"You had a fake badge," Voss replied. "And now you've got no badge at all."
He seemed to enjoy that final sentence. Danielle had met officers who became angry when challenged, and she had met officers who were frightened of being exposed as incompetent. Voss's mood did not fit neatly into either category. The more she mentioned verification, the more determined he became to prevent it. He was not interested in learning whether she was telling the truth, because learning the truth would require him to change course.
Voss walked to the front of the SUV and peered through the windshield. A hard-sided equipment case occupied part of the rear cargo compartment. There were cable reels, a secured laptop mount, and a small evidence kit visible behind the tinted glass. He circled toward the driver's door and pulled the handle. The vehicle was locked.
"Open it."
"I don't consent to a search," Danielle answered. "I also need you to preserve the vehicle as it is."
"You've got government plates. Fake documents. Maybe stolen equipment."
"The registration can be checked. Use dispatch."
Voss pressed the key on his radio. "Dispatch, confirm a federal impersonator in custody at the highway fuel station. Female, approximately late forties, driving a dark SUV. Request supervisor."
The dispatcher asked for the plate. Voss read it out, then seemed irritated when she told him the query had returned a restricted government vehicle registration and requested additional confirmation before identifying the agency. Danielle watched him turn his shoulder away from her as if the answer were an insult.
"Restricted means someone entered something into a computer," he muttered. "Doesn't mean it's legitimate."
"Your dispatcher is trying to verify it. Let her finish."
"I'm not taking orders from you."
He stepped closer and tightened one cuff when she shifted her hands to relieve the pressure. Pain traveled up the inside of Danielle's wrist. Her first impulse was to object immediately. Instead, she asked him to check the fit and documented, aloud, the minute and the discomfort. His body camera was still recording. He stared at her for a long moment, then turned away.
At the counter inside the station, Leah Grant had taken the same folded receipt out of the register twice without reading it. She knew Officer Voss. She knew his heavy footsteps, the way he asked for coffee without saying please, and the small hard pause before he reminded her of his patrol schedule. She also knew that the woman in handcuffs had introduced herself as an Army investigator before Voss arrived. Through the office window, Leah had seen the gold shield. When he broke it, her stomach seemed to drop through the floor.
For eight months Leah had managed fear by reducing her world to practical tasks. Open the till. Check the cooler temperatures. Reconcile the fuel totals. Make sure the early truckers had fresh coffee. Tell her daughter, Sophie, that work was fine. Ignore the cruiser idling by the apartment. The routine helped her pretend the threats remained outside the life she was trying to protect. This morning, with the officer detaining someone who had come asking the same questions Leah was afraid to ask, the routine had finally failed.