Mercer didn't move.
“Now.”
He looked at the little plastic bag.
His fingers had begun to tremble.
Doyle finally stepped forward.
“Sir.”
Mercer turned.
“What?”
“You heard dispatch.”
“I heard her.”
“No. You heard them.”
Mercer stared at him.
Doyle's voice became quieter.
“They know her.”
The woman picked up her sunglasses from her other hand and slipped them into the pocket of her dress.
“My name is Naomi Carter.”
Mercer stared.
Doyle's expression changed immediately.
He knew the name.
Not from personal experience.
From briefing documents.
From rumors.
From the quiet conversations officers had in hallways when supervisors weren't around.
Naomi Carter.
Assistant Special Investigator.
Independent state-federal task force.
The woman who had spent nine months tracing missing evidence, altered arrest records, falsified overtime, illegal seizures, and unexplained transfers of confiscated property through three departments.
The woman whose investigation had already forced two officers into administrative leave.
The woman whose sealed report had reportedly been sent to the state attorney general.
And now she was standing in front of Mercer with a handprint on her shoulder and her gold clutch lying near his cruiser.
Mercer looked at her.
“No.”
Naomi tilted her head.
“No?”
“You're not—”
“Finish that sentence.”
He stopped.
Doyle looked at the radio.
“Dispatch said lead investigator.”
Naomi nodded.
“Yes.”
Mercer glanced toward the black sedan.
“You're telling me this is some kind of setup?”
“No.”
“You planned this?”
“No.”
“You're investigating us?”
“I've been investigating your unit for nine months.”
Mercer's jaw tightened.
Doyle stepped farther away from him.
Naomi noticed.
“Officer Doyle.”
“Yes?”
“Don't move any closer to him.”
Doyle froze.
Mercer looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because you don't know what he's about to do.”
Mercer gave a short laugh.
“You think you're in charge here?”
“No.”
She looked at the radio.
“They are.”
A second transmission came through.
“Unit Twelve, confirm compliance.”
Mercer lifted the radio.
His hand was shaking.
“Unit Twelve.”
“Confirm compliance.”
He looked at Naomi.
Then at Doyle.
Then down at the evidence bag.
“Compliant.”
The dispatcher responded.
“Place the evidence bag on the hood of your cruiser. Step away from the subject.”
Mercer hesitated.
“Now, Officer.”
He walked to the cruiser.
Doyle watched him place the bag on the hood.
Naomi remained beside the sedan.
The jogger had stopped completely.
A woman across the street had opened her front door.
Someone farther down the block was holding a phone.
The quiet suburban morning had changed.
Mercer turned.
Naomi spoke.
“You're going to tell me where that bag came from.”
“I already told you.”
“No.”
Her voice remained calm.
“You told me where you claimed it came from.”
Mercer looked away.
“That's the same thing.”
“No.”
Naomi took one step toward him.
“It's not.”
The second officer swallowed.
“Ms. Carter—”
“Naomi is fine.”
He nodded.