"Hands where I can see them, Hayes!" Kessler ordered, flanking Edmund to the right, cutting off his path to the toolboxes.
Edmund slowly raised his hands to chest level, palms open. "Officers," he said, his voice completely devoid of the panic they were so used to hearing. "How can I help you?"
"We have a warrant to search these premises," Riggins sneered, waving a folded piece of paper in his left hand without ever offering Edmund the chance to read it. "We received an anonymous tip that this facility is being used to launder narcotics proceeds for the East Side Syndicate."
"That's quite a story," Edmund replied softly.
His eyes did not dart around the room. Instead, he was cataloging: he noted the tape over their body cameras; he noted Kessler's finger resting lazily inside the trigger guard—poor discipline; he noted the slight tremor in Riggins's left hand, betraying the thrill of the hunt.
"Cut the crap," Riggins snapped, stepping into Edmund's personal space, trying to use his bulk to intimidate. "We know about the safe in the back office. We know about the cash. Open it, or we bring in a breaching team and tear this classic car to pieces looking for contraband."
A normal civilian would have folded. A normal civilian would have started shouting about their rights, demanding a lawyer, letting their heart rate spike to 160 beats per minute. Edmund's heart rate hovered at a steady, icy 60. He recognized a tactical ambush when he saw one, and he knew that surviving an ambush meant controlling the environment and yielding the initiative until the enemy made a mistake.
"I'll open the safe," Edmund said, his tone accommodating. "No need to damage the vehicles."
He led them to the small cinder block office in the back. The air smelled of old paper and motor oil. Edmund knelt and spun the dial on the heavy steel floor safe. The lock clicked heavily, and he pulled the heavy door open, revealing neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound in bank straps.
Riggins' eyes went wide, a hungry gleam flashing across his face. He shoved Edmund roughly out of the way. "Step back," he ordered, eagerly pulling a heavy canvas duffel bag from his shoulder.
"That money is the capital for a real estate acquisition," Edmund stated calmly, watching Riggins dump the stacks into the bag. "I have the withdrawal receipts from SunTrust Bank, the escrow paperwork, and the signed letter of intent right there on the desk."
"Drug money can be deposited in banks, too, Hayes," Kessler said with a smirk, standing near the door with his weapon holstered, but his hand resting on the grip. "This cash is being seized under suspicion of illicit enterprise. If it's clean, you can petition the county to get it back. See you in court in about three years."
Riggins zipped the bag, hefting the heavy canvas over his shoulder. He grabbed a blank seizure receipt from his pocket, scribbled an illegible signature, and tossed it onto Edmund's desk. "Have a good weekend, Edmund. Don't leave town."