Harlan seized his wrist and pushed him toward the Charger's rear fender. Dez's chest struck the metal with a hollow sound, and the wrench on the padded cloth rattled against another tool. Pain flashed across his shoulder, where an old injury still limited certain movements. He gripped the edge of the fender for balance before remembering that even that instinct might be described as resistance.
"I'm not fighting you," he said. "You're hurting my shoulder. Please ease up." Harlan tightened his grip.
"You think you're too good to listen?" the officer muttered near his ear. "Everybody listens eventually." The cuffs closed around Dez's wrists.
One sat too tightly, pressing into a nerve. Dez told him so in the same controlled tone he might have used to explain a mechanical problem. Harlan ignored the warning and began searching his pockets. He removed a wallet, keys, a receipt from the hardware store, and a dark identification card kept inside a protective sleeve.
The driver's license gave Harlan his first clear chance to correct the mistake. It carried the name Darius T. Cain and the address 422 Maple Ridge.
Harlan stared at the matching numbers for an instant, then glanced toward Loretta's window across the street. He had told her, through the radio and through his posture, that he was catching a criminal. A correction would require a public admission that he had been wrong. He closed the wallet and looked instead at the other card.
The card belonged to Dez's current consulting arrangement. It identified him as authorized personnel and directed an official verifier to a secure duty office; it did not disclose what he did, where he worked, or any classified operation. To Harlan, its unfamiliar design was an opportunity. "What's this?" he demanded.
"You trying to pass yourself off as a federal agent?" Dez leaned against the car and answered carefully. "It's a government credential. There's a verification number on the back. Call it through your department's official channels." Harlan did not turn the card over.
"So you've got fake identification too," he announced loudly. The sentence carried across the lawn and reached the neighboring porches, where several residents were beginning to gather. Dez looked at the officer for a long moment. "You have a license showing I live here," he said.
"You have a phone number that can verify that card. Those are two answers. Why are you looking for a third?" Harlan reddened and pulled him away from the Charger.
Loretta, still at her window, told the dispatcher the officer had caught the burglar. She could no longer see the man's face, only the cuffs and the police uniform. Her relief was immediate and misplaced. Two houses down, seventeen-year-old Tyler Bennett had been recording from