The mechanic was going to take that money, walk into the shop office, and drop it into the lockbox to pay his parts vendors. Once those sequential bills were mixed with a dozen other cash payments, I couldn't definitively prove Rollins had handed them over. The chain of evidence would shatter, and Elias would lose his farm.
I could drive away. I could take my photocopy to Aris and beg him to audit the mechanic’s lockbox tomorrow. But by tomorrow, the mechanic might have already paid the tool truck or the tire distributor. The money would be gone.
If I wanted this to end, I had to freeze the scene right now. I had to force the captain to leave his desk and look at the truth in the daylight.
It meant stepping onto county property and confronting two armed, corrupt deputies who already knew my face. If I was wrong about the serial numbers, or if they panicked and escalated the situation, I would be the one leaving in handcuffs. Or an ambulance.
I lowered the binoculars and set them on the passenger seat. I pulled out my phone and dialed the direct line to Captain Aris’s desk.
"Aris," his gruff voice answered on the second ring.
"Captain, it's Walter Bennett. I'm at the east side maintenance yard."
"Walter, I told you an hour ago, I am not launching an Internal Affairs investigation without—"
"I’m not asking for an investigation," I interrupted, my voice dead calm. "I’m calling to report an active crime in progress. Deputy Rollins is currently using stolen funds to pay for personal vehicle repairs at Bay Four. If you aren't standing in this maintenance yard in exactly five minutes, my next call is to the State Police Anti-Corruption Task Force, and I will give them your name as an accessory."
I hung up before he could respond.
I opened my truck door, stepped out into the heavy afternoon heat, and began walking across the asphalt directly toward Car 22.
CHAPTER 3: The Maintenance Yard
The afternoon sun was baking the asphalt of the county maintenance yard, sending shimmering waves of heat rising off the hoods of the parked public works trucks. I walked at a steady, measured pace toward Bay Four, my work boots crunching softly against the loose gravel scattered across the pavement. My lower back flared with a dull ache from the fence work yesterday, but I kept my posture rigid. I kept my hands empty and visible at my sides.
Deputy Rollins and Deputy Hayes were standing near the open bay doors, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light spilling from the garage ceiling. The massive black pickup truck, sitting on its oversized, expensive tires, idled with a low, throaty rumble.
The head mechanic, wiping his grease-stained hands on a red shop rag, stood facing Rollins. He had just tucked his clipboard under his arm and was looking down at the thick stack of folded cash Rollins had placed in his palm.
"Fifteen hundred even," Rollins said, his voice carrying easily across the quiet yard. "Don't bother writing up a formal receipt. We're square."
"Don't put that in your lockbox," I called out.
My voice wasn't a shout, but it was sharp enough to cut through the idle of the truck engine. All three men turned their heads.
Rollins narrowed his eyes, tracking my approach as I crossed the invisible boundary from the public lot onto county property. For a split second, a flash of genuine confusion crossed his face. He recognized me. He knew exactly who I was and exactly where he had left me yesterday afternoon on the dusty shoulder of Route 50. But he couldn't process why an elderly farmer was walking straight toward him instead of cowering at home.
Hayes reacted differently. The younger deputy’s posture immediately stiffened. He took a half-step backward, instinctively resting his right hand on his heavy leather duty belt, his thumb hovering near the retention hood of his holster.
"Hey," the mechanic said, pointing a finger at me. "Insurance regulations. Civilians can't be back here while the bays are active."
"I'm not here for an oil change," I said, stopping ten feet from the front bumper of Rollins's truck. I looked directly at the older deputy. "I'm exactly where I need to be, Deputy Cole."
Rollins’s jaw tightened. He glanced quickly at the mechanic, then back at me. He squared his shoulders, puffing out his chest to emphasize the brass nameplate pinned to his uniform.
"You're trespassing on a restricted county facility, old man," Rollins said, his tone dripping with practiced, authoritative condensation. "And you need to get your eyes checked. My name is Rollins. You have exactly ten seconds to turn around and walk back out those gates, or I’m putting you in cuffs for interfering with official business."
"You aren't on official business," I said evenly. "Your shift ended at three o'clock. And that cash you just handed over doesn't belong to you."
Hayes shifted his weight nervously. "Toby," he muttered under his breath, leaning closer to his partner. "How did he find us?"
Rollins ignored him. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us, trying to use his physical size to intimidate me. He was a full head taller and fifty pounds heavier, wearing state-issued Kevlar. I stood perfectly still. I had spent two decades dealing with aggressive highway patrolmen; a bully in a county uniform wasn't going to make me flinch.
"I don't know what kind of dementia you're working through, pal," Rollins said, dropping his voice to a low, menacing whisper meant only for me. "But you are making a massive mistake. I will ruin whatever time you have left."
Before I could answer, the sharp, authoritative chirp of a police siren echoed across the yard.
A white, unmarked Ford Explorer—Captain Aris’s command vehicle—came tearing through the chain-link gates. It didn't bother following the painted yellow lines. It cut diagonally across the asphalt, braking hard and skidding to a halt just inches from the rear bumper of Car 22.
The driver's door flew open. Captain Aris stepped out, slamming the door behind him. His face was flushed red with anger, his tie loosened around his neck. He looked from me, to his two deputies, and finally to the mechanic holding the cash.
"Bennett," Aris barked, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls of the annex. "You have lost your mind. Threatening to call the State Police Task Force on me? I should have you arrested right now for filing a false report and extorting a commanding officer."
"Captain," Rollins said quickly, seizing the moment. He gestured toward me with open hands, playing the part of the reasonable, long-suffering officer perfectly. "This guy just wandered off the street. He’s confused. He keeps calling me by a different name and accusing us of stealing money. I was just about to escort him off the property before he hurt himself."
"I told you back at the precinct, Walter," Aris said, storming toward us. "This ghost complaint is over. You have no proof, you have no visual ID, and you have no business ambushing my men on their off time."
"Captain, secure the cash in the mechanic's hand," I said. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't point. I just held Aris's gaze. "Do it right now, before it gets mixed with the shop funds. If I'm wrong, I'll walk into your jail cell myself."