«What is it, boy?» Miller asked, stepping closer.
Duke didn’t just sit. A sit was the standard alert for narcotics. This was different.
Duke began to bark, a deep, guttural sound that came from the chest. He scratched at the wood of the trailer, trying to climb up. He was frantic, his focus locked entirely on that first bale of hay.
«Get him down!» Kovich yelled from the front of the cruiser. «He’s going to ruin the wrap! That’s high-grade alfalfa!»
Miller ignored him. He recognized the alert. It was an aggression alert, or a living find alert.
Duke acted this way when he found a suspect hiding in a building, but this was a bale of hay.
«Duke, Platz,» Miller ordered.
The dog dropped to a down-stay but kept his eyes fixed on the bale, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Miller looked at the bale. Up close, under the gray light, it looked perfect.
The stalks of grass were yellow and brown, tightly packed. But looking at the physics again, Miller realized the straps were dug in deep, as if the bale was resisting the compression too much.
«Stay,» Miller told the dog.
He walked back to Kovich. «Sir, do you have any contraband in the vehicle? Any weapons?»
«No, it’s hay. Just hay.»
Kovich was sweating now, despite the cold wind. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
«My dog thinks otherwise,» Miller said. «I have probable cause to search the vehicle. Do you have keys to the trailer locks?»
«They aren’t locked,» Kovich said, looking at his feet.
Miller keyed his radio. «2-Adam-12. I’m initiating a search on a stop at mile marker 44. K-9 alert. One subject detained.»
«Copy, 2-Adam-12. Backup is rolling. ETA 25 minutes.»
Twenty-five minutes. He was on his own. Miller returned to the trailer.
He vaulted onto the flatbed. The metal deck clanged under his boots. Standing next to the bale, the smell was overwhelming.
It smelled of sweet hay, but beneath it was a faint chemical scent, like adhesive or fresh paint. He pressed his hand against the side of the bale. It was wrong.
Hay should have a slight give, a sponginess. This felt rock hard. It felt like pressing his hand against a brick wall wrapped in grass.
He knocked on it. It didn’t make the muffled thump of compressed vegetation. It made a solid, dull thud.
Miller pulled his cargo probe from his belt, a slender two-foot steel rod used for piercing upholstery to check for hidden compartments. He positioned the tip against the center of the bale and pushed.
It should have slid in with moderate resistance. Instead, it went in two inches and hit something impenetrable. Clunk.
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