The first few troubling stops had bothered him enough to write private notes. He had told himself that he lacked experience and that a senior sergeant might see dangers he did not. Hollister encouraged that explanation. Whenever Gallagher asked about legal grounds, Hollister responded with stories from fifteen years of street work, lectures about officer safety, or a reminder that the sheriff supported their tactics. Eventually Gallagher stopped asking questions aloud, though he had not stopped noticing the answers.
Hollister waited inside the cruiser with its lights flashing behind the Tahoe. He enjoyed the silence between the first moment a driver saw the lights and the moment a uniform appeared at the window. He said it gave people time to reconsider the lies they planned to tell. Gallagher watched a truck thunder past, shook his head at the glare, and quietly started the body-camera recording he was required to use.
They approached from behind. Hollister tapped the Tahoe's left taillight with two knuckles and walked toward the open driver's window. Byron sat with both hands visible on the steering wheel. The radio was almost inaudible, and the air conditioner moved a faint stream of cool air toward the window.
"Good afternoon, Sergeant," Byron said, reading the name on the uniform. "Is everything all right?"
"License and registration," Hollister replied. "Where are you headed?"
Byron told him he was returning to Washington after visiting family. Hollister asked whether he owned the SUV, why it had federal plates, and what his business had been near the state line. Byron answered the questions calmly and handed over the documents. None of his answers seemed to satisfy the sergeant, but the questions continued even after he had supplied everything required for an ordinary traffic citation.
Hollister inspected the license photograph, held it against the driver's face, and frowned theatrically. "You live in Washington?"
"Most of the time," Byron said. "I still spend a fair amount of time traveling for work."
"What kind of work puts a man like you in a government Tahoe?"
"Federal service," Byron answered. "The Department of Justice."
Hollister gave a short laugh and carried the documents back to the cruiser. Gallagher watched the registration return on the computer. The vehicle belonged to an authorized federal fleet, and there were no warnings attached to the license. The speed reading reflected one mile an hour above the limit, an offense that could technically support a citation under the state's traffic laws but offered no explanation for the expanding interest in the driver himself.
"It's federal," Gallagher said. He tried to make the observation sound ordinary. "Registration and driver are clean."
"And?" Hollister asked.
"Nothing. Just saying we're not getting any flags."
Hollister turned toward him. "A clean screen doesn't tell you what's inside the car. You ought to know that by now."
Gallagher looked at the display again. He could have replied that the absence of flags was not a reason to search, but he knew the familiar rhythm of such conversations. Hollister would mock him, question his courage, and repeat the warning about how easily a reputation could follow someone to every other department in the region. Gallagher said nothing. The radio crackled with an unrelated report of a stalled truck several exits away.