He looked at Maddox, the prisoners, the open property bag, and Nash's spilled coffee.
"Somebody explain," he said, "why my booking room sounds like a livestock auction."
Maddox rushed to him, holding out Dominic's credential wallet. "Chief, I caught two out-of-state traffickers using counterfeit federal IDs. They're making threats. I need authorization to process them as high risk."
Reeve accepted the wallet. His thumb traced the shield. He read the identification card, then looked toward Dominic. He had seen authentic federal credentials during joint training events, and these details resembled what he remembered. His eyes tightened.
"Your name?" Reeve asked.
"Dominic Brooks. Assistant special agent in charge, FBI Atlanta. My sister is a DOJ civil-rights attorney. Your officers have our telephones and identification. We have requested verification repeatedly."
Reeve turned back to Maddox. "Did you check?"
"I don't need to check a fake, Chief."
The chief's face did not change, but his hand stopped moving. For years he had rescued Maddox by rewriting consequences as misunderstandings. This time the object in his hand suggested that doing so might be more dangerous than allowing the truth to emerge.
"Nash," he said, "get the FBI number. Now."
Maddox reached for the wallet. Reeve pulled it away.
The temperature in the room seemed to rise another ten degrees.
Nash found the public FBI field-office number in a directory kept beside the dispatch terminal. He dialed on speaker, identified himself, and explained that two people had been brought to the station claiming federal credentials. The receptionist transferred him to an on-duty supervisor, who requested the names and identification information.
For Maddox, every ring of the telephone sounded like an opportunity slipping away. He stood with one hand on the counter, staring at the receiver. He had worked in this building so long that he could recognize the squeak of the hallway floor by the weight of the officer crossing it. Suddenly the familiar sounds felt like things that would later be described to a jury.
"Assistant Special Agent in Charge Dominic Brooks," Nash said. "And a DOJ attorney, Nyla Brooks. Yes, they're here. Yes, currently handcuffed."
The person on the telephone became very quiet. Nash listened, nodded, and repeated what he had been told.
"Their identities are confirmed. The field office is sending personnel. We are instructed to maintain the existing recordings and not move them again."
Reeve closed his eyes for a moment. It was an almost imperceptible movement, but Nyla saw it.