"Yes, Director?"
"Bring everyone," Arthur said softly. He hung up the phone, pushed it back across the desk, and looked at Rollins with a small, chilling smile. "He is 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 friend will need a great deal of cash to get you out of this one. Burglary tools, resisting arrest, trespassing, and failure to identify," Rollins said. 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, 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 work with a felony conviction may 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 am 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 an official .gov biography. There, staring back at Omali from the screen, was a high-resolution portrait of the man currently sitting in cell number two. In the portrait, the man wore a sharp navy suit and looked distinguished and authoritative. Beneath it 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. "The man in the back is delusional and making threats about federal indictments.