If federal agents moved now, she would see everything.
Mercer stepped closer. “Identification.”
Isaiah looked back up at him. “Am I being detained?”
“You got ID or not?”
“That wasn't my question.”
The officer gave a short humorless laugh. “You're making this harder than it needs to be, little man.”
Isaiah's face remained still.
He had been called little man by bullies at school, intoxicated suspects, defense attorneys, nervous witnesses, armed gang members, and once by a bank robber who had discovered several minutes later that Isaiah could run much faster than he could. The words themselves did not bother him anymore. It was the tone that told him everything.
“I am asking whether I am free to leave,” Isaiah said.
Mercer looked him up and down. “Why? You planning to run?”
Isaiah held his gaze.
There it was.
Not enough to put in a report, perhaps, but unmistakable in person.
“I'm sitting on a public bench,” Isaiah said. “You approached me. I'm trying to understand whether this is a voluntary conversation.”
Mercer took another step forward.
“You people always want to turn everything into some courtroom argument.”
For the first time, Isaiah's expression changed.
Only slightly.
His eyes hardened.
Inside the van, Lena whispered something that did not go over the radio clearly. Keller immediately answered, “Everybody stay disciplined.”
Isaiah could feel the operation sliding sideways.
“Officer,” he said, “what do you mean by ‘you people’?”
Mercer immediately realized what he had said.
Instead of correcting himself, he became defensive.
“You know exactly what I mean. Guys who think they know every loophole because they watched some video online.”
Isaiah nodded slowly. “That's what you meant?”
“Give me your ID.”
“I don't have to identify myself merely because somebody told you a Black man looked suspicious.”
Mercer's nostrils flared.
“Don't play that race card with me.”
“I didn't introduce race into this conversation.”
“You just did.”
“No,” Isaiah said. “The caller apparently described me by race, and you've walked past every other person in this park to demand my identification. I'm asking what conduct made me suspicious.”
Mercer looked around.
The elderly couple had stopped walking.
One of the college students beneath the pavilion had turned toward them.
A woman pushing a stroller slowed down.
Mercer saw the attention gathering, and something about being watched seemed to make him angrier instead of more careful.
“You've been sitting here watching people,” he said.
Isaiah almost smiled.
Technically, that part was true.
“People sit in parks,” he replied.
“You were watching cars.”
“There are cars beside the park.”
“You're being evasive.”
“You're asking questions broad enough that any answer can be made suspicious.”
Mercer's hand moved toward the radio clipped to his shoulder.
Isaiah saw the red umbrella woman turn slightly.
Then, behind her, a dark blue sedan appeared at the south entrance.
Isaiah knew the license plate.
His pulse changed immediately.
Voss.
After six weeks, Adrian Voss had finally arrived.
Isaiah could see the driver's silhouette through the windshield. The sedan moved slowly past the south gate, then stopped near a row of parking meters. A man stepped out wearing a navy overcoat and carrying a narrow brown leather case.
The case.
Isaiah needed to see who received it.
Mercer followed Isaiah's eyes and turned toward the sedan.
“What are you looking at?”