Standing on this porch tonight, Badge held up in the last of the light. She wasn't so sure anymore that he'd been speaking in general terms at all. Hutchkins stared at the badges for three long seconds. Then his expression hardened into something even uglier than before. Nice try, he said, contempt thick in his voice.
Real convincing props. Where'd you buy those? The internet? Some costume shop? Norah kept her voice level.
Call the field office. Verify our credentials. Could be stolen, Hutchkins said, talking over her like she hadn't spoken at all. Could be fake. Could be anything.
People carry all kinds of fake identification. Vivien pulled out her phone, fingers moving across the screen with a calm that felt almost surgical. FBI field office. Ask for assistant special agent in charge. Patricia Miles.
She'll verify our employment right now. Hutchkins's jaw worked like he was chewing on something bitter. I'm not calling anyone based on your word. You're both under detention until we verify who you really are. Then make the verification call, Norah said.
Hutchkins reached for his radio instead. His thumb pressed the transmit button with a deliberate almost theatrical force. Dispatch, this is Sergeant Hutchkins. I need Lieutenant Voss at my location immediately. Priority response.
Vivien's eyebrows rose slightly. You're calling your lieutenant, not the field office, not dispatched, to run our credentials. Your lieutenant. Hutchkins clipped the radio back onto his belt. A strange kind of satisfaction settling over his features.
Lieutenant Voss handles verification for this precinct. He'll know exactly what to do with fake federal credentials. It was a small thing, a tiny detail, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. But Norah had spent 11 years reading people for a living, and something about the way Hutchkins said it, like he already knew what the answer would be before the call was even placed, stuck in her chest like a splinter. Any honest officer faced with real federal credentials calls the bureau.