He looked to be in his early forties.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark navy suit.
White shirt.
No tie.
A leather portfolio tucked beneath one arm.
He wasn't hiding.
He wasn't causing a disturbance.
He was simply looking at the building.
Holloway stepped out of the patrol car.
"Sir."
The man turned.
"Good morning."
"Can I see some identification?"
The man raised an eyebrow.
"Is there a problem?"
"I asked for identification."
"I heard you."
The man's voice was calm.
Holloway disliked that immediately.
"Then answer the question."
The man glanced toward the building.
"I'm meeting someone."
"Who?"
"That's private."
Holloway stepped closer.
"Sir, you're on municipal property."
"I know."
"Then you know I can ask you what you're doing here."
"You can ask."
The man's answer was simple.
Holloway stared at him.
"Are you refusing to cooperate?"
"No."
"Then give me your identification."
The man sighed.
"Officer, I'm not doing anything wrong."
"That's not what I asked."
A few people had begun slowing down.
The man finally opened his portfolio.
Holloway's hand moved instinctively toward his belt.
"Keep your hands where I can see them."
The man froze.
"Of course."
He slowly reached into the folder.
Holloway noticed an envelope.
"Don't reach inside."
The man stopped again.
"You just told me to show you identification."
"I said keep your hands visible."
"I was reaching for my identification."
"Then wait."
The man looked at him for several seconds.
"Officer, I think we're misunderstanding each other."
"No."
Holloway took another step.
"You think you're above this."
The man's expression changed.
Only slightly.
"I don't think that."
"You've been standing here refusing to identify yourself."
"I've explained why I'm here."
"That's not the same thing."
The man exhaled.
"Fine."
He closed the portfolio.
"My name is—"
A security guard suddenly approached from behind.
"Officer, that's the gentleman I told you about."
Holloway looked at the guard.
"Did he try to enter?"
"No."
"Did he threaten anyone?"
"No."
"Then why did you call?"
The guard looked uncomfortable.
"He just looked out of place."
Holloway's eyes returned to the man.
"Out of place."
The man gave a faint, humorless smile.
"Apparently."
That smile was the final thing that pushed Holloway over the edge.
"Turn around."
The man blinked.
"What?"
"I said turn around."
"Am I being detained?"
"Turn around."
"On what grounds?"
Holloway stepped forward.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
The man remained where he was.
"I have a meeting upstairs."
"Turn around."
"I haven't committed a crime."
"I don't care what you think you've committed."
The words came out before Holloway could reconsider them.
The man stared at him.
Then he said quietly:
"That may be the problem."
Holloway's face hardened.
"What did you say?"
"I said—"
The slap came before he could finish.
Crack.
The crowd gasped.
The man's face turned with the force of the blow.
His portfolio dropped onto the pavement.
Papers spilled across the concrete.
Silence followed.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind that happens when dozens of people witness something they cannot believe.
Holloway stood breathing heavily.
The man slowly straightened.
He touched his cheek.
Then he looked down at his scattered papers.
One page had landed face-up near the officer's boots.
Holloway glanced at it.
There was a city seal at the top.
He couldn't read the rest.
The man bent down.
He picked up the page.
Then the portfolio.
Then he looked at Holloway again.
"What's your name?"
Holloway frowned.
"You heard me."
"No."
The man nodded toward the badge.
"I mean your name."
"Officer Grant Holloway."
The man absorbed the answer.
Then he reached inside his jacket.
This time Holloway did not stop him.
The man pulled out a business card.
He held it between two fingers.
"My name is Adrian Cole."
He handed over the card.
Holloway took it.
His eyes moved across the lettering.
He read the first line.