Page 74 of Nemesis

“Yes, I have it.” His voice drifts closer. “I told you I would get it. I have it here.”

Pause.

“No, you absolutely cannot come to my house. I’ll meet you. Tonight.”

Pause.

“Yes, that’s fine.” He’s in the room now, opening a drawer and closing it again. The rustle of papers. “No, six o’clock—because when I get out of work, I’m leaving my badge at home. I’m not meeting you in my fucking uniform.”

I hold perfectly still, but my line of sight through the crack in the door allows me to see him holding the highlighted paper. He unlocks the top drawer of the filing cabinet, and he…

He puts that in there.

Locks it.

“I hear you,” he says.

My heart stops.

“I understand your concern,” he continues, still on the phone. “But I’m doing my job, and I expect to be fucking compensated.”

His voice drifts farther away, and I release a slow breath when his cruiser’s engine starts. I wait another minute, then slowly creep out of the closet.

I go straight to the filing cabinet and yank uselessly at the top drawer.

Whatever it is, someone wants that.

And it was pure luck that I found it in the first place.

I pull up the photo and again scour the page. The two highlighted numbers aren’t marked, but they are different. One call is logged from two weeks ago, and it lasted thirty seconds. The other number called a month ago, and it lasted three minutes and four seconds.

There hasn’t been much activity on whoever’s account this is since then.

Before I can think it through, I dial the older number. I add the digits to the beginning that will block my number.

It doesn’t even ring. Just a robot voice saying, “This number is no longer in service.”

I try the next one, expecting the same. But I almost drop my phone when itdoesring through—and then again when it picks up.

“Who is this?” a familiar voice demands.

I hang up.

21ARTEMIS

Followingthe sheriff is a really bad idea.

And yet…

At five thirty-two p.m., I am parked down the street from the sheriff’s house. He has to get here soon if he’s going to be meeting someone at six. And sure enough, just a few minutes later, he arrives. He gets out of the cruiser and heads inside, reemerging minutes later in civilian clothes.

His gun is still on his hip, however.

He wastes no time climbing into his personal car, a sporty white SUV, and backs out of the driveway. Tucked between cars the way I am, I doubt he sees me.

I start the engine of Apollo’s bike—borrowed, not stolen—and head out behind the sheriff. His car’s engine is loud. It’s flashy, and it strikes me as a splurge purchase. I should’ve known he was on the take, because he drives way too nice a vehicle for someone on a cop’s salary.

I stay well back from him, even taking a different route and running parallel to him for a while. Motorcycles aren’t known for their stealth, so I have to stay creative.

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