She had not yet concluded that anyone was cheating. Impressive numbers could result from hard work, changed reporting practices, or a temporary concentration of serious cases in one jurisdiction. The thing that worried her was how many of the arrest summaries used exactly the same language, as if different incidents had passed through the same pair of hands before they were filed. She had requested the original reports and planned to compare them during her first month. That work was still a problem for Monday when, at 9:36 on Saturday morning, a marked Silver Pines police cruiser turned sharply into Larkspur Bend.
Monica heard its tires on the curve before she saw its reflection in the sedan's windshield. The cruiser stopped diagonally behind her car, close enough that she could see the colored lights flash briefly against the garage door even though the siren was silent. Two doors opened, followed by the rapid approach of heavy boots. Then came the unmistakable sound of a handgun leaving a retention holster, a compact mechanical click that made every muscle along her shoulders tighten. She knew the sound because she had heard it on training ranges and in real operations where nobody mistook it for anything else.
"Drop it now!" a man shouted behind her. "Hands where I can see them. Are you fixing that car or stealing it?" Monica did not spin around to identify the speaker, because she knew exactly how dangerous a sudden movement would look to someone whose finger was already near a trigger.
She placed both hands flat on the upper edge of the open hood, keeping the wrench motionless beneath her right palm. "This is my vehicle," she said clearly. "I live in the house directly behind me, and my hands are on the hood where you can see them."
A second officer moved around the passenger side, younger, narrower in the shoulders, with his pistol held in both hands. He positioned himself where he could see her face and the engine compartment, then raised his voice as though she had not already obeyed. "Both hands, lady. Let me see all of your fingers." Monica spread them slightly without lifting her palms. She could hear her own breathing, measured and steady, while the second officer glanced toward the house as if searching for the person he expected to be the actual owner.
"Your identification," the first man demanded. "Where is it?" Monica answered that her wallet and federal credentials were on a small table immediately inside the front door. "I'm not reaching for them unless you tell me it's safe to do so," she added, careful to leave no room for misunderstanding. The officer snapped that she would not reach for anything, and she agreed. Then he asked again whose car she was working on, as though the first answer had failed to register.