“Just log it.”
The sergeant didn’t.
He stared at the card one second more.
Then he swiveled the monitor, typed fast, and ran her name through the system.
Claire watched the color leave Kessler’s face in stages.
First the jaw.
Then around the eyes.
Then the mouth.
The screen had done what her words hadn’t.
It had forced truth into the room.
The desk sergeant swallowed.
“Detective…”
Kessler stepped closer.
“What?”
The sergeant lowered his voice.
“This flag is federal.”
Hale, who had just come through the door, stopped dead.
Claire stood there with one hand cuffed, tank top wrinkled, bare feet dirty from her own broken floor, and said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
The computer was speaking for her now.
Not an assistant.
Not an intern.
Not a clerk.
Federal bureau.
Public corruption section.
Fifteen-year veteran.
Active credentials.
Restricted contact notice.
Special handling.
Every word on that screen was a nail.
