"Make sure my arrest report is on top of the pile, Greg," Travis told Sergeant Harrison, pointing to the paperwork. "two ounces of coke. A major bust. The new boss is going to want to see proactive policing. I'm going to show him we get results here."
"I got it. I got it," Harrison muttered, stamping the file. "Just make sure your uniform is straight. Holt. I hear this new guy is a real hard ass."
In the back in cell three, Emma Grace stood up and stretched her stiff muscles. The thin sliver of light coming through the barred window told her it was morning. She heard the change in the building's rhythm, the slamming doors, the raised voices, the frantic footsteps. The orchestra was tuning up. The conductor was about to arrive.
At precisely 8:00 a.m., the front double doors of the precinct swung open with explosive force. The room went dead silent. Chief of Police David Henderson marched into the room. He was a towering, broad-shouldered man in a meticulously tailored navy suit, his silver hair cropped military short.
He possessed a presence that demanded absolute submission. But this morning his usually stern face was twisted into an expression of barely contained apocalyptic rage. Behind him were two unsmiling men in dark suits. Internal affairs investigators from the central office.
"Attention on deck!" Sergeant Harrison shouted, leaping to his feet so fast he knocked his rolling chair backward. Every officer in the bullpen snapped to attention. Chief Henderson did not greet them.
He did not say good morning. He marched directly to the booking desk, his heavy footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silent room. He slammed his hand down on the counter, making Harrison flinch. "Where is she?"
Henderson's voice was a low, terrifying growl.
Harrison blinked, terrified. "Sir, where is who?" "I am going to ask you this one time, Sergeant," Henderson said, leaning over the counter, his eyes burning into Harrison's. "And if you lie to me, I will personally see to it that you lose your pension and spend the rest of your natural life in a state penitentiary. Where is the woman who owns the black Mercedes currently sitting in your impound lot?"
Travis Holt stepped forward, a proud, sickeningly eager smile on his face. He thought the chief was here about the drug bust. He thought this was his moment. "Chief Henderson, sir," Travis saluted.
"Officer Travis Holt. I'm the one who made that collar. Excellent instincts, if I do say so myself. Pulled her over for a traffic violation, smelled narcotics, and found two ounces of cocaine in the trunk. She's in holding cell 3 right now. We're waiting for the ADA to—"
Henderson slowly turned his head to look at Travis. The chief's eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. He looked at Travis not like a fellow officer, but like a disease. "You arrested her," Henderson stated flatly.
"Yes, sir. Caught her red-handed," Travis beamed. "Give me the keys to the holding cells," Henderson ordered, not breaking eye contact with Travis. "Now."
Harrison frantically fumbled with the keys on his belt, handing the heavy ring to the chief with a shaking hand.