Regina emerged from the bedroom as he was fastening his watch. She was a hospital nursing supervisor, a woman who could manage a busy emergency floor without raising her voice and could spot an evasive answer before someone finished giving it. They had been married fifteen years. She took one look at his old gray T-shirt and faded jeans and smiled.
"You're going to wash that car before breakfast, aren't you?" Francis admitted that he had considered it, and Regina shook her head. "I knew it. The federal government finally gives you a morning off, and you assign yourself chores."
He made coffee while she cut fruit and warmed bread. They ate at the kitchen table, talking about a cousin's birthday and a leaking faucet in the upstairs bathroom. Regina asked whether he had heard anything new about the Hartwell investigation. He told her only that the work was proceeding, careful not to bring protected details into their kitchen.
She had long ago stopped pressing him for information he could not share. Before he went outside, she reminded him they were supposed to buy groceries that afternoon. He promised to be finished with the car by eleven, and she told him she would believe it when she saw him putting the hose away.
At nine-thirty he opened the garage, rolled a bucket onto the driveway, and brought out a sponge, two clean towels, and a bottle of car shampoo. His dark sedan was not new, but it had been maintained carefully, with a small dash camera mounted near the rearview mirror. He had installed the camera months earlier after noticing a patrol cruiser repeatedly slowing near his house while he was arriving home. Francis had told himself he was probably overthinking it. Still, after years gathering evidence, he found reassurance in systems that recorded events accurately without relying on somebody's memory.
He filled the bucket and watched suds rise around his hands. The first splash struck the hood with a satisfying sound. He worked the sponge in long, careful circles, taking his time because nothing required him to hurry. Somewhere across the street, a lawn mower started, stalled, then started again.
A little girl called to her brother from a front yard. Father Oscar, an older neighbor who served at a local parish, walked slowly down the block holding his morning newspaper under one arm. Francis lifted a soapy hand in greeting, and the priest returned the wave.
For nearly twenty minutes, the morning remained ordinary. Francis moved from the hood to the front bumper, then along the driver's side. He thought about whether he and Regina should replace the aging patio furniture before summer. He remembered a conversation at work and deliberately pushed it aside. The sunlight warmed his back, and the smell of wet pavement reminded him of washing his father's truck when he was a teenager. In another few minutes he intended to rinse the car, make fresh coffee, and ask Regina whether she wanted to drive out to the farmers' market.
Then he heard gravel crunch beneath tires. There was no siren, only the unmistakable sound of a vehicle stopping at the curb. Francis straightened and looked toward the street. A marked police cruiser had pulled up in front of his property with its emergency lights flashing. It was an odd choice for an ordinary neighborhood call. A couple passing on the sidewalk stopped to look, and Francis placed the sponge on the hood before the officer had even opened his door.
The driver was Darius Mason. Francis recognized him instantly, and an unwelcome memory returned. Three weeks earlier, the two men had argued outside a grocery store after Mason parked diagonally across the accessible access aisle beside a designated parking space. An elderly woman using a walker had struggled to move around the cruiser. Francis had politely pointed out that the vehicle was blocking the marked area, assuming Mason would move it once he understood. Instead, Mason had demanded to know why a civilian thought he could tell an officer where to park.
Francis remembered standing beside his shopping cart, holding a bag of coffee and a carton of milk, explaining that he was not issuing orders. The access aisle was marked, he said, and the woman should not have to navigate into traffic because a patrol car blocked her path. The elderly woman had thanked him. Mason had stepped closer and asked whether Francis was trying to embarrass him. Francis had answered that he was asking him to move the car, nothing more. Mason eventually did, but not before looking Francis over and saying, "Some people need to learn when to keep their opinions to themselves."