"That was Harris from the mill," Cole whispered, stepping back with white knuckles against his duty belt. "He knows this cruiser, Kyle. He saw 404 sitting on the shoulder with Clara's Civic."
Miller didn't answer. He stood in the exhaust fumes, his chest rising beneath his patrol vest. Slowly, he unclipped his key ring and slid behind the wheel without looking at me through the wire partition.
"Get in her Civic," Miller commanded over his shoulder, his voice flat. "Follow me through the south gate. If you drop more than two car lengths behind, I'll log you as an abandoned pursuit."
"We can't bring her into dispatch," Cole protested at the open window. "The sergeant is sitting at the center console until four in the morning."
"We aren't going to dispatch," Miller said. He threw the transmission into drive, the gravel rattling against the floorboards as he jerked the cruiser across the center line. "We’re going to the fleet maintenance bay."
The drive took seven minutes along the frost-cracked blacktop bordering Black Creek. Cuffed in the plastic bucket seat, my wrists burned where the nickel links bit into bone at every frost heave. Through the rear glass, the yellow beams of my Civic trailed thirty yards back, Cole rigid behind the wheel.
Six months ago, this road belonged to my brother. Jesse drove it daily in his Ford Ranger, maintaining cruisers on a shoestring budget. When the coroner ruled Jesse drove off Black Creek bridge with high blood alcohol, the county cleared his locker within two days, handing my father three greasy work shirts.
Miller turned off Quarry Road, guiding the cruiser toward Fleet Maintenance Bay Two. The security lights were dark. Miller pressed a fob against the sensor post, the gate screeching back, and drove onto the oil-stained concrete before killing the engine.
The silence was broken only by the ticking of the cruiser's hot manifold. Miller stepped out, yanked the door open, and hauled my cuff chain until my boots hit concrete.
"On your feet," he muttered, shoving me through the wire partition into the partitioned office where Jesse used to keep parts catalogs and shift tickets.
The office still smelled of solvent, cutting oil, and the spearmint gum Jesse chewed. Against the wall stood Jesse’s master workbench—a six-foot slab of welded steel pipe topped with thick oak, bolted into the foundation. Miller shoved me onto a metal stool, unlooped secondary cuffs from his belt, and ratcheted my right wrist to the steel bench leg. Cold sank into my arm.
Cole entered a moment later, pulling the heavy plywood office door shut. He didn't take off his coat, standing near the threshold with his hands tucked into his armpits.
"Lock the exterior padlock on the sliding bay door," Miller told him.
"It's locked," Cole said, his voice unsteady. "Kyle, what are we doing? If the sergeant pings 404, GPS shows us stationary at the barn."
"The sergeant is asleep in the breakroom," Miller snapped. He unzipped his patrol vest and pulled out the microcassette wrapped in yellow electrical wire.
The purple ink on the white label caught the fluorescent light: Cruiser 404 - Cabin Audio - Oct 12.
On the metal shelf sat an old desktop Olympus transcriber. Miller blew dust off its face, jammed the tape inside, and clicked the power switch. The machine whined, settling into static hiss.
Miller twisted the volume knob until the hum filled the room.
Through the tiny speaker came the sound of an idling engine and the click of a turn signal. Then Miller’s voice cut through the hiss:
"... the second crate from the mill warehouse goes into the false floor under the kennel cage. Leave the southern gate unlocked. Vance is working the late shift; he won't be on the road."
Cole’s voice answered over the cruiser's cabin channel:
"What if Vance checks the tire pressure on 404? The weight difference is noticeable."
Miller’s recorded laugh was harsh: "Vance doesn't check tires unless I tell him to. If he starts digging around the spare well, he won't be working for the county by next week."
The recording cut out with a sharp click, followed by Jesse’s voice, steady and exhausted, speaking directly into the test mic:
"This is Jesse Vance. October twelfth, 11:45 PM. Diagnostic test on Cruiser 404. Cabin audio tap verified. I pulled this tape from an auxiliary recorder hidden behind the secondary fuse panel beneath the passenger floorboard. Deputy Miller has been using fleet vehicles for off-the-books transport from the Black Creek timber mill. Spliced harness matches inventory slip 404-B. If anything happens to my truck on Route Nine, look at the front steering knuckle on Unit 404. They rigged the tie rods."