The black credential wallet sat clipped against an interior concealment pocket.
She removed it.
Opened it.
Badge.
Photograph.
Name.
Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The sergeant stared.
The officer who had thrown the helmet whispered:
“Oh, hell.”
The woman said:
“FBI.”
Behind them, tires turned onto the street.
Two black unmarked SUVs appeared at the intersection.
The younger officer went pale.
Not metaphorically.
The color actually left his face.
The woman saw him take one step backward.
She looked directly at him.
He stopped.
The unmarked SUVs braked behind the patrol vehicles.
Doors opened.
Plainclothes federal agents stepped out.
The task-force supervisor came first, a broad Black man in his early fifties wearing a charcoal jacket over body armor.
Beside him came a city internal-affairs captain and two federal agents.
The task-force supervisor’s eyes went immediately to the sergeant’s hand still near the woman’s arm.
“Let her go.”
The sergeant released her.
The supervisor approached.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the helmet on the police hood.
Then the motorcycle.
Then the officers.
“What happened?”
The woman kept her eyes on the younger officer.
“Anonymous stolen-bike call.”
The supervisor looked toward the patrol sergeant.
“You confirm the plate?”
The sergeant’s jaw tightened.
“We were in the process.”
The woman said:
“No stolen hit.”
The sergeant looked at her.
“You don’t know what came through dispatch.”
“I know exactly what comes back when that VIN is run.”
The supervisor’s expression hardened.
The internal-affairs captain stepped closer.
The younger officer moved toward his SUV.
The woman pointed.
“Don’t let him leave.”
Everyone turned.
The younger officer froze.
The sergeant stared at her.
“Why him?”
The woman looked at the younger officer.
“Because he knew my plate before dispatch read it.”
Silence.
The younger officer shook his head.
“That’s not true.”
The woman said:
“You said the last four digits when you walked up.”
His mouth opened.
She continued:
“Body camera should have it.”
The internal-affairs captain looked at him.
“Did you?”
“No.”
The agent said:
“You did.”
“I heard it on the radio.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You arrived thirty-eight seconds before the dispatcher broadcast the plate.”
The sergeant looked between them.
The task-force supervisor said:
“Nobody is accusing anyone of anything on the street.”
Then, to the internal-affairs captain:
“Preserve all body-camera video.”
“Dispatch audio.”
“Computer-aided dispatch logs.”
“Vehicle query logs.”
The younger officer said:
“I need to call my union rep.”
The captain nodded.
“You may.”
The agent looked at the phone in his hand.
“But don’t delete anything.”
The officer’s jaw tightened.
“I know my rights.”
“So do I.”
The task-force supervisor looked at the red motorcycle.