A White Mercedes Pulled Up to Gate Six on a Tuesday Afternoon Without a Permit
There was a green smear at the top edge of the leather, faint as a thumbprint, and I kept my eyes off it.
“One entry stamp on the daily ledger doesn’t match the garrison ink formula.
The tag board is short three brass tags.
I need to know who authorized the transfer.”
Harmon leaned back and picked up a silver fountain pen.
He tapped the cap on the corner of the blotter, four soft clicks, then set the pen down.
“Clerical,” he said.
“A pad dries out, a clerk re-inks it wrong, and it comes out green.
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