But on screen two, a shadow moved near the western terrace.

It was my father, Richard.

He was wearing his heavy tweed coat, his head bowed against the downpour.

He was walking fast, heading toward the side entrance that led to the security wing.

“Your father is going to take the fall for the physical transport,” Hayes said, tracking my gaze to the screen.

“And you,” he added, his teeth bared, “are going to be the tragic victims of a home invasion.”

He raised his free hand to adjust his wet collar.

“Two daughters of a prominent logistics contractor, killed by armed intruders before I could intervene.”

“They won’t buy it,” I said, keeping my voice steady to keep him talking.

“My service weapon is in my holster. The ballistics won’t match a civilian break-in.”

“I brought my own clean pieces, Captain,” Hayes said.

He reached into his deep coat pocket and produced a small, unmarked revolver.

He tossed it onto the desk.

It slid across the polished mahogany, stopping near the edge.

“That one has no serial numbers,” Hayes said. “It will be found in your hand.”