The investigation he had been helping supervise concerned highway stops across three counties.
Drivers stopped for minor violations.
Consent searches.
Drug claims.
Cash seized under asset-forfeiture procedures.
Some arrests valid.
Some not.
The problem was not that every seizure was illegal.
The problem was that records did not add up.
$86,000 seized from one vehicle.
$72,000 logged.
$31,500 found in another.
$26,500 entered.
Jewelry missing.
Phones missing.
A Rolex photographed at roadside but never appearing in property logs.
Several drivers claimed officers threatened arrest unless they surrendered cash.
One name kept surfacing.
Mercer.
Not every time.
Enough.
Federal investigators had been trying to determine whether Mercer was stealing property, working with others, or simply an unusually aggressive officer surrounded by messy records.
Now he had performed a full roadside search on an FBI agent.
Body camera running.
Witness officer present.
No contraband.
Valid registration.
Destroyed property.
Evolving justification.
And an extraordinary amount of personal property tossed onto the shoulder.
The significance was obvious.
But Terrence refused to let anyone make the case from symbolism.
“You still need the old evidence,” he told Reyes privately before leaving.
“I know.”
“This cannot become ‘he treated an FBI agent badly, therefore every prior complaint is true.’”
“I know.”
“Say it.”
Reyes sighed.
“Your ego is unbearable.”
“Say it.”
She looked at him.
“The gas-station—sorry, highway incident is separate evidence.”
“Prior cases require independent proof.”
“Good.”
“Happy?”
“No.”
He looked at the destroyed cake.
“My mother is going to kill me.”
Reyes almost laughed.
“Buy another.”
“Bakery closes at three.”
“What time is it?”
Terrence checked.
2:47.
Reyes tossed him her SUV keys.
“Go.”
“What?”
“Take mine.”
“What about the truck?”
“We’ll document.”
“Reyes.”
“Your mother is seventy once.”
Terrence stared.
Then grabbed the keys.
“Don’t scratch it.”
She laughed.
“You drive a pickup.”
He left.
At 3:58 p.m., Terrence walked into his mother’s house carrying a replacement grocery-store cake.
Not the custom bakery cake.
Not blue frosting.
Chocolate sheet cake.
White icing.
Plastic flowers.
His sister stared.
“That is not the cake.”
Terrence handed it over.
“Long story.”
His mother called from the living room.
“You’re late.”
Terrence walked toward her.
Marian Cole sat in an armchair wearing a blue dress and silver earrings.
Seventy.
Sharp eyes.
Stronger personality than everyone in the room combined.
She looked him over.
Road dust on trousers.
Glass fragment near collar.
Red marks on wrist.
Her smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
Terrence tried:
“Happy birthday.”
Marian stood.
“What happened?”
His sister looked closer.
“Oh, my God.”
Terrence sighed.
“Traffic stop.”
Marian’s face changed.
“What kind of traffic stop puts glass in your shirt?”
Terrence looked toward the kitchen.
The grocery cake sat crookedly on the counter.
His mother followed his eyes.
Then:
“Where is my lemon cake?”