“General Lawson, Sergeant Wade Harlan. We have a possible commercial freight and vehicle-security matter.”
Jonathan answered, “Has my wife been charged with anything?”
“No.” “Traffic violation?”
“Not exactly.” “Stolen-vehicle hit?”
Harlan hesitated. Renee saw it.
“We’re still verifying.” Jonathan’s voice sharpened slightly.
“My wife’s truck carries federal medical freight under a current contract. Her company is registered. Her electronic logs and GPS are traceable.”
Harlan said, “With respect, General, your rank does not determine local enforcement.”
Jonathan answered immediately. “Correct.”
That surprised Harlan.
Jonathan continued. “Which is why I’m not asking you to release her because she’s my wife.”
Renee felt something in her chest loosen. He understood.
“I’m asking what legal basis you have for whatever you are doing.” Harlan’s expression hardened.
“The investigation is ongoing.” “Then conduct it professionally.”
Harlan ended the call without another word and handed the phone back to Renee. Keene stared.
“You really married a general?” he asked.
Renee took her phone. “That should not matter.”
It did matter to Keene. His expression had shifted from amused contempt to something defensive.
Harlan’s changed differently. He looked angry.
Not frightened. Cornered.
Renee understood then that a professional officer discovering he had stopped a general’s wife should have become more cautious, not more determined. Harlan seemed determined to prove rank could not influence him.
That was another kind of ego. Just as dangerous.
He looked toward Keene. “Call heavy recovery.”
Keene blinked. “Sergeant?” “Impound the tractor and trailer pending freight verification.”
Renee’s stomach tightened. “On what basis?”
Harlan turned toward her. “Suspicious cargo documentation and possible seal tampering.”
“My manifest is valid.” “That will be determined later.”
“You already said the vehicle was stolen.” “Investigations develop.”
Renee looked at his face. There it was again.
A moving reason. A conclusion creating whatever justification it needed.
She took out her notebook.
Harlan noticed. “What are you writing?”
“Time.”
Then she looked toward his badge. “Sergeant Wade Harlan.”
Keene smirked, trying to recover some of his earlier confidence. “You think writing names scares people?”
“No.” Renee wrote his too.
“I think memory gets attacked later.”
The heavy recovery truck arrived forty minutes later from Red Creek Towing and Storage. The driver introduced himself as Clay Morrison, a thin man with grease on his forearms and an expression suggesting he wanted no part of whatever he had driven into.
He walked around Renee’s Kenworth, then looked toward Harlan. “You have a commercial seizure authorization?”
Harlan showed him a form. Clay read quickly.
“This doesn’t list mechanical hazard.” Harlan said, “Law-enforcement hold.”
Clay nodded reluctantly. Renee watched.