“Not yet.”
Reeves looked at her.
She continued.
“You don’t know enough yet.”
Walsh almost smiled.
There she was.
Prosecutor first.
Reeves nodded slowly.
“That’s fair.”
Sloane said:
“I want the arrest report exactly as Officer Harlan originally drafted it.”
Reeves hesitated.
“He hasn’t finished.”
“Good.”
“Lock whatever exists now.”
Walsh understood immediately.
“You think he’ll rewrite?”
“I think anyone facing consequences becomes tempted to remember events more favorably.”
Reeves looked uncomfortable.
Sloane added:
“That is not an accusation.”
“Yet.”
Walsh glanced at her.
The captain nodded.
“I’ll preserve it.”
Sloane turned toward Quinn.
The younger officer still stood nearby.
“Officer Quinn.”
He looked up.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you activate your camera before reaching my porch?”
“Yes.”
“Did it remain active?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
Sloane noticed the hesitation.
“All the way here?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn looked relieved.
Then guilty.
Sloane could see the conflict in him.
She would deal with that later.
By noon, the story had escaped the station.
Not publicly.
Internally.
A federal prosecutor had been arrested at her own house.
That sentence moved through the department with astonishing speed.
By 12:20, Internal Affairs had been notified.
By 12:35, city legal counsel knew.
By 12:50, the police chief had canceled his golf game.
At 1:07, Sloane finally returned home.
Walsh drove.
When his SUV turned into Fairview Estates, three neighbors were standing near the sidewalk pretending not to watch.
Lillian Vaughn was not among them.
Sloane stepped out.
Her half-watered hydrangeas waited.
The watering can still sat on the porch.
Walsh looked at the house.
“Nice.”
Sloane sighed.
“Thank you.”
“You finally buy a home and get arrested there within a month.”
“I’m efficient.”
He looked toward the neighboring property.
“Who called?”
“Probably the woman across the street.”
“You going to talk to her?”
“Eventually.”
“Sloane.”
“What?”
“Try not to depose your neighbors.”
“No promises.”
Inside, the house still smelled faintly of cardboard.
Several rooms contained unopened boxes.
The living room had one sofa, two lamps, and no wall art.
Walsh looked around.
“You really do live like a witness in protective custody.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You have four bedrooms.”
“I enjoy options.”
“You have one chair in the dining room.”
“The others are being delivered.”
“When?”
Sloane paused.
“Eventually.”
Walsh laughed.
Then became serious.
“What are you going to do?”
“About Harlan?”
“About all of it.”
Sloane sat on the sofa.
“For now, nothing.”
“That’s not true.”