"Gerald," she said when Hawkins answered, "there's someone at the Pemberton house. A woman. I've never seen her before, and she's trying to get inside. I thought you ought to know."
Hawkins did not ask whether the door had been forced. He did not ask whether the woman had a key or whether state staff were expected that day. He knew the caller, knew the street, and believed those two things were enough. He told Constance he was on his way, switched on his emergency lights, and turned toward Magnolia Drive.
Lydia had been standing on the front steps for ninety seconds when his patrol car stopped hard at the curb.
Hawkins stepped out before his engine had settled. His door stayed open, the radio murmuring from inside, while he crossed the curb with a hand already touching his holster. Lydia recognized the problem immediately. This was not an officer approaching to find out what was happening. This was an officer arriving to confirm a conclusion he had made somewhere else.
"Get on the ground," he shouted again. "Hands where I can see them."
Lydia slowly lowered her portfolio. "My hands are visible, Chief. My name is Lydia Monroe, and I am authorized to be at this property. I can provide identification."
"I don't need your rehearsed explanation. Step away from the door."
She obeyed the instruction to step down from the porch. The keys slipped from her hand beside the hydrangeas, and she left them where they fell. She had taught protective agents that reaching for something during a confused encounter could turn a manageable situation into a dangerous one. It angered her that she was having to use that lesson on someone whose job was supposedly to protect the public, but anger could be examined later. For the moment she concentrated on keeping her movements plain and her voice even.
The chief looked her over, taking in the blazer, the tailored trousers, and the watch at her wrist. None of those details softened his expression. "Who gave you permission to come here?" he demanded.
"The office responsible for this residence. I have written authorization."
"Don't get clever. I know everyone who belongs on this street."
"Then you know this is a government-owned property."
That should have been a useful opening. Hawkins had worked in Elmwood long enough to know that Willow Creek was used by the state, and the agency responsible for the building could be contacted without difficulty. Instead, the reference irritated him. He heard it as a challenge to his standing among the residents.
"Government property doesn't mean anybody can walk in," he snapped. "Especially not somebody who shows up with a story and expects me to believe it."