Mercer stared at the papers.
Then at her.
“How much does something like this cost?”
“That isn’t relevant.”
He looked toward the car.
“Three million?”
Nia did not answer.
The exact appraised value was $3.2 million.
The car was not new.
It was a limited-production Bugatti her father had bought used six years before his death after selling the last of his interest in a precision-engineering company he had spent thirty-two years building.
He had driven it carefully.
Obsessively.
Annoyingly.
Never in rain if he could avoid it.
Never through an automatic car wash.
Never when a valet was involved.
He had once made Nia walk four blocks to dinner because the restaurant’s parking spaces looked “too disrespectful.”
When he died, he left the car to her.
Not because she was the child most interested in cars.
She wasn’t.
Because, as he wrote in a note tucked beside the keys:
You are the only one stubborn enough not to sell it just because somebody waves a stupid number at you.
She had kept it.
Mostly garaged.
Occasionally driven.
That morning had been the first time in almost four months.
Mercer handed the registration to Cross.
“You believe this?”
Cross glanced down.
“Name matches license.”
Mercer stared at him.
“I asked if you believe it.”
Cross hesitated.
That hesitation told Nia more than the words.
Mercer had expected agreement.
Cross had learned to provide it.
But today something was resisting.
Maybe the crowd.
Maybe the car.
Maybe Nia’s complete lack of panic.
Mercer walked around the Bugatti.
He ran one hand across the rear body panel.
“Lot of car for a federal employee.”
Nia’s eyes narrowed behind the mirrored lenses.
She had not told him she was federal.
He had guessed employee from something else?
No.
He said “federal employee” casually? Wait, perhaps he saw a government parking placard? Better not. Let's correct within narrative: Mercer said "lot of car for somebody your age." Let's use continuity. Mercer had actually said:
“Lot of car for somebody your age.”
Nia answered nothing.
He continued:
“What do you do?”
“Consulting.”
Technically true.
Her current FBI work included public-corruption investigations and forensic financial analysis.
“You a rapper?”
“No.”
“Influencer?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend buy it?”
“No.”
“Drug money?”
Cross looked at him.
“Sergeant.”
Mercer turned.
“What?”
“We have registration.”
“That doesn’t mean VIN isn’t cloned.”
“Any hit?”
“Not yet.”
Mercer walked back to driver’s window.
Nia had remained seated until he ordered her out.
She asked whether she was being detained.
He said yes.
For what?
“Routine verification.”
Then he told her to leave purse and phone.
She kept phone.
He reached for it.
She stepped back.
That was when the stop changed.
Mercer grabbed her forearm.
She did not resist.
He tightened.
“Put the phone down.”
“I am recording.”
“So am I.”
His body camera was off.
She looked directly at it.
“No, you’re not.”
Cross’s eyes flicked toward Mercer’s chest.
Mercer shoved Nia backward.
Not enough to knock her down.
Enough to communicate hierarchy.
Then he called a tow truck before establishing any crime.
Nia heard the dispatcher confirm:
“Danner Recovery en route.”
Danner Recovery.