Raymond heard the tires before he saw the lights. The pace was wrong for a driver headed home, too slow and searching, with an engine note that hovered rather than passed. His hands continued moving over the bumper, but something in the morning had changed. A career spent examining scenes where people had been harmed had taught him to notice small changes in ordinary rhythms. He knew the sound of a cruiser approaching as well as he knew the sound of the Chevelle's engine, and he knew when its presence carried a purpose that had not yet been spoken.
He placed the chamois on the roof, turned slowly, and saw a patrol car stopped across his driveway. The emergency lights flashed without a siren, catching the oak leaves and the chrome in repeated bursts. Behind the windshield, an officer watched him without getting out. Raymond could have reached for the leather badge wallet in his back pocket then, and part of him considered it.
Instead, he kept his hands where they could be seen and waited for the officer to explain why a man polishing his own car required police attention.
The cruiser door opened with a mechanical click, and Puit stepped out. He adjusted his duty belt, settled his sunglasses on his face, and approached without introducing himself. The movement of his right hand near his holster was casual enough to appear habitual and deliberate enough to be understood. Raymond watched him cover the distance, noticing the unhurried steps, the set jaw, and the unmistakable absence of curiosity.
"Step away from the vehicle," Puit ordered. He stopped roughly eight feet from the front fender and planted his boots on the concrete as though establishing a boundary. Raymond moved one measured step backward, away from the Chevelle, leaving the wash bucket between them. "I'm away from it," he said. "Good morning, Officer. Is there a problem I can help you with?"
"Whose car is this?" Puit asked. His gaze traveled over the polished bodywork and returned to the faded shirt and stained trousers. "Mine," Raymond answered.
"And what are you doing with it?" Raymond glanced at the sponge, the hose, and the water running into the gutter before looking back at the officer. "I'm washing it. It's a nice morning for it."
Puit's jaw tightened at the answer. He stepped closer, reducing the distance to five feet without any apparent investigative reason. "Don't get smart with me. That's a lot of car for someone dressed the way you are." The sentence arrived with such practiced ease that Raymond understood Puit did not regard it as an accusation. In the officer's mind, it was a statement of obvious fact.
Raymond felt a familiar bitterness rise behind his ribs. He had encountered versions of this assumption in stores where clerks followed him down aisles, in expensive restaurants where hosts asked him to confirm reservations twice, and on the department's own promotion committees where colleagues praised his field work but questioned whether he was the right fit for senior leadership. His uniform sometimes changed the conversation immediately. Out of uniform, he was required to prove something other people were allowed to assume.