Terrence looked toward him.
Their gazes met.
Rhodes felt a strange pressure in his chest.
The older man did not show recognition.
Rhodes turned to the escorting officer.
“Who is that?”
Officer Pike shrugged.
“Some guy claiming to be a general.”
Rhodes looked back through the window.
“What name?”
“Whitmore.”
Rhodes became completely still.
“Terrence Whitmore?”
Pike looked surprised.
“Yeah.”
Rhodes stared at him.
“What did you arrest him for?”
“We’re checking his credentials.”
“That was not my question.”
Pike shifted.
“I don’t know all the details.”
Rhodes did not continue toward Sloan’s office.
Instead:
“Take me to whoever’s handling it.”
Captain Barrett Sloan emerged before anyone could answer.
Sloan was fifty-three, square-faced, and nearing the end of a career he had once imagined would include a larger department.
He had already heard too much about the situation.
Now a federal agent was asking questions.
“Agent Rhodes.”
“Captain.”
“You’re early.”
“I’m actually late.”
Rhodes nodded toward the holding area.
“Why is Terrence Whitmore in your cell?”
Sloan’s stomach tightened.
“You know him?”
“I know the name.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
Rhodes’s eyes hardened.
“It isn’t.”
Sloan gestured toward his office.
“Let’s handle your paperwork first.”
Rhodes did not move.
“Captain.”
“It’s under control.”
“That phrase usually means it isn’t.”
Sloan’s jaw tightened.
“Local matter.”
Rhodes looked once more at the cell.
Then followed Sloan into the office.
But the feeling did not leave.
Ten minutes later, while Sloan reviewed the federal paperwork, Rhodes quietly opened a secure directory on his government phone.
He typed:
WHITMORE, TERRENCE E.
No profile appeared.
Instead:
RESTRICTED DOD PERSONNEL RECORD.
CONTACT AUTHORIZED LIAISON.
Rhodes stared at the screen.
Then remembered the briefing.
General Whitmore.
He had been real.
Not merely real.
Senior.
Very senior.
Rhodes closed the directory.
“Captain.”
Sloan looked up.
“You need to verify your detainee now.”
“We are.”
“No.”
Rhodes stood.
“I mean through the federal contact listed on the restriction.”
Sloan’s face tightened.
“We’re waiting for county.”
“County can’t open a Defense restriction.”
Sloan became defensive.
“I run this station.”
“Yes.”
Rhodes picked up his case.
“And that man may have once run military commands larger than your town.”
Sloan stared.
Rhodes left.
He had no authority to order Terrence released.
But he did something else.
In the parking lot, he called his supervisor.
“Possible protected military identity being held by local police.”
“Name?”
“Terrence Whitmore.”
Silence.
Then:
“Say that again.”
Rhodes repeated it.
His supervisor’s tone changed.
“I’m calling you back.”
Three minutes later, Rhodes’s phone rang.
“Declan.”
“Yes.”
“Do not leave.”
Rhodes looked back toward the station.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Inside, Sloan finally gave Terrence his phone call.
Not because he believed him.
Because doubt had become uncomfortable.
Terrence was brought from the cell to a hallway telephone.
Sloan stood beside him.
Langley watched from ten feet away.
Carver leaned near the doorway.