Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Dallas steps out of the warehouse office and into the dock corridor, where salt air cuts through dust, ink, and old grease. The evidence is under his coat, Murderbone at his heel. Ahead, a stairwell hums with bad fluorescent light.

A side door stands half open. Beyond it waits a narrow records stair, concrete steps stained by rainwater and boot mud. Fresh heel scuffs climb upward, still damp at the edges.

Murderbone freezes, ears forward, then gives a low warning growl toward the stairwell.

A clerk in a rumpled tie appears at the landing, pale and sweating, one hand raised in surrender. He is watching the stairwell more than Dallas, like he expects something to come down.

Dallas moves first, coat tight around the evidence, and takes the stair in one smooth climb. Murderbone springs after him, nails striking wet concrete. The clerk flinches back on the landing as the fluorescent light buzzes overhead.

Dallas does not slow. He takes the landing, shoulders past the warning, and climbs the next flight while the clerk shrinks into the wall. Murderbone keeps tight to his leg, watching the stairwell above.

The stairwell opens onto the records level. The door to Desk Nine stands ahead, half-lit, with fresh scuffs in the dust by its frame and printer ink faint in the air.

Dallas reaches the top of the stairwell with the evidence still secure under his coat. Murderbone stops at his side, rigid and listening. The clerk remains below, staring up as if waiting for the office door to decide for them both.

Dallas takes the knob and turns it. The Desk Nine door gives with a dry click, and he eases it inward just far enough to cut a slice of the room from the dark.

Printer ink hangs heavy in the air. Inside, the desk is lit by a weak lamp, routing stamps crowd the papers, and fresh scuffs cross the floor toward the far filing cabinet.

Dallas scans left, then right. No one jumps him from the blind side, no hand reaches from under the desk, no movement breaks the hush beyond the paper drift.

Murderbone leans at the threshold, nose working, then stills as Dallas opens the door wider. The office stays empty, but the drawer handles and file stack show it was cleared in a hurry.

The clerk below lets out a thin, shaking breath, half relief and half fear. The path is open now, and the room answers with nothing but the smell of ink and the soft buzz of the lamp.

Dallas steps into Desk Nine and takes the first folder off the stack. The routing stamps line up in hard, ugly rows, and the ink smell is fresh enough to sting.

He works the desk in a clean, methodical sweep, lifting blotters, opening drawers, and checking the file edges for hidden inserts.

Under a ledger tab, Dallas finds the paper trail he needed, a transfer slip tied to the marriage file and a second card folded into the seam.

Murderbone posts at the doorway, head low and still, while the clerk on the landing lets out a shaky breath that almost sounds like a sob.

Dallas keeps sorting, and the open filing cabinet gives up one final bundle, stamped, cross-referenced, and ready to carry out of the city.

The desk is stripped clean now. What remains is the route, the names, and the proof.

Dallas snatches the route packet, folds it once, and tucks it inside his coat. The office feels suddenly lighter, like the building itself has exhaled.

He turns from the desk in one clean motion and heads for the door, revolver low, evidence tight against his ribs.

Murderbone shifts aside just enough to let Dallas through, then snaps back to the threshold as the stairwell swallows their footfalls.

The desk lamp is left behind over a stripped surface, scattered routing stamps, and the smell of fresh ink hanging in the stale air.

Dallas reaches the landing and moves out of Desk Nine with the evidence secured, the stairwell below open behind him and the exit ahead waiting.