“You don’t decide what’s relevant.”
Darius looked at him.
“Actually, legally, there are limits to what you can demand.”
Ror’s expression hardened.
“You keep saying legally.”
“Yes.”
“Almost like you want a fight.”
“No.”
Darius’s voice remained level.
“I want you to follow the law.”
At the corner house, Harold Webb stepped outside.
Harold was sixty-eight.
Retired insurance adjuster.
Widower.
He had introduced himself to Darius the first day the movers arrived.
Brought two bottles of water.
Pointed out which trash day applied to their side of the street.
He had lived in Cedar Ridge fifteen years and knew who had bought 4212 because he had watched Darius meet the realtor twice and the movers three times.
Harold walked to the edge of his lawn.
“Excuse me.”
Ror turned.
Harold stopped outside Darius’s property line.
“That gentleman bought the house.”
Ror said:
“Sir, go back inside.”
“I watched him move in.”
“We’re handling it.”
“But you’re searching his car.”
“Go inside.”
Harold looked at Darius.
Darius gave him a subtle nod.
Not encouragement.
Not surrender.
A message.
Do not put yourself in danger.
Harold hesitated.
Then returned toward his house.
At the porch, he stopped.
Took out his phone.
Darius noticed.
Maybe recording.
Maybe calling someone.
Either way, Harold had done more than most.
The woman with the garden hose disappeared behind her front door.
Curtains moved across the street.
A figure appeared at an upstairs window.
The street was not empty.
It was full of observers.
That somehow made the isolation worse.
Darius had read that phenomenon in statements.
People often wrote:
Several neighbors watched.
Nobody intervened.
He had understood intellectually.
Intervening against armed officers was not simple.
Witnesses had families.
Jobs.
Fear.
They did not know the full context.
Now, with his hands against the hood, Darius understood another layer.
Being watched without being helped created its own kind of loneliness.
Not because those people were necessarily cowardly.
Because the uniform made the social calculation clear.
The safest choice for everyone except the person being targeted was to remain outside the event.
Keaton continued searching.
Seven boxes.
Eight.
Nine.
Nothing.
Ror continued questioning.
“What kind of government consulting?”
“Various.”
“You got clients around here?”
“Yes.”
“Names?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t owe you a client list.”
Ror laughed.
“You know, normal people answer simple questions.”
“I have answered many.”
“Not all.”
“I’m not required to answer all.”
Ror walked away two steps.
Darius saw him thinking.
Searching for the next justification.
Keaton reached the rear corner of the cargo compartment.
His hand closed around the hard-sided case.
Black.
Reinforced corners.
Combination clasp.
He lifted it.
“This?”
Darius turned his head as far as Bellamy allowed.
“Put it down.”
Ror walked over.
“What’s inside?”
“Work material.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
Ror stared.
“I’m asking you to open it.”
“I understand.”