A trick question, a standard law enforcement trap. Answering “No” naturally invited further scrutiny beyond the threshold inquiry. The process of trying to establish legal grounds for a probable cause search could stretch on for as long as Brian wanted it to, even if Roby was ultimately found clean. Answering “Yes” was a waiver of the individual’s Fourth Amendment rights and a consent to a police search.
Roby weighed those options as he stared at Brian, his dogged agreeableness faltering. “It’s just dresses,” he said. “I’m on a schedule here. They checked me across the border.”
“Then you won’t mind if I take a quick look?”
Roby stared at him, deliberating, and at that moment Brian knew there was something hidden inside the van.
“Sure,” Roby said, with a flick of his wrist. “Knock yourself out.”
The cruiser stopped in front of the van and Merce Patterson climbed out, a short-limbed, mustached man, chewing his Nicorette gum. Brian nodded him over to Roby and then went around the front of the van to the passenger’s side door.
Brian checked under both front seats and inside the well beneath the radio. He used the butt end of his four-battery Maglite to pick through the fast-food litter on the floor.
“Do you have a passport, Mr. Roby?” Brian called out to him. There was no answer. “Can’t get across the border without a passport.”
Nothing from Roby. Either he was thinking or no longer cooperating. Brian could see Merce Patterson through the open driver’s side window, his mustache riding the movement of his jaw, but Roby was obscured by the wall of the van. The look on Patterson’s face told Brian to move it along.
He pulled the keys from the ignition and went around to the rear doors, opening them and facing a rack of dresses sheathed in cleaner’s plastic. He removed one of the hangers and looked the dress over: a matronly blue cotton pullover with snaps up the top half, a loose bib front, and a matching rope belt. The rest were all variations on that same basic style, some with buttons instead of snaps, some floral patterned or striped, some with collars, some without. Brian removed some hangers in order to reach through, finding a second garment rack. Beyond that lay more piles of plastic-coated dresses, which he poked and probed with his flashlight, finding nothing. He stepped back from the fender, shoving the dresses back inside. Around the open door he could see the back of Roby’s head and neck, and Merce Patterson standing wary of him.
Brian opened the side door and stepped onto the running board. There were dresses everywhere, folded on the floor, stacked lengthwise and bundled with bungee cords, lying loose. He waded in, feeling around, and eventually uncovered a stack of long, white cardboard boxes near the back left wheel well. He quickly opened the top box: more dresses. Discouraged, he pulled back and surveyed the interior of the van. The scar on Roby’s neck drove him back to the long boxes.
Moving the top one off the others required an enormous amount of effort in relation to the task, half emptying the box, sliding dead dresses around, and then balancing the box on his hip as he opened the one below: still more dresses. He gave them a defeated stab with his flashlight butt and struck something hard.
A muffled clink, like a small sack of nails dropped on the floor. He listened a moment for Roby — it was silent outside — then, with the first long box still balanced against his holster, swept away the top layer of dresses.
He had dented one of dozens of small, red boxes of rifle cartridges packed in neat rows. Brian pulled out one of the tapered, copper-jacketed rounds, then shoved the rest of the dresses off the far end of the box.
He had uncovered a sizable brick of U.S. currency sealed in plastic wrap.
The first box fell to the floor as he backed out of the van, the shimmering plastic-wrapped dresses swirling at his feet, slinking off the running board to the ground. Brian fumbled his flashlight back into the loop on his belt and unsnapped his side arm, moving around the rear doors. He saw Merce Patterson and pointed to Roby’s back, nodding fast, all the while trying to keep calm. Merce Patterson’s face paled with concern and his hand went immediately to his own gun.
“Mr. Roby,” Brian said. His voice came out dry. “I need you to turn around and face the van, sir.”
Roby only turned a little, his eyes tracking Brian as Brian circled in front of him. Merce Patterson was still getting out his gun.
“Turn around and face the van, sir, please, right now.”
Roby looked at the two of them there, at ninety degree angles to himself. Merce Patterson had drawn on him but Brian still had not.
“You don’t want to do this,” Brian said — not at all certain exactly what Roby was doing. “You really don’t want to do this, Mr. Roby.”
Brian remained ready with his hand on the butt of his side arm, and just when it seemed he was going to have to make a move, Roby sneered and turned to face the van.
“Flat up against it, sir,” Brian said.
Roby did as Brian commanded, lacing his fingers behind his head and spreading his legs. Brian advanced on Roby’s back, not bothering to pat him down, pulling out his handcuffs and going directly for Roby’s wrists. But Roby’s hands would not meet behind his broad back, and with his free arm strong between Roby’s shoulders, Brian motioned to Merce Patterson. Merce linked his cuffs with Brian’s and finished the job.
Brian rushed through Roby’s Miranda warning. Roby looked at him contemptuously now, mean and dead-eyed, refusing to speak. He refused even to acknowledge having been informed of his rights.
Two more cruisers arrived in the time it took Brian and Merce to unload the van. Thirteen semiautomatic AR-15 assault rifles lay on the side of the road, with the cash and ammunition stacked to one side along with, curiously, a child’s chemistry set. The bottom box had been removed whole. It contained four objects: a long, tube-shaped barrel, a wire connected to a small box, a hand trigger, and something like a sighting mechanism. The casting and texture of the metal parts all had the feel of military issue, although large sections along the barrel were filed down.
Roby, asked to identify the unassembled device, stood mum.
The last item was a Chock Full o’ Nuts coffee can. Merce peeled back the lid and pulled out a small plastic sandwich Baggie full of white powder. He gave Brian the knowing cop look, and Brian nodded back, though a fistful of cocaine did nothing to explain the assault rifles, the money, the unidentified device, or Roby’s forged identification. Merce handed Brian the bag — actually two bags, one Glad-style bag sealed inside an airtight Ziploc — and Brian worked the package with his fingers. It had a sticky, oily texture, more like laundry detergent than cocaine.
“You don’t want to open that,” Roby said flatly.
The big man wore a teasing smile, a grin even uglier than his jagged scar. Brian, an affable, reasonable young man, felt a flash of anger heat the nape of his neck. But Roby would not elaborate. The tow truck arrived and Brian dropped the bag back into the coffee can, impounding it and the cash and transporting it all back to the stationhouse the sheriff’s department shared with the local Huddleston police.
Roby was uncuffed and fingerprinted without incident. The company listed on the van’s registration returned “No Known Address” in Tempe, and Brian decided to wait at the station for Roby’s prints to come back through the computer. He left him to be processed into a holding tank and ducked into the sheriff’s office to call Les, apologizing, telling her he’d explain later. She wasn’t happy. Then he called the emergency number the sheriff had left, getting neither an answer nor a machine. Brian would have to sort through this mess alone.