It was the walk of a man who believed the badge on his chest made him a god on the pavement, a man who had learned to enjoy the moment when another person realized they had no choice but to obey him. His boots splashed through puddles on the shoulder. His flashlight was already in his hand, switched on, its beam cutting through the rain.
Cynthia rolled down the window. Rain spattered against the door frame and a cold gust pushed into the car, carrying the smell of wet asphalt and exhaust.
“License and registration,” the officer demanded. He did not offer a greeting. He did not state his name or his reason for the stop. He did not ask how she was doing or whether she knew why she had been pulled over. He just shined a blinding Maglite directly into her eyes, holding it steady until she had to blink and turn her face slightly away from the glare.
“Good evening, Officer,” Cynthia said, her voice steady, betraying zero emotion. She did not raise her voice to compete with the rain or the cruiser's engine idling behind her. She did not apologize for something she had not done. She reached slowly into the glove compartment, narrating her movement in the way she had been trained to do and the way she had trained others to do, keeping her hands where they could be seen, and retrieved her civilian license and the rental agreement. She pointedly left her FBI credentials hidden in a concealed pocket of her blazer, sewn into the lining where a routine pat-down would not find them unless someone knew exactly where to look. She was not hiding who she was out of shame. She was withholding it because she wanted to see what this man would do when he believed he was dealing with an ordinary woman alone on a highway at night.
The officer snatched the cards from her hand. He did not thank her. He lowered the flashlight just enough for Cynthia to read his name tag in the reflected light. O'Grady, T. The letters were embossed on a small metal plate above his pocket, dulled by rain and wear but legible when the light hit it at the right angle.
Officer Thomas O'Grady squinted at the license, holding it close to his face and then farther away, as if the rain were interfering with his ability to read a simple card. “Cynthia Holloway,” he said, drawing out the name. “You're a long way from home, Cynthia.”
“I'm visiting the city for work,” she replied neutrally. She did not offer more. She did not explain what kind of work, or for whom, or for how long. She gave him the truth in its simplest form and left the rest unsaid.