His tone never changed.
He looked toward Lana.
“Owner?”
“Yes.”
“Security system?”
“Yes.”
“Does footage overwrite automatically?”
“After thirty days.”
“We need preservation now.”
Erica stepped in.
“You need a warrant.”
Voss turned.
“Sheriff.”
“Yes?”
“Stop helping.”
The trucker coughed to hide a laugh.
Erica’s face reddened.
Voss looked toward the ceiling camera.
“Lana, who has access?”
“Me.”
“Anyone else?”
“System company.”
“Sheriff’s office ever?”
Lana hesitated.
That hesitation changed Voss’s face.
“Why?”
Lana looked at Erica.
Then Michael.
Then back to Voss.
“Sometimes.”
Erica said:
“Security cooperation.”
Voss ignored her.
“What does ‘sometimes’ mean?”
Lana’s voice became smaller.
“Sheriff asked for recordings before.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
Erica stepped forward.
“She has provided footage during criminal investigations.”
Voss finally looked at her.
“Then I assume there will be paperwork documenting every request.”
Erica said nothing.
Michael watched.
A cold feeling settled in his stomach.
This had moved beyond a slap.
The assault had opened a door.
Voss seemed to know that already.
He separated witnesses.
No group discussions.
No comparing memories.
Phones were copied with permission.
The diner’s DVR was physically secured.
State technicians arrived.
Michael sat in the booth opposite the one where his coffee had shattered.
A medic examined his face.
No broken bone.
Split lip.
Bruising.
Mild swelling.
He signed refusal of transport.
Voss joined him.
Placed a notebook on the table.
“Mr. Delator.”
“Michael.”
“Daniel.”
They shook hands.
Voss looked at the cracked glasses.
“Your son is on his way.”
“I told him not to drive like an idiot.”
“He’s a judge.”
“That doesn’t prevent idiocy.”
Voss almost smiled.
Then:
“Why were you looking through county property records?”
Michael stared.
“How do you know I was?”
Voss did not answer.
Michael leaned back.
“You’re asking the same questions Erica asked.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know why she cared.”
That answer was better.
Michael folded his hands.
“My sister died.”
“I know.”
“Ruth Delator.”
“Yes.”
“She owned twelve acres west of town.”
“Correct.”
Michael watched him.
“You’ve already looked into her.”
Voss said nothing.
Michael continued.
“Her estate papers didn’t match.”