The Malibu substation smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. The fluorescent lights hummed with a flat, indifferent drone. I waited outside, leaning against the cool brick wall, the ocean air still sharp with the last remnants of dawn.
Sheriff Rayford Hollis’s patrol car pulled into the lot at exactly 6:00 AM. He parked, cutting the engine, and just sat there for a long moment, staring straight ahead at the front doors of the station.
His shoulders slumped as he got out. His uniform looked a size too big for him this morning, the creases not quite sharp.
He spotted me, and his posture stiffened. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“Garrick,” he said, his voice flat. He didn’t offer a greeting.
I pushed off the wall. “Sheriff. I want my property back. Now.”
He stopped a few feet from me, running a hand over the back of his neck. His gaze shifted from my face to the ground, then darted toward the station doors. He looked like a man about to confess to a crime.
“Julian, you know how these things go. We followed proper procedure. Municipal hazard warrant.” He recited the official line, but his eyes were wide, betraying the practiced calm.
“A hazard warrant for editing equipment? For hard drives?” I stepped closer, my voice low. “Don’t insult my intelligence, Rayford.”
He visibly winced at the use of his first name. He looked around, checking if anyone else was within earshot. A lone dispatcher was just entering the building, coffee cup in hand, oblivious.
Hollis took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Look, off the record, Julian.” He lowered his voice even further. “Your uncle… he has a lot of pull in this town.”
“I know that,” I said, a cold edge in my tone. “What kind of pull for this kind of raid?”
His eyes locked onto mine, a flicker of genuine fear passing through them. “The county’s search-and-rescue hangar. The one where we keep the choppers?”
I knew it. It was a six-acre parcel of prime land, west of the city limits, dedicated to public service. Every time I saw the orange choppers fly overhead, I felt a perverse pride knowing my family’s land helped save lives.
“What about it?” I prompted. My gut tightened.
“It’s on Garrick land,” Hollis said, his voice barely audible. “Your uncle owns the deed. Always has.”
A cold dread spread through me. The dollar-a-year lease. A public good, a gesture of goodwill from the Garrick estate. Something Arthur had always boasted about.
“He threatened to pull it,” Hollis mumbled, rubbing his temples. “Within twenty-four hours. Said he’d terminate the lease, leave us scrambling. Said we’d lose our federal funding, our response capabilities.”
He met my gaze then, his eyes pleading. “It would have crippled the department, Julian. Cost people their lives. I didn’t have a choice.”
The official story of a hazard warrant, of a minor code violation, crumbled into dust. This wasn’t about legal technicalities. This was about power. This was Arthur, cornered and desperate, using his legacy as a weapon.
My property. My equipment. Seized because my uncle held a town hostage with their emergency services.
A wave of icy resolve settled over me. He wasn’t just cold; he was terrified. My exposé, my film, was making him unravel. It was stronger than I had thought.
“You’ll get your equipment back,” Hollis said, watching me. “Eventually. Once the ‘inspection’ is done.”
I didn’t respond. I just turned and walked away, leaving him standing there alone. This changed everything. My uncle wasn’t just trying to cover his tracks; he was fighting for his life, and that meant I was closer to the truth than ever.
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