Only senior command staff knew federal attorneys had requested records.
Most patrol officers had no idea who was reviewing them.
That was deliberate.
She wanted evidence before publicity.
At 7:19, the first cruiser turned around.
She saw it in a storefront window.
The vehicle crossed the center line, made a U-turn, then accelerated toward her.
She slowed.
The cruiser stopped ten yards ahead.
The senior officer got out.
Broad shoulders.
Short light-brown hair.
Black uniform.
His face was familiar.
She knew him from photographs attached to complaint files.
Senior Patrol Officer.
Fourteen years with the department.
Seven civilian complaints in five years.
Two use-of-force investigations.
No sustained findings.
Three camera-activation violations dismissed as equipment or oversight problems.
Her heart rate changed for reasons having nothing to do with running.
The younger officer exited from the passenger side.
She recognized him too.
Recently transferred from another precinct.
Three years on the job.
No significant disciplinary history.
He stayed a step behind his partner.
The senior officer raised one hand.
“Stop right there.”
She stopped.
“What’s going on?”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Home.”
“Where’s that?”
She pointed behind her.
“Three blocks west.”
“Address.”
She gave it.
The senior officer looked at her clothes.
Then at her shoes.
“You got ID?”
“No.”
He smiled without humor.
“Convenient.”
“I’m jogging.”
“You jogging without a phone too?”
“Yes.”
Her phone was on the kitchen counter beside her wallet.
That had seemed peaceful forty minutes earlier.
The younger officer looked toward the intersection.
The senior officer said, “We had a report of somebody matching your description leaving the area.”
“What description?”
“Black female. Dark athletic clothing.”
She looked down at herself.
Half the women running through the neighborhood were wearing some variation of that.
“What happened?”
“Burglary investigation.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t concern you.”
“It concerns me if you’re stopping me because of it.”
His expression changed.
Small.
But unmistakable.
She had seen that reaction across interrogation tables.
People often became angry when a question required them to justify something they expected to be accepted.
“Name.”
She gave it.
He repeated it.
Then looked toward the younger officer.
“Run her.”
The younger officer reached for his radio.
Then the senior officer looked back at her.
“You live three blocks away?”
“Yes.”
“What house?”
She gave the number again.
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
“What color is the front door?”
She stared.
“Dark green.”
He smirked.
“You practiced that?”
Something cold moved through her.
“No.”
“Anybody home?”
“No.”
“Then we can walk over there.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Both officers looked at her.