When we arrived, there he was: Harold Jennings, 71, sitting on a Harley, engine off, sun glinting off the chrome. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t threatening. Just sitting. Calm. Peaceful. My gut didn’t see calm—it read danger.
“Look at him,” I whispered to Luis. “Probably waiting for a signal. These gangs are bold nowadays. Think they can roll into neighborhoods like this in broad daylight.”
He raised a hand in greeting. Friendly. Smiling. I didn’t see it. I saw a threat.
“Afternoon, officers,” he said cheerfully. “Beautiful day for a ride, isn’t it?”
“Step off the bike,” I barked. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
His smile vanished. “Is there a problem?”
“We received a call about a suspicious person matching your description,” I said, adrenaline tightening my chest.
