“Listen carefully.”
The Black Man turned his head as far as the position allowed.
The Officer continued.
“I’ve been doing this fifteen years.”
“And I know exactly what men like you do when they get caught in cars like this.”
The Black Man’s expression changed.
“What men like me?”
The Officer ignored the question.
A younger officer stood several feet away near the patrol cruiser.
He had arrived with the first Officer but had remained quiet since the stop began.
His nameplate read MILLER.
He looked twenty-eight at most.
His eyes moved from the broken Lamborghini window to the driver pressed against the car.
Then to the baton still hanging from the older Officer’s hand.
The younger officer finally spoke.
“Sergeant.”
The older Officer did not look back.
“What?”
“We should run the plate again.”
“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.