“Do you truly believe,” I asked calmly, “that someone impersonating law enforcement would park the vehicle in their own driveway for months in broad daylight?”
The driver blinked. “Uh… I mean, that did seem weird. Yeah.”
Caroline inserted herself between us. “Do your job,” she snapped. “This vehicle needs to be removed from the community immediately.”
“Ma’am,” he said, “I still need to see registration documents.”
I retrieved the folder from inside. As soon as he saw the credentials—my name, rank, department marking—he stepped back like he’d touched a live wire.
“Nope,” he said. “Nope. Not doing this.” He shoved the paperwork back into my hands. “I’m not getting involved with a police officer’s vehicle. I didn’t sign up for whatever this is.”
Caroline sputtered. “He’s not a police officer. He’s lying. Why would a police officer live here?”
That one stung a little.
The tow driver ignored her entirely. He climbed into his cab so quickly he nearly slammed the door on his own leg. Moments later the truck roared to life and sped out of the neighborhood like he was fleeing a crime scene.
Caroline turned scarlet. “This is not over,” she hissed, jabbing a finger at me. “If I have to call the police, I will.”
I smiled. “Please do.”
For a split second she looked thrown off—confused, as though she expected resistance instead of cooperation. But then her expression hardened into the familiar mask of entitled determination, and she made the call.
What she didn’t know—what made the situation so perfectly poetic—was that our dispatchers already had my address flagged. Officers knew I lived here. They knew my vehicle. They knew me. Which meant the officer assigned to respond would be someone who knew exactly what they were walking into.
Ten minutes later I heard the faint hum of a police cruiser. Caroline heard it too. She straightened her posture, smoothed her hair, and plastered on a self-satisfied smile so wide you’d think she’d just won the lottery.
The cruiser turned the corner. Caroline waved both arms wildly, beckoning the poor officer like she was summoning a taxi in the middle of Times Square.
He parked along the curb and the door opened.
Out stepped Officer Ryan Keller.
Perfect.
Keller was one of the sharpest patrol officers we had—professional to the core. But he also had a sense of humor, and he knew exactly who I was.
Caroline sprinted toward him before he could even shut his door.
“Officer, thank goodness you’re here. This man is harboring an unauthorized vehicle that poses a serious threat to our community. It needs to be impounded immediately.”