Langston's face went carefully blank. "What kind of room?"
"The seal log. If it looks like that seal was already compromised before we ever opened those doors, even a little, that's reasonable doubt. That's enough to slow all this down while we figure out our next move."
"Sarge, that's..." Langston lowered his voice further, glancing down the hall. "That's tampering with evidence. That's not slowing something down; that's a whole different crime."
"It's protecting both our careers." Bruce's eyes hardened, all the false warmth gone. "You think Ashley's going to care whose idea it was? You think a federal colonel's going to sort out who did what once this thing lands on her desk? We go down together, or we fix it together. Your choice."
Langston didn't answer right away. He looked down the hall at nothing in particular, jaw working like he was chewing on something he couldn't swallow.
"Meet me at the impound lot tonight," Bruce said, not waiting for a real answer. "After hours. We'll call it an inventory check if anybody asks."
He walked off before Langston could say no, because in Bruce's mind, no wasn't really an option he'd offered.
Langston stood alone in the hallway a long moment, staring at the subpoena notice still taped to the bulletin board behind him: his own name buried somewhere inside that incident report, sitting there in his own handwriting—words Bruce had told him to write. He thought about walking straight into Vermont's office and telling her everything right then. He didn't. Not yet. But something in him had already started to bend toward the truth, even if he wasn't ready to admit it.
The impound lot sat quiet under a single flickering security light: rows of seized vehicles lined up like patients waiting on a diagnosis. Nathan's rig sat near the back, trailer doors chained shut, the broken seal long since bagged as evidence—or what was supposed to be evidence before tonight.
Bruce pulled up first, headlights off before he even reached the gate. Langston arrived a few minutes later, parking further back, like distance might change what he was about to be part of.
"You're late," Bruce said.
"I was thinking."
"Don't think. Just help me finish this." Bruce already had the lot's paper logbook open on the hood of his cruiser, flashlight propped against the windshield. "The tamper record shows the seal integrity check from three days ago. If I adjust this line," he ran his finger along an entry, "it reads like the seal was already flagged as compromised before we ever touched it. Gives us a built-in excuse, like we were following up on a known issue, not creating one."