The first officer approached from her left.
Second from behind.
“License.”
No greeting.
The Black rider removed her helmet slowly.
“May I reach inside my jacket?”
The officer nodded.
She handed over her license.
“Registration?”
“In the right saddlebag.”
“Open it.”
She paused.
“My registration is in the front sleeve.”
“Open it.”
She stood.
Walked toward the saddlebag.
The second officer moved closer.
She unlocked it.
Opened the lid.
The cash was underneath the document envelope.
The second officer saw it immediately.
His eyes changed.
“What’s that?”
The Black rider looked down.
“Money.”
“No kidding.”
The first officer stepped closer.
“How much?”
“Twenty-eight thousand six hundred.”
The first officer looked at her.
“Cash?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Business sale.”
The second officer reached toward it.
The Black rider said:
“My registration is in the clear envelope.”
The officer stopped.
Looked at her.
“Step back.”
She stepped back.
He pulled out the registration.
Then deliberately moved the envelope aside.
The cash sat exposed.
The first officer asked:
“You consent to us checking this?”
She answered:
“No.”
Silence.
The officer looked almost offended.
“No?”
“You asked whether I consent.”
“I don’t.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why not let us look?”
The Black rider stared.
“Because you already have my registration.”
The first officer looked toward the cash again.
“What business?”
“Motorcycle restoration.”
“Where?”
She gave the name.
The officer smirked.
“You own it?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the motorcycle.
Then her clothing.
Then cash.
His face communicated disbelief without words.
The Black rider saw it.
She had seen that expression before.
In banks.
At auctions.
At dealership counters.
In fabrication shops.
At motorcycle shows.
The expression of someone who had already decided what kind of person should own something expensive.
The second officer asked:
“You got paperwork for the cash?”
“Yes.”
The Black rider pointed.
“The envelope you just moved.”
He looked at it.
Then at the first officer.
The first officer said:
“We’ll get there.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed.
There.
That sentence.
Not now.
Later.
Facts could wait while suspicion enjoyed itself.
She asked:
“Why did you stop me?”
The first officer answered:
“Lane position.”
“What about it?”
“You crossed near the center.”
“Did I cross the line?”
“You were close.”
She stared.