"Ward leased public right-of-way under false environmental certifications," I spoke up, stepping out from behind Sterling’s shoulder. I held the open canvas bag forward just far enough for Calder to see the blue cardstock of the master dispatch ledger. "You forgot that every time a barge moved through the lower locks, the auxiliary pump station logged the water displacement on an analog drum recorder in my workshop. You can flood the server room, Calder. You can drown every hard drive Ward ever bought. But you can't erase thirty thousand gallons of river water being pumped into an unregistered tanker at three o'clock in the morning."
Calder stared at the folder. For the first time since he had dragged Sterling through the lobby, the certainty drained from his face, replaced by the hollow realization that the structure he had relied on was dissolving under his feet.
From the upper courtyard, beyond the thick masonry walls and the broken glass of the ventilation shaft, the deep, wailing howl of multiple emergency sirens rolled down through the access ramps. It wasn't the lonely chime of a private security patrol. It was the synchronized, heavy-throated rumble of state police interceptors, followed by the air brakes of three heavy commercial enforcement trucks hitting the gravel turnaround at the main security barrier.
Calder looked back toward the open doorway, his jaw slackening.
"The gate was down," he muttered, almost to himself. "The gate was locked."
"The state police don't wait for your night watchman to find his key," Sterling said calmly. "Drop the iron, Calder. This is the last instruction you will receive before you are taken into formal custody."
The steel pry bar slipped from Calder’s wet fingers. It hit the vinyl floor with a heavy, flat thud, rolling harmlessly into the standing water near the doorway. Calder didn't run. There was nowhere left to go; the service corridor behind him was filling with smoke from the shorted junction boxes, and the main staircase led directly up to the lobby where four sets of headlights were already sweeping across the high glass atrium.
Sterling walked past him without a second glance, stepping into the flooded hallway. I followed close behind, holding the heavy canvas satchel against my ribs with both arms.
We climbed the concrete steps toward the main entrance. When we reached the top of the stairwell and pushed through the double fire doors, the Riverside administrative lobby was no longer the quiet, intimidating fortress where Ward had ruled for a decade.
The high glass facade was lit up in violent, alternating sweeps of blue and gold from six patrol cruisers parked bumper-to-bumper across the passenger drop-off lane. Two state troopers in high-visibility slickers were standing over the front desk, their sidearms holstered but their hands resting firmly on their belts. Behind them, the night receptionist was sitting on a plastic waiting chair, her hands trembling around a paper cup of water, her eyes wide as she pointed toward the lower administrative wing.
A tall woman in a dark brown utility trench coat—her gold shield pinned to the front pocket beneath the emblem of the State Department of Environmental Enforcement—turned as the stairwell door banged open.
"Captain Sterling?" she called out, her voice cutting through the noise of idling patrol engines and crackling police radios.
"I am here, Investigator Vance," Sterling replied, stepping onto the terrazzo floor. His uniform was soaked, his trousers streaked with grease from the lower hold, but he walked across the lobby with the same deliberate, unhurried cadence he had possessed when Ward’s men first grabbed him. "The facility director, Harlan Ward, is secured inside the lower server vault by an automated fire lockdown. The security supervisor, James Calder, is detained at the foot of the maintenance stairs."
Investigator Vance signaled to the two troopers near the desk. "Take two units down to the server corridor. Secure the vault access and bring the supervisor up. Have the fire department bring their hydraulic cutters to pop that vault door before the water reaches the transformer banks."
She turned her eyes to me, her gaze dropping to the waterlogged canvas bag clutched against my chest. "And you are?"
"Megan Kelly," I said, my voice hoarse from the ozone and the shouting. "Plant maintenance technician, second class. I have the physical logs for the unauthorized transfers."
Vance stepped forward, her expression softening by an almost imperceptible degree. "The data packet came through our regional terminal twelve minutes ago. We didn't know if anyone inside had survived to verify the paper custody. Did you pull the original signature sheets?"