«Can I see your license and registration, please?»
The man moved to reach for his glove box, but his hand shook violently. It was a tremor so severe he fumbled the latch twice before getting it open. Papers spilled out onto the floorboard.
«Nervous?» Miller asked, leaning slightly closer, his eyes scanning the interior.
He saw two cell phones in the cup holder. One was a modern smartphone. The other was a cheap, disposable flip phone.
The flip phone was buzzing repeatedly, vibrating against the plastic. The driver ignored it.
«Just… just late,» the driver said, handing over a crumpled license. The name read Stephen Kovich. «Boss is gonna kill me if the hay gets wet.»
«Where’s the delivery?»
«Up north. Miller’s Creek. The, uh, the Anderson Ranch.»
Miller knew every ranch in the county. There was no Anderson Ranch in Miller’s Creek. There was an Anderson Farm, but they grew soy. They didn’t run cattle, so they didn’t need hay.
«Long haul for a Sunday,» Miller noted. «Step out of the vehicle for me, Mr. Kovich. I just want to check the securement on that load. Make sure nothing’s shifting. That sway back there was significant.»
Kovich hesitated. For a split second, Miller saw a flash of calculation in the man’s eyes. The fight or flight assessment.
Then, Kovich slumped, defeated, and opened the door.
«Yeah, okay.»
Miller escorted him to the front of the cruiser. «Wait here. Keep your hands visible.»
Miller went back to his car and opened the rear door. «Duke, Aus.»
The command brought the dog out in a controlled leap. Duke landed on the pavement, his nails clicking, his nose already working the air. He wasn’t just a narcotics dog. Duke was cross-trained for tracking, a dual-purpose asset that had made him a legend in the department.
«Seek,» Miller commanded, guiding the dog to the front of the blue truck.
They moved clockwise. Duke sniffed the front bumper, the wheel wells. Nothing. He moved along the driver’s side door.
He paused at the seam, snuffling deeply, but then moved on. Miller watched the dog’s tail. It was low, wagging in a slow, searching rhythm.
They reached the trailer. As soon as Duke crossed the threshold of the trailer hitch, his behavior changed instantly. The slow wag stopped.
His body went rigid. He lifted his head, sniffing the air currents swirling around the hay bales. Suddenly, Duke bypassed the trailer tires—the usual hiding spot for illicit bundles—and lunged upward.
He placed his front paws on the rub rail of the flatbed, stretching his neck towards the center bale, the one closest to the cab. He let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.
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