"You wanted identification," Lucas said. "There it is."
"Agent Hayes," Mateo managed. "Sir, I didn't--I had no idea."
"That's the problem," Lucas answered. "You didn't know who I was."
And for the first time since entering the shop, Mateo seemed to understand that his decision to approach the back booth might follow him long after he went off duty.
Mateo had a habit of mistaking silence for surrender. In traffic stops, in interview rooms, and in the hallway outside roll call, he often waited after making a demand because people usually filled the silence with apologies. The silence that followed the FBI credentials was different. It had come from him, and he could not seem to find anything useful to put into it. His gaze moved from the shield to the officer name stitched above his own shirt pocket, as though the letters might tell him how to escape.
"You were saying something about a burglary description," Lucas said. "I'd like to hear it now."
"I thought--there have been incidents in this area." Mateo licked his lips. "There was a concern, and you looked--"
"Looked like what?"
Mateo swallowed. "I didn't know you were federal. If you'd just told me--"
"What would you have done if I weren't?" Lucas asked. He spoke quietly enough that the question seemed almost private, but everybody near the booth heard it. "If I were a dock worker coming off an overnight shift, what would you have done?"
Mateo's eyes flickered toward the customers recording on their phones. He understood how the answer might sound, and that was the first sign of real fear Lucas saw in him. The officer began to speak about public safety, then changed course and called the entire encounter a misunderstanding. He said Lucas had been uncooperative, then corrected himself to say the two men had simply gotten off on the wrong foot. A moment earlier, he had threatened to drag a customer against a wall; now he was trying to negotiate the language that would describe it.
Lucas straightened the front of his shirt. The collar had stretched where Mateo grabbed it, and a small sore patch of skin beneath it had begun to burn. He looked at the officer's hands and then at his holster. The crowded coffee shop did not need a further demonstration of anyone's authority.
"Step away from my table," Lucas said. "Keep your hands where people can see them."
"Yes, sir," Mateo answered automatically.
The response angered Lucas more than he expected. Mateo had not treated the words of an ordinary paying customer as worth hearing, but the same request spoken by a federal agent now carried an entirely different weight. Lucas had worked too many cases involving people without credentials to find that flattering. He wanted the officer to feel the difference, not because it made Lucas important, but because it exposed what the officer had believed about everyone else.
"I'm going to contact your department," Lucas said. "You are free to request a supervisor as well. Please don't approach any of the witnesses."
"Agent Hayes, look, let's be reasonable." Mateo's voice softened into a desperate whisper. "Nobody got hurt. I'll apologize to the young lady. Let me buy you another coffee. We can both walk away."