“I already did.”
“It came back clean.”
The Officer’s hand stopped.
Only for a second.
Then continued.
“Could be cloned.”
The younger officer frowned.
“The VIN matched on the return.”
The older Officer turned his head.
“Do you want to do my job?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.”
The younger officer did not.
“The vehicle is registered to him.”
The Sergeant’s face tightened.
The Black Man heard every word.
So did half the people recording.
The Sergeant leaned close to the Black Man.
“You bought this?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
The Black Man almost laughed.
The question was so revealing that it stopped being insulting and became useful.
“What does that have to do with the stop?”
The Sergeant grabbed the Black Man’s jacket collar.
“Everything if I think you stole a quarter-million-dollar car.”
The Black Man corrected him automatically.
“More than that.”
The Sergeant shoved him harder.
“Cute.”
The younger Officer took one step forward.
“Sergeant, registration matches.”
The Sergeant snapped.
“There was a report of a stolen black exotic vehicle.”
The Black Man said:
“What make?”
The Sergeant hesitated.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What make?”
The younger Officer looked toward the computer inside the cruiser.
Then quietly:
“Ferrari.”
The Sergeant glared.
The Black Man’s eyes moved to the bull emblem on his Lamborghini.
Then toward the younger Officer.
“So not this vehicle.”
The Sergeant’s face reddened.
“Cars get rebadged.”
The younger Officer stared at him.
The Black Man almost turned around.
The Sergeant pushed his head back toward the roofline.
“Face forward.”
The Black Man obeyed.
Then spoke calmly.
“You are being recorded.”
The Sergeant looked toward the phones.
“I don’t care.”
The Black Man’s voice lowered.
“You should.”
The Sergeant laughed.
“What, your rich friends gonna sue me?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
The Black Man did not answer.
He could hear his own pulse now.
Not because he feared the Sergeant.
Because the clock was running.
Three blocks east, a federal surveillance team was supposed to move on a warehouse at 3:40 p.m.
The Black Man had been heading toward a mobile command post.
The Lamborghini was not a work vehicle.
That was precisely why he used it today.
No tactical SUV.
No government plates.
Nothing that looked official.
The operation had already become sensitive.
A two-year investigation into stolen exotic vehicles had expanded into something worse.
Police corruption.
Improper seizures.
Cash disappearing from impounded cars.
Luxury vehicles mysteriously reclassified as “unclaimed.”
And one city police unit appearing far too often around every incident.
The Sergeant now squeezing his wrist belonged to that unit.
The Black Man had recognized his name the moment he stepped from the cruiser.
Sergeant Ryan Calder.
Fifteen-year veteran.
Traffic Enforcement and Interdiction.
Six citizen complaints.
Three civil settlements.
No sustained discipline.
Possible connection to two seized vehicles that disappeared before federal agents could inspect them.
And now Calder had stopped the FBI supervisory agent running the case.
The Black Man had not planned that.
If anything, he wished it had not happened.
Because uncontrolled encounters damaged investigations.
Calder reached into the Black Man’s jacket.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
The Black Man spoke immediately.
“Do not remove anything unless your body camera is active.”
Calder paused.
Then smiled.
“Giving orders again?”
“Is your camera recording?”
Calder said nothing.
The younger Officer looked at Calder’s chest.
A small red indicator light was on.
“Yes.”
The younger Officer answered instead.