And the expression on her face told me the day was about to become much more complicated.
Evelyn Price was sixty-two years old.
A Black American civilian evidence technician who had worked inside the city's law enforcement property system for nearly thirty years.
She wore a pale-gray cardigan over a dark blouse, practical shoes, and reading glasses attached to a thin silver chain.
Her hair was carefully braided and gathered into a bun.
She moved slowly.
Not because she was weak.
Because she had learned that rushing around police evidence was an excellent way to make mistakes.
She entered Whitaker's office holding the storage container.
Then stopped when she saw me.
For one brief instant, something passed across her face.
Recognition.
Not of my face.
Of my name.
I remembered the anonymous envelope.
I wondered.
Whitaker frowned.
"Where's the ledger?"
Evelyn looked down.
"That's the problem."
He stared.
"What problem?"
She carefully placed the empty container on the desk.
"The ledger isn't in its assigned location."
Whitaker's face tightened.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the shelf is empty."
The lieutenant stood.
"Did you check the records room?"
"Yes."
"The old archives?"
"Yes."
"Who signed it out?"
Evelyn looked toward him.
"No one."
The room fell silent.
I studied her.
"Ms. Price, when did you last see the ledger?"
She turned toward me.
"Friday afternoon."
"Where?"
"Locked property archive cabinet. Shelf three. Storage box F-fourteen."
I made a note.
"Was the cabinet secured?"
"Yes."
"Who had access?"
She hesitated.
Whitaker interrupted.
"Several authorized personnel."
I looked toward him.
"Thank you. I'd like Ms. Price to answer."
The lieutenant stopped.
Evelyn adjusted her glasses.
"Property technicians. The property supervisor. Certain command staff with authorized access."
I nodded.
"Are entries made when somebody removes a ledger?"
"They're supposed to be."
"Was there an entry?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I looked at the empty container.
"Then the book disappeared after Friday afternoon without a documented release."
Evelyn nodded.
"Yes."
Whitaker exhaled sharply.
"Could've been misplaced."
I looked toward him.
"Possibly."
He seemed relieved.
Then I continued.
"That's why we'll preserve access records, inventory logs, and relevant surveillance footage before drawing conclusions."
His expression changed again.
Evelyn remained still.
I turned toward her.
"One more question."
"Yes?"
"Did you notice anything unusual about that ledger before it disappeared?"
She hesitated.
For a moment, I thought she would say no.
Then she looked toward Whitaker.
The lieutenant stared at her.
Evelyn's fingers tightened around the empty container.