Kirby did another slow circuit of the SUV. He glanced through the tinted windows, tried a door handle, and frowned when it remained locked. The vehicle's construction was heavy enough that the body panels sounded different from those of a factory truck when he struck one lightly with his flashlight. He took that difference as further confirmation of his suspicions rather than as another reason to consult the people who could identify it.
"All this trouble over a parking spot," he said toward Toby, who could hear him faintly through the cruiser's open front window. "You could've moved along and saved yourself a lot of grief."
Toby said nothing. He had not been given a lawful opportunity simply to move the SUV, and the officer's version of events was changing even while the scene remained in front of them. For the first time that afternoon, Toby felt an emotion closer to sadness than anger. He had met officers who treated mistakes as emergencies to correct and officers who treated them as insults to conceal, and Kirby was moving steadily toward the second category.
At five twenty, a flatbed towing truck turned onto Fifth Street. It belonged to Mercer Recovery, a small family business on the industrial edge of downtown. The driver, Frank Mercer, had been moving vehicles for twenty-two years, and his first instinct was to judge the job by weight rather than by whoever happened to be arguing with an owner. He eased the flatbed along the curb and studied the Suburban with a more serious expression than Kirby expected.
Frank was a broad-shouldered man in a gray work shirt with a faded company patch above the pocket. His wife managed the office, his older son had recently joined the business, and he was saving to replace a recovery truck that had become more expensive to maintain than to operate. He did not enjoy confrontations with owners, and he relied on the calling agency to establish that a removal was authorized. When he saw the unusual plates, he stopped beside the front wheel instead of immediately unloading his equipment.
"You sure this one's cleared?" Frank asked.
"It's an impound," Kirby said. "I made the determination."
"I can see that, but those aren't regular plates."
"They're fake. Driver's in my unit."
Frank looked toward the cruiser and saw the man sitting upright in the back, not shouting or moving against the door. "He say they're fake?"
Kirby laughed. "He says he works for the president. Everybody's somebody when they get caught."
Frank did not laugh. A company in his line of work could survive an equipment failure, though not comfortably, but becoming involved in a dispute over federal property could consume months of time and legal fees. He took out his phone and called his dispatcher to ask whether there had been any special instructions. The answer was no; the police department had requested a conventional tow and provided no additional classification.
"Officer, I need you to confirm this is authorized in writing," Frank said.
Kirby pointed to his mobile terminal. "You can have the impound sheet. It's police business."
"Police business still becomes my insurance business if something goes wrong," Frank replied.