Not because the answer was secret.
Because he was increasingly interested in what Harlan would do without it.
“Several people.”
The sheriff stepped closer.
“Names.”
“I’d prefer to know why I’m being questioned beyond the traffic stop.”
Harlan grabbed Malcolm’s left wrist.
“Turn around.”
Malcolm looked down at the hand.
Then at Harlan.
“Sheriff.”
“I said turn around.”
Malcolm did.
Metal closed around one wrist.
Then the other.
The cuffs were tighter than necessary.
Malcolm inhaled slowly.
“Why am I being arrested?”
Harlan leaned close enough that Malcolm could smell coffee on his breath.
“Driving without valid identification.”
“You broke the identification.”
“It was fraudulent.”
“You said your system had questions.”
“It does.”
“What questions?”
“You can explain all of that downtown.”
Malcolm looked across the empty road.
Low mountains floated pale blue in the distance. Creosote bushes spread across the sand. Heat shimmered above the asphalt.
There were no witnesses.
At least none obvious.
Harlan opened the passenger door of his patrol SUV.
“Get in.”
Malcolm stayed where he was.
“My truck.”
“It’ll be impounded.”
“On what authority?”
Harlan stared.
“You planning to make every sentence difficult?”
“No.”
Malcolm’s voice remained calm.
“I want the reason documented.”
“It will be.”
“Body camera?”
The sheriff’s jaw shifted.
“What?”
“Is your body camera recording?”
Harlan looked toward his own chest.
There was no visible camera.
Malcolm already knew.
“I don't wear one.”
“Dash camera?”
“Broken.”
“That seems unfortunate.”
Harlan’s eyes hardened.
“For you.”
Malcolm looked at him.
“No.”
He shook his head slightly.
“Usually for everybody.”
Harlan opened the SUV door wider.
“Get in.”
Malcolm did.
He said nothing during the twenty-two-minute drive to the Red Mesa County Sheriff’s Office.
Harlan did most of the talking.
Not directly to Malcolm.
Into the radio.
“Male driver.”
“Uncooperative.”
“Possible fraudulent identification.”
“Vehicle hold.”
Each phrase made the encounter sound slightly different than the one Malcolm had experienced.
Malcolm listened carefully.
Words mattered.
He had built most of his career around that fact.
The sheriff glanced at him in the mirror twice.
“You got something to say?”
Malcolm shook his head.
“No.”
“That’s a first.”
Malcolm looked out the window.
The sheriff’s office sat beside a county courthouse built from pale stucco and brown brick. An American flag moved lazily above the parking lot.
The building looked ordinary.
That struck Malcolm.
People often expected places where bad things happened to look different.
Darker.
More threatening.
Red Mesa County Sheriff’s Office had clean windows, desert landscaping, and a small bronze plaque honoring officers killed in the line of duty.
Harlan parked behind the building.
A younger deputy came outside.
Latina.
Early thirties.
Nameplate: RUIZ.
She looked toward Malcolm in the back seat.
Then at Harlan.
“What happened?”
“Fake license.”