Sheriff Raymond Cole held the black leather wallet between two thick fingers as if it were evidence of a crime he had already solved.
“Finally,” he muttered. “Let's see what kind of story you've been telling me.”
Daniel sat upright in the booth.
“The identification is inside.”
Cole opened the wallet.
At first, his expression showed nothing more than irritation. He had expected a driver's license, perhaps a business card, or some other document that would allow him to dismiss Daniel's claims as another attempt to avoid responsibility.
Instead, the sheriff found an official identification card bearing the seal of a federal law enforcement agency.
His eyes moved across the printed information.
Then they stopped.
DANIEL A. BROOKS
DIRECTOR, FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
Cole blinked.
He looked at the photograph.
Then he looked at the man sitting in front of him.
The photograph was unmistakable.
The same closely cropped hair. The same scar near the left eyebrow. The same steady eyes that had been watching him throughout the confrontation.
For several seconds, the sheriff did not speak.
The diner seemed to grow quieter around him. Even the refrigerator compressor behind the counter appeared suddenly loud.
Ethan noticed the change first.
“Sheriff?”
Cole did not respond.
He turned the identification card over, searching for an explanation that might restore the world he understood. There was an official seal, a signature, and additional security details that he did not immediately recognize.
He had spent years arresting people who lied about their identities. He knew that false credentials existed.
But he also knew the difference between a cheap imitation and an official federal identification document.
His fingers began to tighten around the wallet.
Daniel watched him carefully.
“Have you confirmed what you're looking at?” Daniel asked.
Cole raised his eyes.
“You expect me to believe you're the FBI director?”
“I expect you to verify my identity before making another decision.”
“You could have gotten that badge anywhere.”
“Then you should have no difficulty verifying it.”
The answer was calm, direct, and impossible to twist into an admission of guilt.
Ethan stepped closer to the booth.
“Sheriff, maybe we should contact federal headquarters before—”
“Stay where you are!” Cole snapped.
The young deputy stopped.
Daniel turned his head slightly toward Ethan.
“Deputy, please remember the time. I was detained shortly after nine o'clock. I requested an explanation for the detention, and I was handcuffed before one was provided.”
Ethan glanced at the clock above the kitchen entrance.
It was 9:17 a.m.
“I'll remember, sir.”
Cole shot him a furious look.
“You don't take instructions from him.”
“Actually,” Daniel said, “he should take instructions from the law.”
Cole slammed the wallet onto the table.
“Enough! You don't get to walk in here and start giving orders.”
Daniel looked down at the identification card.
“I'm not giving you orders because of my position. I'm telling you to verify a claim that you have chosen to challenge.”
“You were being suspicious.”
“Suspicious according to what evidence?”
“You refused to answer my questions.”
“I answered the questions that were relevant. I also asked why I was being detained.”
Cole's face reddened.
He had expected fear, anger, or desperate bargaining. Those were reactions he understood. They were reactions that allowed him to control a confrontation.
Daniel offered him none of them.
Instead, the director treated every threat as something that needed to be documented.
Margaret placed the coffee pot on the counter.
“Sheriff,” she said carefully, “the gentleman hasn't caused any trouble since he came in.”
Cole turned toward her.
“Did I ask you for your opinion?”
“No, sir.”
“Then keep it to yourself.”
Margaret lowered her eyes, but she did not retreat into the kitchen.
Daniel noticed.
So did Ethan.
Cole returned his attention to the identification card.
“I'm making a phone call,” he announced. “And if this turns out to be fake, you're going to regret wasting my time.”
“Make the call,” Daniel replied.
The sheriff reached for his radio, then stopped.
Calling federal authorities would mean allowing someone outside his department to examine the situation. If Daniel's credentials were genuine, Cole's conduct would become a much larger problem than an ordinary roadside dispute.
If they were false, however, the sheriff could still claim he had acted reasonably by investigating them.
He convinced himself that there was little risk in waiting.
“Stand up,” Cole ordered.
Daniel glanced at his handcuffed wrists.
“You have the keys to these handcuffs. I am asking you to remove them while you verify my identity.”
“You'll stand when I tell you.”
“Then you are choosing to prolong this detention after receiving official identification.”
Cole leaned forward.
“You don't know how things work around here.”
Daniel's eyes hardened slightly.
“I know exactly how they are supposed to work.”
The sheriff's hand closed around the edge of the table.
For the first time, he realized that the man in front of him was not trying to win an argument.
He was giving Cole opportunities to stop.
And the sheriff was refusing every one.