Finally, she answered.
"The binding was damaged."
I nodded.
"Where?"
"Around page 187."
"What kind of damage?"
She swallowed.
"The page wasn't torn out by accident."
Whitaker stepped forward.
"Evelyn—"
I raised one hand.
"Let her finish."
The lieutenant stopped.
Evelyn looked toward me.
Her voice became quieter.
"Somebody used a blade."
The room fell silent.
She continued.
"The edge was too straight. And there was damage to the thread holding the signatures together."
I made another note.
"When did you notice?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Did you report it?"
She looked down.
"Yes."
"To whom?"
A long pause followed.
Then she whispered, "Sergeant Keller."
I looked toward Whitaker.
He had gone very still.
Evelyn continued.
"He told me the issue had already been handled."
I nodded slowly.
"Did he put that in writing?"
She shook her head.
"No."
I looked toward the empty box.
Then back at her.
"Thank you, Ms. Price."
Whitaker exhaled.
"Well, we'll locate the ledger."
I stood.
"Yes."
Then opened my briefcase.
Removed my telephone.
And called the state investigative team waiting nearby.
The moment the call connected, I spoke clearly.
"The primary physical ledger is missing. Expand the authorized preservation procedures to the identified archive access records and related evidence, consistent with the warrant. We need the records-room entry logs secured now."
Whitaker's face tightened.
He looked toward the office door.
Then toward me.
"Is all that really necessary?"
I met his eyes.
"Lieutenant, the record we came to examine disappeared before we arrived."
He said nothing.
I continued.
"That's exactly when preservation becomes necessary."
And at that moment, my investigation stopped being a routine evidence-accounting review.
Because someone inside the Fourteenth Precinct had apparently learned that the state was coming.
Someone had removed the ledger.
And someone had decided that page 187 was too dangerous to leave behind.
The only question was why.
The first person who tried to stop us was not Sergeant Keller.
It was Deputy Chief Harold Mercer.
He arrived at the Fourteenth Precinct at 11:42 that morning, less than ninety minutes after I had been humiliated in the breakroom and barely half an hour after Evelyn Price reported the missing evidence ledger.
I was standing beside the property-room entrance when he appeared.
Mercer was fifty-eight years old, tall, silver-haired, and immaculately dressed in a dark police command uniform. He had the posture of a man accustomed to entering rooms where everyone immediately stopped talking.
Two uniformed officers accompanied him.
Neither spoke.
Mercer looked at me, then at the state investigators working with the property-room staff.