But the woman didn't smile.
She didn't announce her position.
And she didn't demand that he kneel or apologize.
She simply raised one silver-covered wrist and examined the time.
Then she looked at him.
"Now, Sergeant," she said quietly, "would you like to explain where that four thousand dollars was supposed to go?"
Three hours earlier, the woman had been standing inside a private art gallery in Savannah, examining a photograph of a deserted service station.
The exhibition occupied a beautifully restored brick building near the city's historic district. Warm sunlight entered through tall windows, and contemporary paintings hung beside black-and-white photographs documenting the changing landscapes of the American South.
The woman's outfit had been created by a young Black American designer whose work challenged conventional ideas about formal clothing.
The small alien graphic represented feeling like an outsider.
The unusual low-rise trousers and flowing gray ruffles represented movement.
And the stacked silver bracelets were inspired by family jewelry passed between generations of Southern women.
The designer had explained those details during the previous evening's opening.
The woman loved the clothing.
She loved the message.
And she particularly loved the fact that the outfit made people look twice before deciding what kind of person she was.
The gallery owner approached with two glasses of water.
"You're still looking at that photograph?"
The woman smiled.
"There's something about it."
The photograph showed an old gas station beside a rural highway.
Its windows were boarded.
Weeds grew through cracked concrete.
And the faded sign above the entrance advertised gasoline at a price from decades earlier.
The owner nodded.
"The photographer said the place used to be busy."
The woman studied the image.
Then asked where it had been taken.
The owner named a small county farther inland.
The woman's expression changed almost imperceptibly.
She knew the place.
Not because she'd visited it for pleasure.
Because her investigative team had spent six months examining allegations involving a sheriff's department operating in that county.
She looked toward the photograph again.
A roadside business.
An isolated stretch of highway.
And a place where outsiders passed through without knowing anyone.
The setting seemed ordinary.
But she knew how easily an ordinary road could become dangerous when the people entrusted with enforcing the law began using it for personal profit.