Wyatt looked at the ground, his face pale. There was no smell of marijuana. There was only the scent of new leather and expensive perfume.
Tagert popped the trunk. He found a small leather briefcase. He unlatched it, hoping to find stacks of cash or contraband. Instead, he found thick, heavily redacted files—dossiers on the Oakport Police Department's internal affairs records. Tagert, however, was too blinded by his own adrenaline and arrogance to read the headers on the files.
He saw a small velvet box next to the papers. He ripped it open, revealing a gleaming gold badge.
Tagert scoffed, tossing the box back into the trunk. "What is this? An honorary sheriff's badge from a Cracker Jack box? Fake police paraphernalia. I should write you up for impersonating an officer."
"I strongly suggest you put that back exactly where you found it," Josephine said, her voice dropping an octave, carrying the distinct, razor-sharp authority of a commanding officer.
Tagert froze for a second. The tone of her voice was deeply unsettling, triggering a subconscious instinct he couldn't quite place, but his ego quickly squashed the feeling. He slammed the trunk shut.
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood, Grandma," Tagert said, walking back to her. He shoved her driver's license against her chest. "I'm writing you a citation for failure to maintain a lane. Next time you drive through my town, you better look over your shoulder. Now, get out of here before I decide to tow this shiny little toy of yours."
Josephine took the license. She looked at Tagert's badge: Tagert, D., Badge Number 4492. She committed it to memory. Then she looked at the trembling rookie: Miller, W., Badge Number 5103.
"Have a good evening, officers," Josephine said softly. She got back into her car, ignoring the mess Tagert had made of her passenger seat, and drove away.
In the cruiser, Tagert was laughing. "See that, rookie? That's how you handle them. You got to show them who runs the streets. I guarantee you she'll never drive through Oakport again."
Wyatt stared out the window into the darkness, a heavy, sinking feeling in his gut. "Yeah, right."
The Oakport Police precinct was a brutalist concrete building that smelled perpetually of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and sweat. At 7:30 a.m. the next morning, the locker room was buzzing with a frenetic, nervous energy. The previous chief of police had been forced into early retirement a month ago after a local journalist exposed a massive embezzlement scandal involving police pension funds.
Today was the dawn of a new era. Mayor William Stanton was personally coming to the precinct to introduce the new chief of police.
Rumors had been swirling for weeks. The union reps swore the mayor was promoting Captain Hodges, an Oakport lifer who would keep the status quo. Derek Tagert stood in front of his locker, meticulously adjusting his uniform tie. He was in high spirits. With Hodges expected to take the chief's office, Tagert had been practically promised a promotion to sergeant.
"Looking sharp, Tagert," Officer Bradley Jenkins said, slapping Derek on the shoulder. "Ready for the new boss?"
"Hodges is a good man," Tagert grinned. "He knows how the streets work. He knows you can't police this town with kid gloves. We'll be fine."