She leaned inside to retrieve it.
That was when a man approached from the next row of parked cars.
He was white, perhaps in his late forties, wearing a blue polo shirt and holding a phone.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Danielle turned.
“Yes?”
“Is this your vehicle?”
She glanced at the SUV.
“Yes.”
He studied her for a moment.
“Are you sure?”
The question caught her off guard.
Danielle looked at him, waiting for an explanation.
“I'm sorry?”
“I said, are you sure this is your vehicle?”
She had heard the question before, too.
“I'm quite sure.”
The man gave a small nod, but his eyes continued moving between her and the SUV.
“Someone reported a suspicious vehicle in this lot.”
Danielle looked around.
“Did they report a specific vehicle?”
“I'm just asking questions.”
“Then what would you like to know?”
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked at the license plate.
“Mind if I take a picture?”
“Why?”
“Routine.”
Danielle closed the driver's door.
“If you have a legitimate concern, you can explain it. But I don't see a reason for you to photograph my car.”
His expression hardened.
“You don't have to get defensive.”
“I'm not being defensive. I'm asking why you're taking pictures of my property.”
The man stepped away and began typing on his phone.
Danielle assumed he was calling someone.
She didn't know he had already contacted the police.
She didn't know that his description of the situation was about to become the foundation of an arrest.
When she bent down to retrieve the legal folder, the man took another picture.
Then he walked toward the shopping center entrance.
Danielle watched him go.
She considered following him to ask what had happened, but decided against it. She had work to finish and no interest in turning a strange encounter into a confrontation.
She put the folder under her arm and reached for her purse.
A few moments later, a patrol vehicle entered the parking lot.
Danielle barely noticed it until it stopped behind her SUV.
Officer Ryan Mulligan stepped out.
He was thirty-eight years old, broad-shouldered, and accustomed to being obeyed. His uniform was neat, his boots polished, and his expression already impatient.
He approached with one hand near his belt.
“Step away from the vehicle.”
Danielle looked up.
“Excuse me?”
“Step away from the vehicle.”
She straightened slowly.
“Is there a problem, Officer?”
“Are you the owner of this SUV?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove that?”
“My identification and registration are inside.”
“Then why don't you have them out?”
“Because I was retrieving a folder. I haven't had a chance to get my purse.”
Mulligan glanced at the folder.
“What is that?”
“Work documents.”
“What kind of work?”
“Legal work.”
He gave her a look that suggested he found the answer suspicious.
“Where did you get the vehicle?”
“I purchased it.”
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
“From whom?”
Danielle took a breath.
“Officer, may I ask what this is about?”
He ignored the question.
“I'm asking you questions. You need to answer them.”
“I have answered them.”
“Not all of them.”
“Then please tell me what information you need.”
Mulligan stepped closer.
“I got a report that a woman was seen entering a vehicle that didn't belong to her.”
Danielle stared at him.
“I didn't enter someone else's vehicle. I parked here, got out, and retrieved something from my own car.”
“That isn't what the caller said.”
“Then the caller is mistaken.”
“That's for me to determine.”
“Of course. But you can determine it by checking my identification and registration.”
Mulligan's eyes moved over her clothes, her face, and the folder beneath her arm.
“Put the folder down.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
Danielle placed it on the hood.
He asked whether she had any weapons.
She told him she did not.
He asked whether she had any drugs.
She said no.
Then he asked her name.
“Danielle Lawson.”
“Spell it.”
She did.
He repeated it into his radio, then looked at her as if waiting for a reaction.
“Do you have a criminal record?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“People sometimes forget things.”
“I have no criminal record.”
Mulligan circled the vehicle.
He looked through the windows.
He checked the license plate.
He walked back toward Danielle.
“Where are your keys?”
She held them up.
He stared at them.
“Those don't prove anything.”
“No,” Danielle said. “But they are one more thing you can consider along with the registration and identification I have offered to show you.”
He didn't like her tone.
It wasn't disrespectful.
It was measured, professional, and direct.
But she was not frightened enough for his liking.
“You a lawyer or something?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“I work for the state.”
He smirked.
“Everybody's a lawyer when they get caught doing something.”
Danielle felt the conversation changing.
She had started by assuming the officer was investigating a misunderstanding. Now she was beginning to suspect that he had decided what happened before he arrived.
Still, she tried once more.
“Officer, the registration is in the glove compartment. My driver's license is in my purse. If you check those documents, this should be resolved in a few minutes.”
Mulligan looked toward the glove compartment.
Then he looked back at her.
“Turn around.”
“Why?”
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Danielle blinked.
“You're arresting me?”
“You're being detained for suspected vehicle theft.”
“On what evidence?”
“Turn around.”
“I am cooperating, but I would like to understand the basis for this arrest.”
“Now.”
His hand closed around her wrist.
Danielle resisted the instinct to pull away.
She turned around.
The first cuff clicked into place.
Then the second.
The metal tightened.
She told him the cuffs were too tight.
He ignored her.