“Stop resisting.”
“I am not resisting.”
“Quit moving.”
“I am stationary.”
Carver moved in.
His hands searched Zeke’s jacket.
He found the metal pocket clip.
“Knife.”
“It’s a Leatherman.”
Carver pulled it free.
He opened one tool.
Then another.
Dalton held it up as though displaying evidence at trial.
“Concealed weapon.”
“It is a commercial multi-tool.”
“You don’t decide what it is.”
Zeke looked toward the diner’s ceiling.
Security camera.
Then toward the cruiser visible through the window.
Dash camera.
Dalton’s chest.
Body camera.
Carver’s chest.
Another.
Good.
If they were functioning, the encounter was building its own record.
Dalton removed Zeke’s phone.
The device was black and unbranded.
No manufacturer logo.
No ordinary lock screen.
Carver tapped it.
Nothing.
“Locked.”
Dalton turned it over.
“What’s this?”
“My phone.”
“What kind?”
“Government-issued.”
Dalton laughed.
“Government?”
“Yes.”
“What are you, postal inspector?”
Zeke met his eyes.
“Do not attempt to access it.”
“Or what?”
“Depending on how you do it, you may create a federal problem in addition to the one you already have.”
Dalton stared at him.
Then laughed louder.
Carver did not.
For the first time, the younger officer looked genuinely uncertain.
“Sarge.”
“What?”
“Maybe we should run him properly.”
“We ran him.”
“Just license.”
“And?”
Carver lowered his voice.
“Something feels weird.”
Dalton turned on him.
“What feels weird is you forgetting who’s in charge.”
Carver looked away.
Dalton shoved Zeke toward the door.
The cold wind outside cut through his flannel.
Rain had become a fine mist.
The patrol car’s emergency lights painted the wet asphalt red and blue.
Dalton pushed Zeke against the hood.
Zeke kept his feet beneath him.
“Sergeant.”
“What?”
“One phone call.”
“At the station.”
“One call here ends this.”
Dalton leaned close.
“You threatening me?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m giving you the least damaging option still available.”
Dalton’s face hardened.
Zeke continued.
“You let me make one call, verify what I tell you, remove these cuffs, and this may remain an internal disciplinary matter.”
Dalton laughed once.
“And if I don’t?”
“You transport me.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“Then your night becomes much longer.”
Carver looked at Zeke.
There was no bravado in the man’s voice.
That bothered him.
Dalton sensed it too.
Bullies understood fear well.
They survived by producing it.
What unsettled them was its absence.
“Who are you calling?”
“Someone who can verify my identity.”
“Lawyer?”
“No.”
“Boss?”
“Something like that.”
Dalton looked at Carver.
Then back at Zeke.
He wanted the humiliation.
That became his mistake.