“I haven’t.”
“Then stop resisting.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I am standing still.”
Beckett tightened his grip.
Rosa stepped forward inside the doorway.
“Get your hands off her!”
Beckett turned his head.
“I told you inside!”
Amara raised her voice.
“Rosa, don’t come out.”
Then back to Beckett:
“My phone is in the bag too. Call the property manager. Call the gate. Call the county. Run my name.”
Halpern had moved beside the bag.
He looked down.
Cream leather.
Designer sunglasses.
A white towel embroidered with a small silver monogram.
He crouched.
Amara said sharply:
“Do not search my bag without my consent.”
Halpern stood again.
Beckett said:
“See? You’re making this harder.”
“I am asking you to follow the law.”
That sentence changed Beckett’s face.
Amara saw it immediately.
People who disliked being questioned often reacted most strongly when the questioner knew exactly what should happen next.
Beckett gave her arm a short, forceful shove.
Her bare foot slid on wet stone.
She caught herself.
Rosa gasped.
Several yards away, a landscaper stopped beside a hedge.
Beckett said:
“You’re leaving the property until we determine who belongs here.”
Amara stared at him.
“You’re removing me from my own home.”
“Keep talking.”
“What happens if I do?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Your attitude.”
Amara became very still.
That phrase mattered.
She knew it.
Halpern knew it too.
He looked at Beckett.
“Let me run her.”
Beckett shook his head.
“She’s going off property first.”
“For what?”
The question came from Halpern this time.
Beckett stared.
Halpern continued:
“She gave a name.”
“We can run it.”
Beckett’s jaw tightened.
“Fine.”
He shoved Amara one step away from the pool while keeping his hand clamped around her arm.
Her cream bag sat near Halpern’s boot.
He nudged it away with his foot.
The motion became a kick.
The bag slid nearly six feet.
A pair of sunglasses spilled onto the limestone.
One lens cracked.
Amara looked at them.
Then at Halpern.
His face changed slightly.
He knew he had crossed a line.
But embarrassment made him defensive.
“Shouldn’t leave things where people can trip.”
Amara stared at him.
“My wallet was in there.”
“You wanted us to run your name.”
“So run it.”
Halpern retrieved the wallet from where it had partially opened.
He did not dig through the rest of the bag.
He removed the driver’s license.
AMARA NICOLE STERLING.
Age thirty-two.
Malibu address.
Halpern frowned.
Then looked toward the house.
He pulled out his department handheld terminal.
Beckett kept his hand on Amara.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
She turned slightly.
“I haven’t tried.”