Rollins tapped the brakes. The cruiser slowed to a crawl. He looked at Arthur, a tall black man in old clothes, standing in front of a $6 million property. The gears in Rollins's biased, eager mind began to turn. "What do we have here?"
Rollins murmured, pulling the cruiser toward the curb and putting it in park. Miller sighed, looking up from his coffee. "Derek, leave it alone. The guy is just getting the paper at the Pendleton residence."
Rollins scoffed. He knew the house belonged to someone important, though he hadn't bothered to learn the face of the man who owned it. "He looks like a drifter casing the place, or maybe a disgruntled landscaper. I am going to check it out," Rollins said.
Before Miller could protest further, Rollins was out of the cruiser, his hand resting instinctively on his utility belt. He adjusted his sunglasses and strutted up the driveway, his boots crunching loudly against the pristine concrete. Arthur heard the heavy footsteps and turned, shutting the mailbox door. He held the thick Sunday paper under his arm. He offered a polite, neighborly nod, completely unbothered by the police presence.
"Good morning, officer," Arthur said. "Step away from the mailbox," Rollins commanded, his voice sharp and lacking any basic courtesy. Arthur raised a silver eyebrow, his polite smile fading into a look of calm, calculated assessment.