Mr. Vance here is signing a formal complaint for retail larceny and theft of personal property. I need you to turn around and place your hands behind your back."
Arthur didn't pull away, but he didn't turn around either. His jaw was clenched so hard the tendon stood out like wire against his weathered throat. "Deputy, I served thirty years without an entry on my record. I never took a dime that wasn't paid to me in wages."
"Save the speech for the magistrate, Arthur," Vance said, stepping up beside the deputy, his chest puffed out under his company tie. "We have the stolen property. We have the witnesses. The store has zero tolerance for vagrancy and theft."
"Deputy Miller," I said, walking directly into the circle and stopping between Vance and the register scanner. "Before you put those irons on an elderly veteran, you need to ask Marcus to open his left trouser pocket."
Vance’s face shifted instantly from smug triumph to furious contempt. "David, you are officially terminated. Clear your locker and get off the premises before I have the officer add criminal trespass to your file."
"What's in his pocket, David?" Deputy Miller asked, pausing with the cuffs resting against his forearm. He looked at me with the tired scrutiny of an officer who had dealt with Vance's store disputes before.
"The receipt Walter Geller signed at the contractor desk at five thirty-five," I said clearly, letting every word carry across the silent checkout lanes. "Walter set his wallet on the counter while he signed the invoice. When Marcus slid that yellow file over the wallet to steal it, he shoved Walter's yellow carbon customer copy into his own left pocket to cover the bare wood. It’s still in his pants right now. And if you don't want to search him here, you can watch the high-definition feed from Cam-09 on the terminal in your patrol car."
I pulled the black thumb drive from my pocket and held it out, balanced on the flat of my palm, directly under Deputy Miller's eyes.
The black plastic casing of the thumb drive was cold against my palm, but the heat coming off Deputy Miller was unmistakable. He did not reach for the drive. He kept his right hand resting on the hilt of his service weapon, his eyes flicking between my outstretched fingers, Marcus Vance’s flushed face, and Arthur Bell’s steady, motionless stance.
"David," Miller said, his voice dropping into the low, deliberate register used by patrolmen who sensed a routine call slipping sideways. "You're telling me you pulled security files off an active corporate server without an administrative warrant?"
"I used my supervisory login," I said, stepping half a pace forward so Vance could not block the deputy's line of sight. "Section four of the regional safety manual authorizes any shift manager to preserve digital media during an active loss-prevention incident. Marcus knows that rule. He wrote it on the breakroom board three months ago when the power tools vanished from the outside lockup."
Vance’s face darkened from mottled red to a tight, waxen pallor. "Miller, he’s stalling. He's trying to manufacture confusion so his friend doesn't spend the night in county lockup. I caught this old man with Walt Geller’s billfold in his hands. You've known me five years. Are you going to take the word of an hourly stock clerk over the store manager?"
"I don't take anybody's word when there’s a machine recording the counter, Marcus," Miller said. He turned his head toward Walter Geller. "Walt, did you sign a receipt before your wallet went missing?"