Price looked at the clock in his unit: 9:52.
Ransom seemed to latch onto the technicality like a rope. “Then until midnight, you don’t command this scene.”
“No,” Amara said. “You do.”
She nodded toward the body camera on his chest.
“And every decision you make before midnight belongs entirely to you.”
A new voice came over the radio asking for Ransom’s status. He reached for the microphone but hesitated. Price watched him closely.
“Unit Twelve, status check,” dispatch repeated.
Ransom keyed the mic. “Investigative detention. Possible obstruction. Stand by.”
Price’s head snapped toward him.
Amara’s eyes narrowed. “What obstruction?”
Ransom ignored her.
Price said, “She hasn’t obstructed us.”
Ransom keyed the mic again. “Requesting transport unit.”
The air seemed to tighten.
Amara understood then that humiliation had become more dangerous to him than exposure. He had discovered who she was and instead of stopping, he was trying to create an offense large enough to justify everything that had already happened.
Price understood too.
“Cole,” he said, “don’t do this.”
Ransom turned on him. “You can either back me or clear the scene.”
Price looked at Amara.
She did not ask for help.
He looked at the shattered Bentley.
Then he reached up, checked that his body camera’s red light was still blinking, and said, “I’m staying.”
Ransom’s face darkened.
Amara glanced at the time again.
Two hours and eight minutes until midnight.
She had expected her first leadership crisis sometime in the first month.
She had not expected to spend the last hours before taking office standing in the rain while a man who would soon report to her tried to manufacture a reason to put her in handcuffs.
The transport unit arrived at 10:07 p.m. carrying Sergeant Lyle Voss, the night-shift supervisor. Voss was compact, neat, and careful in the way of men who had learned to survive departmental politics by appearing decisive without actually committing to much. He stepped from his SUV, listened to Ransom for less than a minute, then looked at the Bentley.
“What was the probable cause?” he asked.
Ransom’s answer came too quickly. “Odor of marijuana, inconsistent statements, refusal to cooperate.”
Price said, “I didn’t smell marijuana.”
Voss glanced at him. “I’m talking to Ransom.”
Amara stood under the edge of an emergency blanket Calvin had offered from his tow truck. Her coat was damp. She felt no need to interrupt. Voss walked to the Bentley and leaned toward the shattered driver’s window. He sniffed once, theatrically enough that Price looked away.
“I don’t smell it now,” Voss said.
Ransom shrugged. “Rain and open windows.”
Four open windows, Amara thought. Created by baton.
Voss asked for her license. Ransom handed it over along with the retired credential case. Voss opened the case, then looked at Amara with immediate recognition—not of her face, but of the category she occupied.
“You used to be state bureau?”
“You know Sheriff Halbrook?”
“I do.”
That answer changed his posture. “You call him tonight?”
“Why not?”
Amara looked toward Ransom. “Because I should not need a personal relationship with the sheriff to receive lawful treatment during a traffic stop.”
Price’s mouth tightened as if trying not to react.
Voss did not like the answer, but he could not easily argue with it. He walked several feet away with Ransom. They spoke quietly. Price stayed near Amara.