She had spent years learning to distinguish genuine cooperation from the frantic willingness of someone hoping cooperation might prevent uncomfortable questions.
"Chief," she said quietly, "when did you learn that I would be arriving this afternoon?"
The man swallowed.
"Yesterday evening."
"From whom?"
"Our administrative office received the confirmation."
"Who personally notified you?"
He hesitated.
"My deputy chief."
The agent glanced toward the interior hallway.
The same hallway where the senior officer carrying a tablet had disappeared during the confrontation.
"Where is your deputy chief now?"
The police chief looked toward the patrol sergeant.
"Find him."
The sergeant nodded and hurried away.
The agent watched the chief's expression carefully.
He wasn't behaving like a man surprised by a routine security incident. He looked like someone who had been expecting trouble but had badly misunderstood where it would come from.
The evidence technician finished photographing the identification fragments. An independent supervisor documented their condition before they were collected, sealed, and placed into evidence packaging.
The blonde officer watched from across the room.
For the first time since the confrontation began, she looked uncertain.
Her arms were crossed tightly. Her lips were pressed together, and her eyes kept returning to the federal agent's expensive dress, as though she could still find some explanation for why a woman dressed that way had turned out to possess exactly the authority she claimed.
Finally, the officer spoke.
"This is ridiculous."
Nobody answered.
She looked toward the police chief.