Thornton turned.
“What?”
“Nothing, Chief.”
He faced the desk again.
“Process him.”
I knew enough about custody procedures to understand what came next.
Property.
Photograph.
Fingerprints.
Holding.
A phone call eventually.
Maybe an interview.
And paperwork.
Especially paperwork.
That was what interested me.
The arrest at Common Grounds had been recorded from multiple angles. Nora’s shop had cameras. Ray had a concealed system authorized under our operation. Thornton and Sullivan both had department-issued body cameras.
But cameras capture moments.
Paperwork captures choices made afterward.
A bad decision can happen quickly.
A false report takes time.
You have to choose the words.
That was why I did not identify myself.
Not yet.
I could have.
I had a credential Thornton would have recognized immediately.
One phone call from the station commander to the state capital would have turned the morning into institutional panic.
The cuffs would have come off.
Lawyers would have appeared.
Thornton would have stopped talking.
Every officer in the building would have begun choosing words carefully.
That might have protected me.
It would not have protected the investigation.
So I gave the desk officer the same cover identification Thornton had already seen.
The officer entered the information.
“Occupation?”
“Retired school administrator.”
Thornton, several feet away, gave a faint snort.
I looked at him.
He did not look back.
The booking officer continued.
“Any injuries?”
“No.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“No.”
“Any medication?”
“No.”
He finished the form, then looked at Thornton.
“Chief, you want an interview room?”
“Yes.”
Sullivan turned toward him.
“For trespass?”
Thornton’s head moved slowly.
“What did you say?”
She held his gaze.
“I asked if you wanted an interview room for a trespass arrest.”
“Did you miss the other charges?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
That was the first time I saw Brenda Sullivan openly resist him.
Not much.
Just enough to create friction.
Thornton noticed.
So did I.
He pointed down the hallway.
“Room two.”
Sullivan escorted me there.
The room was small, square, and aggressively plain. Metal table. Three chairs. Camera high in one corner.
She removed one cuff from my wrist and secured it to a ring attached to the table.
Then she paused.
Her fingers remained near the second cuff.
“You said the owner didn’t ask you to leave.”
“That’s correct.”
“Did anyone who worked there ask you to leave?”
“No.”
She looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
“Did you threaten anyone?”
“No.”
“Touch anyone?”
“No.”
“Block the register?”
“No.”
Her jaw moved slightly.
I said, “Officer Sullivan.”
She looked at me.
“You should write down exactly what you saw.”
Something changed in her expression.
Not recognition.
Not yet.
Maybe suspicion.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because memory gets crowded once other people start telling you what happened.”
The door opened.
Thornton entered.
Sullivan straightened.
He looked from her to me.
“You questioning my prisoner?”
“I was clarifying the incident.”
“I’ll clarify it.”
He jerked his head toward the hall.
Sullivan left.
Thornton closed the door and sat across from me.
For several seconds, he simply watched.
Then he placed my cover identification on the table.
“Aaron Cole.”
I nodded.
“Retired educator.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Several months.”
“Why Ridgemont?”
“It seemed quiet.”
He smiled.
There was no warmth in it.
“You picked the wrong downtown to play games.”
“I was drinking coffee.”
“You were watching people.”
“People are visible in coffee shops.”
“Don’t get smart.”
I leaned back as much as the cuff allowed.
“I’m answering your questions.”
Thornton studied me.
“You come in there a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Same table.”
“Usually.”
“Same time.”
“Usually.”
“Watching the door.”
“Reading a newspaper.”
“You expect me to believe you moved here to sit in Nora Whitfield’s shop every morning?”
“No. I moved here because I wanted to live here.”
“Why that shop?”
“The coffee is good.”
He stared.
The camera in the corner had a small dark lens.