Cole didn't even look over. "Call the hook, Diaz. We're seizing the property."
Diaz didn't reach for his radio. His thumb froze directly over the clear plastic sleeve, and the color drained completely from his face.
CHAPTER 2: Diaz Lowered The Open Leather Wallet While Cole Signaled The Flatbed Winch
Diaz did not simply hesitate; his fingers went rigid against the leather seams. His gaze remained locked on the laminated Commonwealth seal and the embossed gold lettering of the State Division of Municipal Asset Oversight. For five full seconds, the only sound between us was the wet diesel rattle of the idling tow truck behind our backs and the sharp drip of condensation rolling off my car’s chrome grille onto the crushed stone.
"Travis," Diaz said, his voice dropping into a hoarse, strained whisper. "Look at the credentials."
Cole didn't even turn his head. He had already raised his left hand toward the tow driver, pumping two fingers in a tight circle to signal the winch operator to drop the hydraulic bed. "I told you, Diaz, we inventory the personal effects at the impound compound. Put the wallet on the dash and secure his hands behind his back. The Clarke County truck is on our clock."
"Travis, look at the damn card," Diaz repeated, stepping hard into Cole’s peripheral vision and shoving the open bifold directly beneath the younger officer’s nose. "He’s Arthur Vance. He’s the Regional Chief Inspector for County Infrastructure Audits. He isn't some transient idling in an alleyway. He holds state executive oversight over every municipal facility in this district."
Cole’s arm remained half-raised in the fog, but the fingers stopped circling. His head jerked toward the wallet. I watched the muscle along his right jawline bunch and lock as his eyes traced the blue state ribbon, my printed employee serial number, and the direct signature of the Commonwealth Inspector General across the bottom laminate.
The sneer didn't leave Cole’s mouth all at once; it collapsed unevenly. The aggressive, bullying posture he had used to shove me against my driver’s side door faltered, replaced by a sudden, predatory calculation. Men like Cole did not back down when confronted with authority; they recalculated the angle of their fall.
"An auditor," Cole muttered, his voice dropping low enough that the idling flatbed partially drowned the syllables. He finally eased his forearm off my coat, but he stepped sideways, deliberately blocking the path between me and my open driver’s door. "Auditors work out of Richmond behind mahogany desks. They don't crawl around gravel maintenance depots at seven in the morning in high-end imports."
"I drive an eleven-year-old diesel sedan with two hundred and forty thousand miles on the odometer, Officer Cole," I said, keeping my hands resting plainly on top of the car's cold steel roof. "And my scheduled appointment with County Depot Supervisor Ray Sterling was entered into the municipal registry forty-eight hours ago. Which brings me back to the question I asked when you stepped out of your patrol car. How did you have my license plate number written on an off-county towing manifest before you even walked behind my bumper?"
Cole’s eyes narrowed into hard, defensive slits. He snatched the clipboard off my roof, holding it close to his chest so the carbon paper was hidden against his nylon vest. "We received an anonymous trespassing complaint about an unauthorized luxury vehicle blocking the primary equipment gate. I filled out the preliminary header based on the call sheet."
"That is a lie," Diaz said suddenly.
Cole snapped his head toward his partner, his expression darkening into pure venom. "Shut your mouth, Diaz."
"No," Diaz said, his voice trembling slightly, though he stood his ground on the wet gravel. "Dispatch didn't give us a plate number, Travis. Dispatch gave us a general report of a trespasser near the secondary salt barn. You had that Clarke County tow sheet sitting on your passenger visor when I met you at the precinct fuel depot forty minutes ago. You told me it was an abandoned vehicle from yesterday’s night shift."
The silence that followed was heavy and corrosive. Behind us, the flatbed's steel ramps slammed down against the gravel with an iron crash that startled a murder of crows out of the bare oak trees. The tow truck driver, a thick-shouldered man in grease-stained coveralls and a faded ballcap, climbed down from the cab carrying a heavy J-hook chain in each gloved hand. He stopped dead ten feet away, looking back and forth between Cole’s defensive stance and Diaz’s pale, sweat-sheened face.
"We hooking this Benz or what, Cole?" the driver called out, his boots crunching in the dirt. "I got three other cleanouts scheduled across the county line before noon."
"Hold up, Roy," Cole barked over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving mine.
I took half a step away from my door, lowering my hands to my sides. "Give me back my wallet, Officer Diaz."