That distinction mattered to me.
An investigator who confuses suspicion with proof can destroy an innocent person's life as easily as a corrupt officer can.
When the meeting ended, I thanked her and arranged the next steps through official channels. The documents were handled according to our evidence procedures. I didn't put original records in my trunk or treat my personal car as an evidence locker. The material had been secured separately before I began the drive home.
What remained with me was an authorized communications package, my case notes, and the ordinary belongings of a woman who had planned to stop at a family celebration that evening.
The dress was part of that plan.
My mother had always believed that important occasions deserved clothing that made you feel alive. She had been a beautiful, determined woman who built a successful transportation business from almost nothing, and she never apologized for enjoying the rewards of her work. When she died, she left behind more than money. She left a standard of independence I tried to honor in everything I did.
The turquoise dress I'd chosen that afternoon was fitted and elegant, patterned with black zebra-like stripes. Its black lace neckline contrasted with the bright fabric, and I'd paired it with a chunky metallic bracelet and simple earrings. My long, voluminous black hair fell around my shoulders in thick waves.
I looked like a woman going to a celebration.
I was a woman going to a celebration.
But I was also an investigator who had just spent several hours discussing a possible conspiracy involving stolen government property.
Both things could be true.
My car was another thing people made assumptions about.
The black Rolls-Royce Phantom was a bespoke commission whose final purchase price, including extensive custom work and taxes, had approached one million dollars. I paid for it using legitimate proceeds from a family investment I had disclosed through the appropriate financial reporting process. The vehicle was registered in my name, insured, and maintained by professionals who charged more for routine service than my first car had been worth.
I understood that it was extravagant.
I also understood that extravagance wasn't a crime.
My mother had once told me that some people would resent anything I achieved because they preferred the version of me they had already invented in their heads. She'd advised me to work hard, keep honest records, and never spend my life shrinking to make strangers comfortable.
I'd followed her advice.
And on that afternoon, it had put me behind the wheel of a car that attracted exactly the wrong kind of attention.
At 2:17 p.m., I left the hotel.