Trooper Whitlock ignored both Dawna and the dog. He wore aviator sunglasses and his face was shaded by his broad-brimmed Smokey Bear hat, but not enough to hide the last traces of adolescent acne. In his early twenties, Dawna guessed.
And bored, his voice told her. “Chauffeur’s license, log book, and vehicle manifest,” he recited. Joe handed over the paperwork. The trooper turned and walked ten feet to a state police van doing duty as a mobile office and passed the documents to a cluster of men inside.
One of whom had to be Younger, picking his next victim.
Dawna bent lovingly over Precious, trying to look inconspicuous or at least poodle obsessed and not too observant.
Trooper Whitlock moved to the digital readout for the portable scale and conferred for a few seconds with the officer
