"Listen to this guy. Thinks he's a lawyer now. Go ahead. Make your call. Call your public defender. Maybe they can explain to you how breaking and entering works."
"Give him the phone, Derek," Omali ordered softly, his eyes never leaving Arthur. Rollins shoved a heavy desk phone across the counter toward Arthur. "Dial 9 for an outside line." Arthur picked up the receiver with a steady hand. He didn't need to look up a number.
He had the direct encrypted cell phone line of the deputy director of the FBI memorized. He dialed the 12 digits smoothly. The phone rang twice before a sharp alert voice answered. "Hayes," the voice on the other end said. "Tom," Arthur said calmly, turning his back slightly to the desk.
"It's Arthur." There was a fraction of a second of silence on the line before the deputy director's tone shifted entirely. "Sir, you're on an unsecure line. Is everything all right?"
"No, Tom. I'm currently at the local police precinct in Bethesda. I have been arrested." "Excuse me? Arrested?"
Hayes's voice dropped an octave, the tension radiating through the earpiece. "Are you injured?" "I am physically fine," Arthur said, his eyes scanning the precinct, taking in the faces of Rollins, Miller, and Omali.
"I was detained outside my home: unlawful detainment, excessive force, and no Miranda warning. I need you to assemble the regional quick response team. Come to the Bethesda station. Bring legal counsel and internal affairs. And Tom?"
"Yes, director." "Bring everyone," Arthur said softly. He hung up the phone and pushed it back across the desk. He looked at Rollins, offering a very small, utterly chilling smile. "He's on his way."
The air inside Bethesda precinct holding cell number two was stagnant, smelling of cheap bleach and years of human desperation. Officer Derek Rollins unceremoniously shoved Arthur into the small concrete-walled enclosure. The metal bars slammed shut with a harsh echoing clang that reverberated through the quiet Sunday morning station. Rollins turned the heavy key, locking the mechanism with a satisfied grunt. "Make yourself comfortable, pal," Rollins sneered, hooking his thumbs into his utility belt.
"Your buddy is going to need a lot of cash to bond you out of this one. Burglary tools, resisting arrest, trespassing, failure to identify." Arthur stood in the center of the cell, looking around the dismal space before turning his gaze back to the arrogant rookie. He didn't bother correcting the fabricated charge of burglary tools. He knew Rollins was desperately stacking charges to justify the bad arrest.
"Officer Rollins," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm register. "Do you have a pension plan?" Rollins blinked, caught off guard by the question. "What?"
"A retirement account? A 401(k)? A pension?" Arthur clarified, taking a slow step toward the iron bars. He didn't raise his voice, but the sheer weight of his presence seemed to suck the oxygen out of the corridor.
"Because I highly recommend you start looking into private sector employment. Though given the federal indictments you will be facing by sundown, finding a job with a felony conviction will be exceedingly difficult for you." "Are you threatening a police officer?" Rollins demanded, his face flushing red, though a tiny sliver of doubt finally began to gnaw at the edge of his ego. "I'm stating a simple, inevitable fact," Arthur replied, turning his back on Rollins and sitting gracefully on the hard metal bench.
He folded his hands in his lap, looking straight ahead, effectively dismissing the officer from his existence. Furious, Rollins spat a curse under his breath and stormed back out to the main booking area. Out at the front desk, the atmosphere had drastically changed. Sergeant Omali was no longer chewing his gum. His face had drained of all color, leaving his ruddy complexion a sickly, chalky gray.
His eyes were glued to the glowing screen of his desktop computer, his hand trembling slightly as it rested on the mouse. When Arthur had demanded his phone call, Omali's instincts as a 30-year veteran had screamed that something was terribly wrong. As soon as Rollins had marched the prisoner to the back, Omali had pulled up the county property tax database. He typed in the address Rollins had provided. 442 Elmwood Estates.
The screen populated almost instantly. Owner Arthur J. Pendleton. Status paid in full. Assessed value $6.2 million.
Omali's breath hitched. He then opened the National Criminal Database, typing in the name to see if this Arthur Pendleton had a record. The moment he hit search, the screen flashed a bright yellow warning banner. Restricted file clearance level 9 required. Contact Department of Justice secure line.
A cold sweat broke out across Omali's forehead. He minimized the police database, opened a standard web browser, and typed Arthur Pendleton into the search bar. The first result was a .gov website. It was an official government biography. There, staring back at Omali from the screen, was a high-resolution portrait of the man currently sitting in cell number two.
The man was wearing a sharp navy suit, looking distinguished and authoritative. Beneath the portrait were five words that made Omali feel like he was having a massive heart attack. Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. "Sarge," Rollins called out, strutting back into the booking area.
"Guy in the back is delusional, making threats about federal indictments. I'm tagging a terroristic threats charge onto his sheet." Omali slowly looked up from his monitor. He looked at Rollins, then at Officer Greg Miller, who was quietly sipping his coffee by the water cooler. "Derek," Omali whispered, his voice cracking violently.
"Derek, what have you done?" "What do you mean?" Rollins asked, his arrogant smile faltering at the sight of his sergeant's absolute terror. "I got a bad guy off the streets, just doing my job." "You idiot," Omali breathed, standing up.
His legs were shaking so badly he had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from collapsing. "You absolute catastrophic idiot. You didn't arrest a burglar." Before Omali could explain, 30 miles away in Washington, DC, the machinery of the United States government was moving with terrifying speed. Deputy Director Thomas Hayes had slammed the phone down in his secure home office and immediately hit a red speed dial button on his encrypted console.