Miller did not look at her. He bent down near the rear tire, poking the tread with a silver pocket clip.
“Tires look low,” Miller said, looking up with a quick, tight sneer. “Very low. We have county standards for roadworthiness, you know.”
“The tire pressure monitoring system did not indicate any loss of pressure,” Victoria said.
“System could be broken,” Miller said. “Lots of things break when you drive too fast through these hills.”
Victoria watched him. She kept her right hand steady in her shorts pocket, her fingers maintaining their light touch on the active transmitter. In Columbus, fifty miles away, the state regional dispatch center was receiving every word of this exchange, a secret known only to Victoria and her director.
“Are you issuing a citation for an equipment violation?” Victoria asked.
Miller stood up, brushing gravel from his knees. He looked over at Vance, who was leaning against the driver side door of the sedan, his heavy arms crossed over his chest.
“We are checking everything,” Miller said, his voice rising slightly. “You just need to wait by the bumper.”
Ten minutes passed in the heat. The scent of damp pine needles from the adjacent woods mingled with the hot metallic smell of her engine. Victoria stood perfectly still, her eyes tracking the movements of both men.
Vance walked to the driver side window, reached inside, and pulled her insurance card and registration sheet from the passenger seat. He walked back toward the rear of the car, holding the papers between two thick fingers.
“These papers do not look right,” Vance said.
“The registration is current, Deputy,” Victoria said. “It was renewed three weeks ago.”
Vance did not look at the paper. With a quick flick of his wrist, he tossed the registration and the insurance card onto the hot metal roof of her sedan. The papers slid a few inches in the light breeze and stopped against the black rubber trim of the sunroof.
