“How did you find me?” I asked.
“When you missed the emergency briefing, your office called. Your assistant knew your route. State dispatch found your motorcycle registration in a local impound request.”
He looked toward Johnson again.
“They filed that quickly enough.”
My motorcycle.
The shattered mirror came back first. Then the headlight exploding. Then the laughter.
“I want photographs before they move it,” I said.
One investigator nodded and stepped outside.
Johnson spread his hands.
“Governor, with respect, we can resolve this privately.”
That sentence changed something in me.
Until then, I had been shaking with humiliation. Now I understood what he was offering: an apology for the important woman, perhaps repairs for her motorcycle, and another ordinary morning for everyone else.
“No,” I said.
My voice sounded thin, but the room heard it.
“We’re going to resolve it accurately.”