"He's my prisoner. He's under investigation for impersonating federal law enforcement."
"Has his credential been checked through your liaison?"
Kirby stared at him. "He's been telling everybody some story about presidential security."
"That's not what I asked."
The words hit Kirby with the same force as the earlier questions from the dispatcher and tow driver. For much of his career he had believed that asking questions was the privilege of the person wearing a badge, not a responsibility shared by everyone who held authority. Now he was surrounded by people who expected him to answer directly, and the old techniques were no longer working.
"This is my scene," he said. "I don't care what agency you're from."
The agent kept his voice low. "Officer, no one is asking you to decide anything about the president. I'm asking you to step away from the vehicle and keep your hands visible while we establish what happened."
Another federal vehicle stopped farther down the street. Doors opened, personnel moved into view, and Kirby saw equipment that left no doubt the response had come from an organized protective operation. The uniforms and vehicles were not the familiar ones from a local traffic stop, and the people wearing them seemed to have no interest in impressing him. Their focus was on the stalled SUV, the disabled tow truck, and the restrained driver in his cruiser.
Kirby lifted his voice again. He talked about jurisdiction, procedure, parking rules, and the danger of fraudulent credentials, growing louder each time someone refused to argue with him. A woman inside the nearest federal vehicle watched him with a tight expression and spoke briefly into a radio. Kirby took the lack of a response as contempt and stepped forward, intending to force the issue face to face.
His hand drifted toward his duty belt as it had hundreds of times during arguments. The agents nearest him reacted immediately, bringing their attention and weapons to bear in a way that stopped him before the gesture became anything more. No one fired. The closest agent instructed him to move his hand away from his weapon and show both palms.
For an instant, Kirby seemed to hear only the humiliation in the command. He looked down at his own hand, then at the people facing him, and realized that none of them was bluffing. He raised his hands slowly, fingers separated, and the street became silent enough for him to hear the hiss of a nearby bus releasing its brakes.
"Keep still," the agent said. "We are not here to hurt you. Do not reach for anything."
Kirby obeyed. The flashlight lay on the road where he had dropped it, a small dark object between his polished boots. He stared at it with an irrational wish that he could rewind the afternoon to the moment he had taken it out of the cruiser. The wish lasted only a moment before the sound of another approaching engine interrupted him.