Chapter 4 - The Sub-Level Interrogation
Miller froze on the top step, his face turning the color of wet chalk. "Boss? What... what are you doing? I brought you the evidence!"
"Drop the envelope, Miller," Voss repeated, his voice dangerously smooth.
Miller's eyes darted frantically around the room, taking in the scene: Voss with a raised firearm, me holding a seventy-pound guard dog that was currently baring yellowed teeth, and the tight, inescapable quarters of the basement holding cell.
Slowly, carefully, Miller opened his fingers. The thick manila envelope fluttered down the stone stairs, landing with a soft thud near the bottom landing.
"Rener!" Voss called out without breaking eye contact with the man on the stairs.
From the hallway above, Rener appeared out of the shadows like a ghost, stepping up behind Miller and pinning his arms behind his back with a single, practiced twist. Miller let out a sharp yelp of pain as a pair of heavy steel handcuffs snapped around his wrists.
"Search him," Voss ordered.
Rener dragged Miller down the stairs, shoving him roughly against the stone wall. He ran his hands over Miller's jacket, pulling out a sleek, folding pocket knife, a pair of encrypted flash drives, and a small electronic keycard marked with an orange security clearance tag.
I stepped closer to the envelope on the floor, using a pair of sterile forceps from my medical kit to flip the flap open.
Inside wasn't a computer disk or security footage prints.
It was a pair of heavy wire cutters and a silver collar buckle—stained with dried, rusted blood.
"He brought it down here to plant it," I said, looking up at Voss. "He was going to hide the missing collar in my equipment case or in Bishop's run, so you'd think I was fabricating the story to protect the dog."
Voss stepped up to Miller, pressing the warm barrel of his pistol directly under Miller's chin, forcing his head up against the cold stone wall.
"Is this true, Miller?" Voss asked softly. "You used my dog to cover your entry into the East Wing vault?"
"No! Boss, listen to me!" Miller whimpered, sweat dripping down his nose. "I was set up! Someone put that envelope in my office ten minutes ago! They told me to bring it down here or they'd release the offshore bank logs!"
"Who told you?" Voss demanded, his voice dropping into an icy register.
"I don't know!" Miller sobbed. "It came through an encrypted message on the internal network! A ghost protocol!"
I walked over to Miller, watching his facial muscles, his breathing, his erratic eye movements.
"He's telling half the truth," I said quietly, watching the pulse hammering in Miller's neck. "He didn't plan the break-in. He's too terrified. But he did let someone into the East Wing."
Voss turned his gaze to me. "How do you know?"
"Look at his shoes," I pointed out, gesturing to Miller's fine Italian leather oxfords. "The clay residue on the soles matches the mud from the drainage culvert outside the East Wing garden. He opened the side access hatch from the inside eleven days ago."
Miller let out a desperate, strangled sob, sinking against Rener's grip.
Voss lowered the gun, stepping back from the snivering man. He looked at Rener. "Take him to the sub-level holding cells beneath the garage. Nobody talks to him. Nobody feeds him. If he tries to scream, gag him."
"Understood, Boss," Rener said, dragging Miller back up the stairs like a sack of laundry.
The heavy iron door slammed shut, echoing loudly through the stone room before settling into an eerie, heavy silence.
I sat back down on the wooden bench, my hands finally starting to shake as the adrenaline began to clear from my system.
Voss walked over to the metal table, picked up the silver collar buckle I had extracted from the envelope, and examined it under the harsh light.
"You're remarkably sharp, Ren Callaway," he said softly, turning the blood-stained buckle over in his hand. "Most people in your position would have let Miller take the fall just to get off this estate."
"If I let a liar take the fall, the real killer stays free," I replied, looking up at him. "And as long as the real killer is free, this dog isn't safe. And neither am I."
Voss looked down at me, his pale hazel eyes reflecting the stark halogen light. For the first time since I had met him, the cold, impenetrable mask on his face cracked, revealing a glint of genuine admiration beneath.
"You really care about this animal," he remarked quietly.
"He's innocent," I said simply. "In my world, innocent things deserve a defense."
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Voss stepped closer, resting his hand lightly on the back of the wooden bench next to me. The scent of his cedar cologne mixed with the faint metallic tang of gun oil filled the small space.
"In my world, Ren," he murmured, his voice rich and low, "innocence is a luxury that gets people killed. But as long as you're under my roof... I'll make sure nobody touches you. Or your dog."
