Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Jackson kills the headlights. In the sudden dark, the Records Oversight gate looms ahead, a steel barrier dropped across the drive like a verdict. New cameras blink red on the posts. Dallas feels the ledger under his coat, heavy as a confession.

Murderbone gives a low, warning growl from the passenger seat. One camera pans, then stops, as if it has spotted the car. The building beyond the gate sits quiet, but not empty.

Jackson reaches for the door handle, then pauses as a side entrance under the arch clicks open a crack. A badge light spills across the pavement, and a clerk in a rain-dark coat steps out, scanning the lot like he expects a corpse, not company.

Dallas has his answer. Desk Nine is not just a room, it is the choke point, and Covington is holding Elena's marriage file behind it. The gate, the cameras, the clerk, all of it points to one door and one man.

Dallas leaves the cruiser’s glow and follows the fence line, keeping low under the cameras’ sweep. The pavement is slick, the chain-link rattles faintly, and fresh boot tracks show a service cut through the gravel.

He finds a maintenance gate half-hidden behind stacked salt barrels, its latch cut and re-bolted from the inside. It opens toward a narrow service strip that runs behind the records wing.

Dallas slips through, shoulders brushing wet concrete. A camera above the service strip swings hard, catches him in its red blink, then keeps moving. His coat snags on a bent wire, and he tears free with a sharp pull.

Beyond the strip, a back access door stands on a magnetic hold, just enough to admit one man at a time. Inside, fluorescent light spills over file carts and a staircase marked STAFF ONLY.

Dallas reaches the threshold and the clerk sees the ledger under his coat. The man goes pale, then steps aside, not welcoming, only scared enough to let the path stay open.

Dallas pauses just inside the threshold, letting the stairwell light settle on the ledger under his coat. He draws one slow breath, then another, and the tightness in his shoulders eases by a fraction.

He shifts his grip, tucking the ledger higher against his ribs. The paper edges press cold through the wool, and his focus sharpens instead of scattering.

The clerk keeps his distance, but his fear loosens into something almost respectful. Jackson stays outside the doorway, small in the gap, watching Dallas without speaking.

Dallas settles the last of his nerves into place. The door stands open, the stairwell waits, and the clerk’s eyes keep flicking toward the upper landing as if he already knows who is there.

Dallas lets the silence work on the clerk for a second, then asks again, softer this time. The question lands cleaner than the first.

He swallows, then nods toward the stairwell. The open door at the end of the corridor seems to wait with them.

Dallas takes the stairs two at a time, ledger tight under his coat, and the back access door falls behind him with Jackson still posted below.

The corridor above is narrow, fluorescent, and mean. Desk Nine sits at the far end behind frosted glass, while the ajar door from earlier waits like it never moved.

Dallas reaches the landing without slowing. A security light hums over the office door, but no alarm sounds yet.

The clerk stays at the bottom of the stairs, wary but relieved, while Dallas pushes into the records level. A man in a dark suit is visible through the frosted pane, standing just beyond the office threshold.

Dallas reaches the inner corridor and stops at the office door. The nameplate for Desk Nine is inches from his hand, and the figure inside turns as if he has heard the stairwell open.