Their eyes met. A conversation without words that only 30 years of marriage can produce. He went inside, came back with his driver's license, handed it over without a word. Tate looked at it. The address matched.
The name matched. The photo matched. Everything matched. It should have ended right there. A simple confirmation.
A quick apology. A walk back to the car. But Patricia Caldwell was not finished. "That could be fake. " She called from the curb.
Her voice louder now, sharper. "Or maybe he's renting or squatting. You don't actually know. " She walked closer, uninvited, onto Malcolm's front lawn. Her shoes pressed into the grass he mowed every Sunday.
"I want them to search the property. I've smelled chemicals coming from that backyard for weeks. Not normal barbecue. Chemicals. Something is not right in that house.
" "Chemicals. " The word hung in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled. Malcolm looked at Patricia, standing on his grass, on his property, accusing him of manufacturing drugs in the home where his grandchildren were playing at that very moment. He said nothing. Gerald Eastwood stood up from his porch two doors down.
"Patricia, what in God's name are you talking about? " "That man has lived here longer than I have. Those are ribs on that grill, not a meth lab. " Patricia didn't even turn around. "Mind your business, Gerald.
" Tate looked at the ID again, looked at the house, looked at Patricia, looked back at Malcolm. He was stuck in the middle of something he didn't have the training or the experience to navigate. Hollins finally spoke. "Quiet. " Just to Tate.
Barely above a whisper. The ID matches, Brian. Everything checks out. But the call was logged. The complaint was on record.
And Patricia Caldwell was still talking. Are you going to do your jobs or not? Because if something happens to me tonight, it's on your heads. Both of you. Tate clipped the license back and handed it to Malcolm.
His fingers were stiff. Sir, would you mind if we just took a quick look around the backyard? Just to be thorough. Then we'll be out of your way. Malcolm took his ID back, slid it into his back pocket, looked Tate dead in the eyes.
No. The word sat there like a locked door. I've shown you my identification, my wife has confirmed my residence, my neighbor has confirmed my residence. You have no probable cause, you have no warrant, and you do not have my consent to search my property. Every word landed clean.
No anger, no volume, just precision. Tate opened his mouth, closed it. Patricia's voice again, shrill now, climbing higher with every word. He's hiding something. An innocent person would just let them look.