Phone.
Lip balm.
Breath mints.
The mundane possessions of an ordinary woman.
Then Davis began searching her wallet.
Something small fell from between the cards.
Beverly’s blood went cold.
A plastic bag containing what appeared to be an illegal substance.
“Well, well,” Davis said loudly.
He lifted it for his partner to see.
“Look what we have here, Miller.”
Deputy Miller stared at it.
“Looks like methamphetamine to me.”
Beverly’s mind raced.
She knew the package had not been inside her wallet.
Someone had planted it during the search.
“That isn’t mine,” she said calmly. “I have never seen that before.”
“That’s what they all say,” Davis replied with practiced indifference.
He reached for his handcuffs.
“You’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance and theft. You have the right to remain silent.”
As the cuffs closed around Beverly’s wrists, she continued making mental notes.
Badge numbers.
Patrol-car designation.
Deputy Miller’s refusal to meet her eyes.
The speed with which the entire encounter had unfolded.
Less than fifteen minutes from the alarm to the arrest.
They had done this before.
Probably many times.
They simply had no idea who they had just arrested.
The Desert Springs Police Station looked exactly like what it was.
A small-town operation that had become far too comfortable with its own power.
Faded posters about community service hung beside newer signs about drug interdiction.
The irony wasn’t lost on Beverly.
During booking, she studied everything with the trained eye of a federal investigator.
Officers moved through the building with the casual confidence of people who did not expect to be questioned.
There was expensive equipment that seemed excessive for a department serving a town of roughly eight thousand residents.
Several unusual communication devices sat near the desk sergeant’s station.
Something about the operation felt wrong at every level.
“One phone call,” Davis said.
He pushed a grimy handset toward her.
“Make it count.”
Beverly dialed her cover contact, a Phoenix attorney named Janet Coleman who served as an emergency backup.
After three rings, the call went to voicemail.
“Problem with your lawyer?”
The voice came from behind Beverly.
Deep.
Gravelly.
Confident with three decades of authority.
Beverly turned.
Sheriff Duncan Stone was walking toward her.
He commanded attention without appearing to try.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Perfectly pressed uniform.
Polished boots.
His badge caught the fluorescent light like real gold.
“Sheriff Stone,” Davis said, straightening automatically. “We brought in a suspect for possession and theft.”
Stone never took his eyes off Beverly.
“I can see that, Officer Davis.”
Then his tone changed.
“Why don’t you let me handle our guest from here?”
The way he said the word guest made Beverly’s skin crawl.
There was knowledge in his voice.
A confidence suggesting he understood far more about her presence in Desert Springs than he should have.
“Ma’am,” Stone said, gesturing toward his office, “why don’t we have a private conversation?”
He smiled slightly.
“I think we have quite a lot to discuss.”
Sheriff Stone’s office was a shrine to three decades in law enforcement.
Commendations covered one wall.
Photographs of Stone standing with governors and senators covered another.
Behind his desk, the American flag and Arizona state flag were positioned perfectly to frame whoever sat in the chair.
Beverly remained standing.