Francis gave a thin smile. "I've spent some time around it." He did not show his badge. After the driveway incident, he had no desire to make the complaint depend on his federal position. Eventually Daly found the office stamp, marked the document, and slid it back with a curt gesture.
Outside, Francis sat in his car and examined the receipt. It proved only that he had handed the complaint to someone at the desk, not that an investigation had begun. Still, it was something he could establish with a date and signature. He photographed it and added the image to his records. He thought about calling Deputy Director Howard Larson immediately, then set the phone aside. He needed to keep his employer informed, but his first instinct was to avoid turning a local civil rights complaint into a fight between two agencies before the facts were established.
He called Regina as promised. She asked how the meeting went. "They took the paperwork," he said. "That doesn't sound encouraging." "It wasn't."
She remained quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Come home. We'll figure out the next step together." Francis started the car and pulled out of the lot. He had once believed that being familiar with legal procedures made him better protected than an ordinary resident; now he wondered how many people without his training would have accepted Daly's answer and gone home without a stamped copy.
The following afternoon, Francis returned from the grocery store to find Regina standing on the porch with her arms crossed. Her expression made him stop before he reached the steps. "What happened?" he asked. She nodded toward the far end of the street. "A gray sedan was parked over there for nearly an hour.
Two people inside, maybe one. I couldn't tell through the windshield." Francis followed her gaze, but the car was gone. Regina described its position, the lack of a visible delivery or service purpose, and the fact that it departed after she came outside with her phone.
He was careful not to treat an unfamiliar parked car as proof of surveillance. Maple Court was a public street. Visitors stopped there, repair workers waited for appointments, and drivers sometimes pulled over to answer messages. But the timing troubled him, and Regina was unusually observant. She had spent fifteen years in hospital management noticing the difference between a visitor waiting patiently and someone lingering where they did not belong. Francis asked her to write down everything she remembered, then photographed the place she said the sedan had been parked.
Over dinner, Regina admitted she was frightened. "They said they'd review everything," she told him, "and then Mason filed a report calling you aggressive. Now there may be someone watching the house." Francis nodded.
"I don't know what the car means." "Neither do I," she said. "That's what worries me." He reached across the table and took her hand.
"I'm not going to dismiss it. But I won't assume the worst without evidence either." She squeezed his fingers, appreciating the promise even though it did not make the uncertainty disappear.