"You're a long way from an ordinary neighborhood at this hour," Reigns said. "People in expensive cars usually have appointments. Meetings. Things they don't want to miss." Marcus answered that he was expected somewhere that morning. "That's what I figured," Reigns replied, sounding pleased with himself.
A delivery truck passed, its tires humming over the pavement. Reigns waited until the noise faded, then bent lower. "See, I could start looking into that drifting," he continued. "Maybe there is something in this vehicle we ought to know about. We could be here for hours, and if I find a reason to tow it, your whole day disappears."
"What reason do you have to search it?" Marcus asked. Reigns smiled as if the question were a joke. He glanced once at the empty street, once toward his patrol car, and then touched the body camera mounted to his chest. The small red light went out beneath his thumb.
"These batteries are junk," he muttered. "Department's been promising replacements for months." Marcus watched the gesture, noting the lack of surprise or concern on the officer's face. A malfunction in recording equipment should have prompted a report and a different procedure. Reigns treated it as a convenience.
He leaned close enough that his voice became almost private. "Or we can save ourselves the trouble. Five hundred in cash, and you leave with a warning. No search. No tow. No citation."
For a few seconds, Marcus looked at the man outside his window without speaking. Twenty-three years of law enforcement had shown him negligence, cruelty, dishonesty, and the ordinary human tendency to make bad decisions under pressure. This felt different. The words had been delivered with the comfortable rhythm of a sales pitch, as though the officer expected gratitude for offering a bargain.
Marcus's small recorder lay on the passenger seat among his work materials. He had started a command-note recording shortly before entering Highland Avenue, and it remained running with the rest of his morning observations. He resisted the urge to check it or make any conspicuous movement toward it. Instead, he looked at Reigns and asked, clearly, "How much did you say?"
"Five hundred dollars," Reigns repeated. "Cash. Don't waste my time pretending you didn't hear." He straightened a little, confident that the exchange was progressing according to a script he knew. "You look like a man with money. Paying me is a lot cheaper than what happens when I start writing things down."
"What happens if I refuse?" Marcus asked. The officer gave a small, contemptuous laugh. "Then I decide this expensive car needs a thorough inspection. Maybe the registration gets another look, maybe the tires suddenly aren't safe, maybe I smell something I don't like. Your choice."
"I'm not giving you money," Marcus said. "And I do not consent to a search." Reigns's smile disappeared so quickly that the transformation looked mechanical. His gaze hardened, and his hand settled against his duty belt. "You don't seem to understand who you're talking to," he said.