The first officer was still smiling when he lifted the cash from the open saddlebag.
The Black woman standing beside the motorcycle was not.
Sunset stretched red and gold across the desert highway, throwing long shadows from the two police cruisers parked behind her glossy black touring bike.
Blue and red lights pulsed against the chrome.
The second officer stood several feet behind the motorcycle with one knee bent beside the open hard saddlebag, pulling out one bundle of money after another.
Hundreds.
Twenties.
Fifties.
Bank straps around some stacks.
Rubber bands around others.
The first officer looked at her over the top of the cash.
“Well, well.”
The Black rider slowly removed her oversized sunglasses.
Her face stayed calm.
Her eyes did not.
“That money came from a motorcycle sale this afternoon.”
The first officer gave a short laugh.
“Of course it did.”
“The bill of sale is in the same compartment.”
“Sure.”
“So is the buyer’s information.”
The officer turned the bundle in his hand.
“People don’t usually ride around the desert carrying this much cash.”
The woman looked toward his body camera.
“People do many things you don’t usually see.”
His smile thinned.
The woman was thirty-four, tall, poised, and impossible to mistake for someone intimidated easily.
Her dark hair had been pulled tightly into a sleek low bun before she left the sale.
A patterned fitted long-sleeve top showed beneath a structured black leather riding layer she had removed during the heat.
A black leather utility skirt covered armored riding shorts beneath it.
Tall dark boots reached nearly to her knees.
A luxury red handbag had been secured inside the other saddlebag.
Her black touring motorcycle was worth more than some used cars.
She knew exactly what the entire scene looked like.
Expensive motorcycle.
Black woman.
Desert road.
Large amount of cash.
Two officers already convinced that the combination told them something.
The first officer shook the bundle.
“How much?”
“Twenty-eight thousand six hundred dollars.”
That seemed to excite him.
“You know the exact number.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“It was a sale.”
The second officer looked up from the saddlebag.
“There’s more.”
The Black rider turned her head slightly.
“How much more?”
The officer reached inside.
“Maybe another ten.”
Her expression changed.
“No.”
The officer paused.
“What?”
“The total should be twenty-eight six.”
The first officer looked toward his partner.
“What do you have?”
The second officer counted quickly.
“Twenty-three here.”
He pointed toward the first officer.
“You’ve got about five.”
The Black rider nodded.
“Twenty-eight six.”
The first officer’s face fell slightly.
He had hoped for something more dramatic.
Then he recovered.
“So you admit it.”
She stared at him.
“I told you the amount before you finished counting.”
He stepped closer.
“That much cash in a saddlebag?”
He waved one bundle near her face.
“Don’t insult me, ma’am.”
“You were begging to get stopped.”
The Black woman’s eyes narrowed.
“Then say the charge clearly into your camera.”
She pointed toward his chest.
“Because taking money with a badge still requires a reason.”
The officer’s smile disappeared.
“Watch your mouth.”
The second officer pulled a clear evidence bag from his cruiser kit.
The Black rider watched.
Her breathing slowed deliberately.
She had learned years earlier that anger made people careless.
Careless people gave other people material.
She would not give them any.
The first officer said:
“We’ll seize the cash and sort it out later.”
“For what offense?”
“Possible proceeds.”
“Of what?”
“That’s what we investigate.”
She looked toward the saddlebag.
“The paperwork is six inches from your partner’s hand.”
The second officer ignored her.
He began placing the bundles into the plastic evidence bag.
The Black woman’s expression turned colder.
“Do it, then.”
The first officer raised an eyebrow.