"What are we looking for, officer?" Josephine asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "Shut up!" Tagot hissed. Finding nothing on her person, he turned his attention to the Aston Martin.
Without asking for consent, he leaned into the driver's side and began tearing the interior apart. He yanked the glove box open, dumping registration papers, napkins, and a tire gauge onto the floor mats. He shoved his hands violently between the custom leather seats, scratching the center console with his utility belt. "Officer, you do not have my consent to search this vehicle," Josephine stated firmly. "I smell marijuana," Tagot lied smoothly.
A rehearsed line he had used a hundred times before to manufacture probable cause. "That gives me the right to search whatever I want." Wyatt looked at the ground, his face pale. There was no smell of marijuana. There was only the scent of new leather and expensive perfume.
Tagot popped the trunk. He found a small leather briefcase. He unlatched it, hoping to find stacks of cash or contraband. Instead, he found thick, heavily redacted files, dossier on the Oakport Police Department's internal affairs records. Tagot, however, was too blinded by his own adrenaline and arrogance to read the headers on the files.
He saw a small velvet box next to the papers. He ripped it open, revealing a gleaming gold badge. Tagot scoffed, tossing the box back into the trunk. What is this? An honorary sheriff's badge from a crackerjack box?
Fake police paraphernalia. I should write you up for impersonating an officer. I strongly suggest you put that back exactly where you found it, Josephine said, her voice dropping an octave, carrying the distinct razor sharp authority of a commanding officer. Tagot froze for a second. The tone of her voice was deeply unsettling, triggering a subconscious instinct he couldn't quite place, but his ego quickly squashed the feeling.
He slammed the trunk shut. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood, Grandma," Tagot said, walking back to her. He shoved her driver's license against her chest. "I'm writing you a citation for failure to maintain a lane. Next time you drive through my town, you better look over your shoulder.
Now, get out of here before I decide to tow this shiny little toy of yours." Josephine took the license. She looked at Tagert's badge. Tagot D, badge number 4492. She committed it to memory.
Then she looked at the trembling rookie. Miller W. Badge number 5103. Have a good evening, officers, Josephine said softly. She got back into her car, ignoring the mess Tagert had made of her passenger seat, and drove away.