A pair of designer sunglasses struck the wooden tabletop.
A silver smartphone slid toward the edge.
Lipstick.
A compact mirror.
A small velvet jewelry pouch.
Several folded papers.
A set of keys.
And a black leather credential wallet spilled across the weathered wooden planks.
The officer snorted.
"All that money on clothes and jewelry, and you still can't follow orders."
Then his eyes fell on the black wallet.
It had opened near the center of the table.
Inside was a gold-colored shield.
A photograph.
And an identification card bearing three letters that made his face go pale.
FBI.
The officer stopped breathing.
The rookie leaned forward.
His eyes widened.
The woman watched them both.
For the first time since the confrontation began, she spoke without any trace of uncertainty.
"Now," she said quietly, "are you ready to tell me why you were ordered to search my purse?"
The senior officer slowly lifted his eyes.
His mouth opened.
But no sound emerged.
Because he'd been instructed to stop a woman dressed exactly like her.
He'd been given a description of her hair.
Her expensive green gown.
And the brown handbag she would be carrying.
He'd also received one very specific instruction.
Get the bag before she reaches the man at the park entrance.
What nobody had told him was that the woman carrying it was a federal agent.
And that the man who had sent those instructions was already the subject of a major corruption investigation.
A second later, the officer's radio crackled.
"Unit Twelve, confirm your status."
He didn't answer.
The woman looked toward the radio.
Then back at his face.
"Go ahead, Officer."
Her voice was almost gentle.
"Tell them what you found."
The rookie reached toward his own radio.
Before he could speak, the senior officer grabbed his wrist.
"Don't."
The rookie stared.
"Sir?"
"I said don't."
The woman watched the exchange.
Then something changed in her expression.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
She looked toward the officer's wrist.
At the hand gripping his partner.
At the urgent fear replacing his earlier arrogance.
And she understood that this wasn't merely a police officer who had lost his temper.
He was afraid of somebody else.
Someone powerful enough to make him believe that assaulting a stranger in the middle of Central Park was less dangerous than failing to retrieve a handbag.
The senior officer released his partner.
Then slowly reached toward the open FBI credential wallet.
"Don't touch it," the woman said.
He froze.
She continued.
"Step away from the table."
The rookie looked at the badge again.
Then spoke.
"Sir, we need a supervisor."
The older officer turned sharply.