Page 66 of Sharp Force
I open my briefcase slowly, making sure he can see my hands while I tell him exactly what I’m doing. There can be no confusion unless I want a bullet in my head. I’m exceedingly careful as I pull out the two thin black leather wallets.
He takes them without looking, nailing me with his mirrored sunglasses, the din of cars on the parkway relentless and loud. I can feel drivers staring as if Benton and I are traffic violators or fugitives. Whalen resumes questioning me in the same condescending tone.
“What death are you talking about, ma’am?”
“I wasn’t talking about one.”
“You think you’re smart, dontcha?”
I don’t answer.
“Why did you pull us over?” Benton asks him.
“Why do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well guess what, Special Agent Benton Wesley? You didn’t come to a complete stop at the last intersection.”
“What intersection?”
“At Bashford Lane,” Trooper Whalen says, his duty belt dangerously close to Benton’s door.
“The light was green.” Benton is unflappable. “And how about stepping back a little before you scratch the paint.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to do that to your fancy Tesla, would we?”
As he says this, something metal on his belt touches the door, making a quiet scraping sound.
“If you damage my car, you’re going to hear about it,” Benton warns, and Trad Whalen smiles.
CHAPTER 22
“You decided to blow through the intersection because rules don’t apply to you. Isn’t that right?” The trooper raises his voice as if mindful he has an audience, his body camera recording. “Now I realize you folks with the Secret Service think you’re pretty special. But you don’t get to ignore traffic laws.”
“I didn’t,” Benton says.
“I know what I observed, and right now you’re on my turf.”
“This is the U.S. Park Police’s turf, not yours. The parkway is federal property, as you’re well aware,” Benton answers.
“This your vehicle?”
“Yes. As you know from running my plate.” Benton’s tone is colder.
“Proof of ownership, please,” Whalen demands, as if we might be thieves.
“This is bullshit and blatant harassment. I didn’t run a stop sign or anything else.” Benton opens the console, handing him the registration. “The car’s cameras will prove it. But what a waste of time. Showing up at traffic court. Both of us.”
“Make that the three of us,” I promise, staring at my reflection in the trooper’s sunglasses as he fumbles with one of my wallets.
It plops to the soggy ground, and he stoops to retrieve it, taking his time. Wiping it dry on his pants as he straightens up, he begins to look through it.
“Well, well, Doctor Scarpetta,” he sneers. “Apeace officer,isn’t that something? I’m impressed.”
Instantly, I regret bringing the wallet that displays my ID and police shield. I wish I hadn’t let Benton talk me into it. Cops don’t respect professionals like me who are civilian law enforcement. Worse than rookies, we’re considered wannabes.
“I understand you took care of Rowdy O’Leary,” the trooper says as he returns my credentials. “He wasn’t well, as you probably know.” Whalen twirls his gloved index finger at his temple. “Getting drunk and firing his gun at something before ending up in the river. I assume he drowned?”
