Garrett's strange question about the black case.
The tow truck arriving without a legitimate request from the responding state patrol.
The registration that had returned valid before Garrett smashed the car.
The way he seemed more interested in my trunk than in anything he'd accused me of doing.
And the message I'd seen him typing after the radio transmission.
One fact kept returning.
He had known something about my vehicle that he should not have known.
That suggested planning.
But planning alone didn't tell me by whom.
Or why.
A knock came at the hospital room door.
I looked up.
A tall Black man in a dark suit stood in the doorway carrying a leather portfolio.
He was fifty-two, with closely cropped gray hair and an expression I had seen during the worst days of complex investigations.
His name was Supervisory Special Agent Thomas Reed.
He was my immediate supervisor at Army CID.
Behind him stood a younger investigator carrying a sealed evidence envelope.
Thomas stepped inside.
"Renata."
I tried to sit up.
He raised one hand.
"Don't."
I gave a weak smile.
"Good afternoon to you too."
He pulled a chair beside the bed.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he looked at my wrists.
His expression tightened.
"What happened?"
I studied him.
"How much do you know?"
"Enough to know a local deputy detained you without an established basis, used force, damaged your vehicle, and apparently threatened a witness."
I nodded.
"That's the short version."
He leaned forward.
"Then give me the long one."
I began at the traffic stop.
I explained every movement I could remember.
Every statement.
Every request to identify myself.
Every moment Garrett's behavior became more aggressive.
Thomas listened without interruption.
When I reached the part about the black case, he stopped writing.
"Say that again."
I looked toward him.
"He asked where the black case was."
"Before he had accessed the compartment?"
"Yes."
"Did you describe the case?"
"No."
Thomas became very still.
I watched him.
"What?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he opened his portfolio and removed a single-page summary.
"Renata, our team completed a preliminary review of the source information from this morning."
My heartbeat quickened.
"And?"
He looked directly at me.
"The stolen equipment may have been moving through a county towing and vehicle-storage contractor."
I stared.
Thomas continued.
"The contractor's name appears in several suspicious invoices."
I felt the room grow colder.
"Which contractor?"
He hesitated.
Then turned the paper toward me.
WESTBROOK RECOVERY SERVICES.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
I had seen that name less than an hour earlier.
On the door of the black pickup that arrived at my roadside stop.
I looked toward Thomas.
"They sent a tow truck."
His expression changed.
"What?"