Marcus did not move. “That is correct,” he said. “Please run the credential number.”
Diane lifted the wallet higher, letting the afternoon light strike the seal. “I've seen this trick before.”
“Then verification should be easy.”
She laughed, and the sound carried across the courtyard. “You're really going to stand here in that hoodie, next to that beat-up truck, and tell me this is an authentic federal badge?”
The man with the juice box looked at her, then at the pink backpack, then toward the school doors. He did not answer the insult. “Ninety seconds,” he said. “Make the call. Confirm who I am, and we can get back to our afternoon.”
Around them, the sound of dismissal became a distant, uneven blur. Parents paused without quite admitting they were watching; one mother rested a hand on her car door, and two fathers near the fountain stopped a conversation in mid-sentence. Diane turned the badge toward them like a magician presenting an obvious fake. She had an audience now, and an audience made the prospect of admitting uncertainty feel unbearable.
“Anyone can order something like this,” she said. “It's a piece of metal with a seal. It doesn't prove anything.”
“That's why I'm asking you to check the number,” Marcus replied.
“If I ran dispatch every time somebody printed an official-looking card, we'd never do real police work.”
“Officer, checking a claim is real police work.”
The answer was quiet, but the people nearest the wall heard it. Diane stepped closer until less than an arm's length separated them. She was aware of the crowd and of the fact that Marcus was still looking at her directly, without the fear she believed a dishonest man ought to show. She took his calmness as defiance because that explanation was easier than considering she might be mistaken.
“Here's what I think,” she said. “I think you saw a school full of families with money and decided you could walk around here looking for an opportunity. You brought a fake badge because you expected nobody would question it.”
Marcus glanced at the badge in her hand. “You have my legal name, my address, my daughter's teacher, and a credential number you haven't checked. Everything you need to settle this is available to you.”
“Don't tell me how to do my job.”
“Then do your job,” he said, without raising his voice.
Hannah Voss had been checking the fourth-grade pickup roster at the top of the steps. She recognized Marcus immediately and started down toward him, intending to explain that she had seen him collect Zoe dozens of times. But another teacher came out with a line of students, and the crowd parted around the children. Hannah stopped to make sure they were not pushed into the gathering, suddenly aware that the school had turned a normal dismissal into a public confrontation.
“Officer Kessler,” she called, “Mr. Bell is on our pickup list. I know him.”
Diane looked back briefly. “I've got it handled, Ms. Voss.”
“He's Zoe's father.”
“Thank you,” Diane said, in the tone adults use when they want a conversation to end without seeming to issue an order. “Please keep the children moving.”