“Don't worry about it. The witness isn't meeting you to evaluate your wardrobe.”
I laughed.
Then his tone became serious.
“Be careful on the road.”
I paused.
“Why?”
“We've had another indication somebody inside the county may know we're close to obtaining records.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What indication?”
“Nothing conclusive. Just a reason to keep the planned check-ins.”
I nodded.
“Understood.”
We ended the call.
I said goodbye to the luncheon organizers.
Then walked toward the parking area.
The black SUV waiting outside was government-assigned for the operation.
It was a comfortable, expensive-looking vehicle, but its purpose was practical.
I needed reliable transportation and communications for a sensitive assignment.
I had my ordinary identification and official credentials.
The evidence I was supposed to receive would not be kept casually in my handbag.
It would be documented and transferred through the procedures arranged by the investigative team.
I climbed into the SUV.
Adjusted my dress.
Checked the route.
Then called my mother.
She answered immediately.
“Did you eat?”
I laughed.
“Hello to you too.”
“Renee.”
“Yes, Mom. I ate.”
“A proper meal?”
“Yes.”
She sounded suspicious.
“Not just a salad?”
I smiled.
“There was chicken.”
“Good.”
For a moment, I considered telling her where I was going.
I couldn't discuss the operational details.
So I simply said, “I have one more work meeting, then I'm heading back.”
My mother sighed.
“You promised me a peaceful afternoon.”
“I promised I'd attend the luncheon.”
“Lawyer.”
I laughed.
“Investigator.”
“Same habit. You answer the question you wish I'd asked.”
I smiled.
Then she added, “Drive carefully, baby.”
“I will.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I ended the call.
Started the engine.
And drove north toward Ashford County.
I didn't know that somebody had already described my vehicle and gold gown to the very deputies who would stop me.
And I didn't know that the witness I was traveling to meet had received a warning of her own.
Two hours before our scheduled meeting, Nora Tate sat inside a small farmhouse outside Ashford, staring at a text message on her phone.
Nora was forty-five years old.
For eleven years, she'd worked as a civilian dispatcher for the Ashford County Sheriff's Department.
She had answered emergency calls, coordinated routine patrol assignments, and listened to frightened residents describe situations that officers were supposed to make safer.
She believed in the work.
At least, she had once.
But over time, she'd noticed patterns she couldn't explain.
Certain traffic stops resulted in unusual vehicle impounds.
Some drivers complained that their paperwork contained violations they hadn't committed.
Others were charged enormous towing and storage fees.