"Guy was boosting the Maybach," Dacey said. "Took the key off the valet board. Got a tip from a guest who saw him do it. When I made contact he reached for his waistband and resisted. Valet came running up screaming, got in my face."
"Took the key off the board," Lomax repeated.
"That's what the guy said."
"What guy?"
Dacey hesitated, and the camera caught that, too. "Hotel guest."
From the hood of the car, Julian Ashby said, very calmly, in the voice he had used to tell a city commission why a building would fall: "Officer. My name is Julian Ashby. I live at 2210 Monument Avenue. That car is registered to me and to my wife, Corinne Ashby. The key is in my right jacket pocket, the valet gave it to me, and the car unlocked for me when I touched the handle, because it knows my key. My daughter is in labor at VCU Medical Center. My left shoulder is injured. I am not resisting, and I have not resisted, and I would like very much to go see my granddaughter be born."
Lomax looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached into his right jacket pocket, found the fob, and pressed the lock button. The Maybach's lights blinked twice. The door handles slid back flush into the bodywork, smooth and obedient.
She pressed unlock. The handles slid out again.
Nobody said anything. In the quiet, Julian's phone, which had fallen from his breast pocket and lay face-up on the brick beside the front tire, lit up with a notification. Lomax glanced down at it. So did her camera.
Mercedes me: Parking damage detected. Front of vehicle. 10:40 PM.
"Russ," Lomax said quietly, "I think we need to call the sergeant."