On the opposite side of Magnolia Drive, Darnell stepped onto his porch. His wife, Nicole, had been folding laundry upstairs when she heard the shouting, and she followed him to the front window. "What is happening?" she asked.
"Hawkins is outside the state house," Darnell said. "He has his gun on a woman holding keys."
Nicole reached for her phone, then hesitated. Their youngest son was due home from school within the hour, and she disliked the idea of a police confrontation unfolding within sight of the sidewalk he used. Darnell knew what she was thinking. "I'll stay here," he said. "I'm recording from our porch."
He did not zoom so tightly that only the most dramatic gestures remained visible. He kept the mansion steps, the police chief, and Lydia in the same frame. Years of reviewing technical drawings had taught him the importance of context; a photograph could mislead if it showed a detail without the structure surrounding it. He wanted a record of everything, including how far the chief had moved from his car and whether Lydia had done anything to threaten him.
Constance Hargrove emerged from her front door wearing a bright red dress and a double strand of pearls. Her first words were not a question. "Thank goodness you came, Chief. I knew she shouldn't be here."
Hawkins glanced toward her with approval. "I've got it under control, Mrs. Hargrove."
"People keep trying the doors at these big houses. You can't be too careful."
Lydia looked at Constance. "Ma'am, did you see me force the lock?"
Constance lifted her chin. "I saw you trying to get inside."
"With a key," Lydia said. "A key issued to me by the state."
"Anybody can have a key," Hawkins interrupted. "People steal keys. People copy keys. That's not proof of anything."
"Then verify it," Lydia answered.
The simplicity of that request seemed to aggravate him more than a denial. His pistol remained pointed in her direction, and several neighbors had now appeared along the sidewalks. Lydia could hear a car slowing on the road. A woman walking a terrier stopped beside a tree, held the leash close, and asked a nearby man whether she should call somebody.
"Police are already here," the man said.
"I can see that," she replied. "I'm wondering who we call when the police are the problem."
Hawkins ordered Lydia to place her hands behind her head. She complied without sudden movement, and he advanced another step. "Are you a cleaner?" he asked. "Did you get those keys from a cleaning service?"
"No, Chief."
"A contractor, then? You look a little dressed up for housework, but I've seen stranger things."
"I'm here on official state business."
"Everybody's official when they're caught."
Lydia swallowed a response that would have been deserved and unhelpful. She had encountered suspicion throughout her career: strangers mistaking her for administrative staff at professional conferences, hotel employees directing her toward service entrances, officials asking whom she accompanied after she had identified herself as the person in charge. Most of those incidents ended when someone checked a credential. This one was becoming dangerous because Hawkins treated verification itself as an insult.