Burned Drives

She took the stairs two at a time with the team behind her. At the bottom, the concrete hallway opened into a room no patrolman should have known about. Server racks lined one wall. Two shredders sat beside metal tins with ash in the bottoms. A third agent pointed at a tray full of burned drives.

“Christ,” someone said.

On a table near the back, a stack of forfeiture packets waited for the shredder. Every one had Travis Cole’s initials in the corner.

Claire picked up the top sheet. Cash, jewelry, a laptop, and a list of VIN numbers. The paper was still warm from the lamp above it.

A monitor on the far rack flashed red.

“Lockout in progress,” the tech said. “We’re behind it, but they’re trying to push a clean overwrite.”

Claire set the receipt down. “Then we stop the push.”

Above them, somewhere on the first floor, the precinct phone started ringing and kept ringing.

The interview room smelled like burnt coffee and wet wool.

Miller sat at the table with his hands folded in front of him, swollen knuckles resting on the Formica. His uniform shirt was wrinkled at the cuffs. He kept looking at the one-way mirror, then at Claire, then back to the mirror like it might give him a way out.

Marcus Vance stayed by the door, one hand near his radio, the other on a file folder. Claire sat down across from Miller and set a pen beside a legal pad she hadn’t opened yet.

“You can start whenever you want,” she said.

Miller snorted once. “That’s funny.”

Claire didn’t answer.

He rubbed a thumb over the side of his hand. “You federal people always come in here like the room belongs to you.”

“It does, right now.”

That got his eyes on hers. He looked older up close. Not just gray hair. Tired skin around the mouth, a thin sheen on his forehead despite the cold room.