Page 96 of Brazen Criminals

“Oh honey, I’m sorry, but that’s not the way things work around here. Maybe I can page the case officer and he can bring you down there?”

I’m so close to getting what I need. I hope I can make this happen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some cops starting toward the locked door that’ll get me all the way in. My heart rate spikes, and I force my glee down, still trying to look like some poor put-upon intern. “That would be great,” I stammer, glancing around. “Oh! I see the case officer over there. I’ll just grab him, save you a call. Thank you so much!” I jog up to the random officer I picked out.

“Hey,” I say to the cop.

He glares down at me. “Can I help you?”

I motion back to the front desk. “Carol said you could buzz me in. She’s just finishing up a few things.”

He glances at Carol. I give her a wave, and she waves back. This seems to be enough for the cop, so he escorts me through the locked door.

Oh my God. It worked.

My heart is racing. I’ve never done anything this public. There are cameras everywhere. I just broke into a police precinct. The urge to sing and dance right now is unbearable, but I tamp it down.

“Thanks, I know where I’m headed,” I say to the cop, glad for my ambiguous intern disguise. My manila envelope could be any number of things: a case brief, a CSI report, or, as it happens to be, fake prescription meds and a fake police sketch.

I pull up the floor plan in my head, heading toward the door to the basement. I stroll between the desks like I know where I’m going, like I belong here. If I don’t stand out, no one will remember me or think to check the security tape.

This next part is going to be harder. I don’t really know how I’m going to get access to the evidence locker. I told Clara that I’d think of something, and I always do my best thinking on my feet, but so far, nothing has come to me.

Passing two officers on the way down, inspiration strikes. I pinch the badge off a guy about my age, obviously a new recruit. Hopefully, no one in the evidence locker knows who the guy is yet. I wish I had time to change into a beat cop uniform. I’m way too young to be mistaken for a detective.

I find the evidence locker, glance around the hallway, shake out my arms and sprint in, panting. “Oh my gosh, can you help me?” I ask the old guy sitting at the desk.

The guy looks up from the magazine he’s skimming, one eyebrow raised, as though a lowly young guy isn’t worth a verbal response.

I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. This ponytail is so not regulation. I’ve got to get in and out before he decides to remember me. “I’m a transfer from the 5th—I was just getting ready for a night out, you know, and I looked at my desk, and I forgot to return this damn file. I’ll run it back. I’m so sorry to bother you.”

I hold out my badge like that is something you’re supposed to do to gain access to the locker. Is that what you do? No fucking clue.

The guy rolls his eyes and buzzes the lock, turning back to his magazine without another glance.

I rush into the locker, quickly overlaying the info RJ dug up about where I would find the right case box with what I see before me. RJ’s already uploaded the new sketch. This is just to cover our asses if they decide to check the original. Officer Reed is a pit bull, and we don’t want anything left in evidence to pin on Trips. The new “Bryce-inspired” sketch is perfect. It’s close enough to the original that Officer Reed will think he just remembered the face wrong, but it looks enough like Bryce that, with a nudge, Bryce will be his next chew toy.

I find the correct box and switch the two sketches, then hurry back out of the locker. “Thanks,” I say as I rush into the hallway, the geriatric cop throwing up a half wave as I go.

I should leave. I finished what I set out to do.

But Trips is still here, and he has no idea what the plan is. I know he isn’t going to talk—this isn’t his first time in police custody. But it might be helpful if he could push them toward Bryce, too.

Split-second decision made, I head to the holding area.

I buzz around the corner, freezing as I take in the crowd in front of the holding cells. The cops at the door are all laughing and clasping shoulders like best buddies, like they drink beers and shoot the shit together after every shift. There is not nearly enough chaos for me to bluff my way in. No way.

I throw open a random door, flee into an empty meeting room, and slam the door behind me. I can feel time slipping away, my internal clock counting down the seconds until disaster strikes. The shift change is going to be over at any moment. I shouldn’t have come this way.

Deep breaths. Reaching for my center, I search for the calm so I can walk out of here without drawing attention to myself. If I’m jumpy or excited, especially with the chaos slowing down, I’ll be caught for sure.

I visualize the flicker of a flame at the center of my consciousness, falling into the twisted calm in my gut. Seventy percent centered. Close enough. I open the door, nod at the cops working the holding cells, then rush back upstairs.

The stairwells are empty; I’m exposed.

There’s no way I can take it with me, so I drop the badge I lifted in the stairwell, then throw open the door to the main floor. The door slams against the wall as my feet try to move faster than they should, the flame in my mind threatening to flicker out. I grip the envelope to my side, keeping my eyes on the exit. The calm half smile is plastered to my face, but I can feel it warring with the manic grin of an adrenaline junkie.

I flee the secure area, nod at the new front desk attendant, and push out into the cool night.

I’ve nearly made it. I scramble for my car, tearing around the corner before the yelp I’ve been holding escapes.

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