Arthur kept his eyes on Miller.
“Is it?”
Miller hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Rollins pushed Arthur into the vehicle and slammed the door.
Through the tinted glass, Arthur watched his house recede as the cruiser pulled away.
The garden hose was still running.
Water spread across the walkway, and one of Evelyn's hydrangea branches sagged beneath the spray.
Arthur looked down at the handcuffs.
He could end this with a sentence.
I am the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The words would change everything.
Rollins would become polite. Miller would become nervous. Supervisors would arrive, and the entire department would begin searching for ways to explain what had happened.
But Arthur had a question that no title could answer.
What would Rollins have done if the man standing at the mailbox had been an ordinary citizen without influence, connections, or the ability to make powerful people return his calls?
A delivery driver.
A retired mechanic.
A construction worker.
A man who could not afford an attorney.
A man whose complaint might disappear into a filing cabinet.
Arthur leaned back against the seat.
His late wife had once told him that people revealed their true character when they believed no consequences would follow their actions.
For years, Arthur had considered that statement too cynical.
That morning, watching the neighborhood disappear through the rear window, he began to wonder whether she had been right all along.
The ride to the police station lasted nineteen minutes.
Rollins said almost nothing during the first half of the journey. Miller stared through the windshield, occasionally glancing at his partner as if he were waiting for him to reconsider the situation.
Eventually, Rollins spoke.
“You got someone we can call?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“I would prefer to make the call myself.”
Rollins laughed.
“You're not in a hotel. You're under arrest.”
“For what offense?”
“Possibly trespassing. Failure to comply. We'll sort it out.”
Arthur studied the back of Rollins's head.
“Which lawful order did I fail to comply with?”
“Keep talking like that, and obstruction can be added.”
Miller turned slightly.
“Derek.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
Rollins looked at him in the rearview mirror.
For a moment, Arthur thought Miller might say something more. Instead, the younger officer faced forward again.
The cruiser entered the underground parking area beneath the district station.
Rollins parked in a marked bay and opened Arthur's door.
“Out.”
Arthur stepped onto the concrete floor. His wrists had begun to ache, and two fingers on his right hand were growing numb.
“These restraints are restricting circulation.”
“They're fine.”
“They are not fine.”
Miller came around the vehicle.
“Derek, check them.”
“I said they're fine.”
“Check them.”
Rollins stared at his partner. Then, with obvious irritation, he inserted the key and loosened one cuff by a notch.
Painful tingling spread through Arthur's fingers.
“Happy now?” Rollins asked.
“No.”
Arthur's answer was quiet enough that Rollins seemed uncertain whether he had heard it.
Inside the station, a desk officer looked up as the three men entered.
“Morning. What have we got?”
“Suspicious person,” Rollins replied. “Possible trespassing.”
The desk officer began filling out the intake form.
“Name?”
“Arthur Pendleton.”
The officer typed the name into the system.
A few seconds passed.
Then his hands stopped.
He leaned toward the monitor.
Arthur watched his expression change.
“What's the address?”
Rollins gave it.
The desk officer entered the information, compared the results, and looked up.
“Officer Rollins, did you run this address before bringing him in?”
“No. Why?”
“Because the property record lists Arthur Pendleton as the owner.”
Rollins approached the desk.
“Let me see that.”
He read the screen.
Arthur saw the exact moment the first part of Rollins's certainty collapsed.
Then the officer attempted to rebuild it.
“He could have looked up the owner's name.”
The desk officer frowned.
“How would he know it?”
“The mailbox. The internet. There are plenty of ways.”
Arthur spoke calmly.
“My wallet is inside the house.”
Rollins turned sharply.
“Quiet.”
The desk officer looked between them.
“Why didn't you simply retrieve it?”
Rollins ignored the question.
“Put him in Interview Room Two.”
Miller stepped forward.
“No.”
Everyone turned toward him.
Rollins stared at his partner.
“What did you say?”
Miller swallowed.
“I said no. He answered your questions. He gave you his name and address. He offered to verify ownership. He didn't resist.”
Rollins's face became expressionless.
“You want to do this here?”
“I want us to fix it.”
Arthur watched Miller carefully.
He was not yet certain whether the younger officer's objection came from genuine principle or fear of what might happen if the situation continued.
It did not matter which motive had brought him this far. What mattered was whether he would continue telling the truth when the cost became personal.
Before Rollins could respond, a side door opened.
A lieutenant emerged carrying a folder.
“What's happening?”
“Possible trespassing,” Rollins said. “Suspicious behavior.”
The lieutenant was Samuel Carter, a man Arthur had met at a regional law-enforcement conference eight months earlier.
Carter took one step forward, then stopped.
He looked at Arthur's face.
Then his silver hair.
Then the handcuffs.
Recognition appeared in his eyes, followed almost immediately by alarm.
“Sir?”
Rollins turned.
“What?”
Carter did not answer him.
Instead, he looked directly at Arthur.
“Mr. Pendleton?”
Arthur gave the smallest shake of his head.
Not yet.
Carter understood.
He glanced at the red marks around Arthur's wrists.
“Take those cuffs off,” he ordered.
Rollins stiffened.
“Lieutenant, I have probable cause.”
“For what?”
“He was acting suspiciously.”
“That's not an answer.”
“He couldn't produce identification.”
“Did he give you his name?”