“I am not arguing bylaws with you,” I said evenly. “Unlock the door.”
“You parked illegally.”
“My daughter cannot physically exit that van without assistance.”
Angela crossed her arms. “If we make exceptions every time someone claims hardship, the entire structure of this community collapses.”
I stared at her, searching for a hint of humanity. “Hardship? She’s nine years old. She can’t walk.”
The rear of the burning sedan exploded in a sharp concussive blast as the gas tank ignited. People screamed. Heat slammed into us like an open furnace door. The fire leapt to the adjacent vehicle instantly.
Inside my van, Lily was crying now, her small hands pounding weakly against the glass.
My voice changed. “I am Detective Lieutenant Daniel Mercer, Chicago Police Department,” I said, pulling my badge from my back pocket and flipping it open inches from her face. “You are actively obstructing an emergency rescue.”
Her composure wavered for the first time. “This is Georgia,” she said, though it sounded less certain.
“Your jurisdiction—”
