“What?”
“Maybe we should just run him.”
Rourke looked back at the Black man.
“Oh, I plan to.”
He grabbed the man’s left wrist and pushed it against the pump.
Then he began searching him.
The Black man’s face remained composed, but his breathing changed.
Not fear exactly.
Control.
He looked toward the patrol cruiser.
Its windshield reflected the afternoon sky.
Inside, the mobile computer screen glowed.
He could not see the details from where he stood.
But he knew what should happen the moment his identity entered the system.
The question was whether Rourke would let it get that far.
Rourke ran both hands roughly along the outside of the man’s jacket.
“You carrying?”
“No firearm.”
“Knife?”
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Rourke patted the front pockets.
The man said, “You haven’t told me why you’re searching me.”
Rourke squeezed the fabric near his waist.
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“I asked for the reason.”
“You fit the situation.”
“What situation?”
Rourke pulled the man away from the pump, turned him sharply, then pushed him back again.
This time the man’s shoulder struck metal hard enough to make the entire pump housing shake.
The younger officer stepped forward another pace.
“Rourke.”
The older officer snapped, “Stay by the cruiser.”
The young officer stopped.
The Black man glanced at him.
Officer Mason looked ashamed of stopping.
That mattered too.
Rourke continued the search.
His hand entered the man’s outer jacket pocket.
He removed a black leather wallet.
The man said, “You can look at my identification without throwing anything.”
Rourke opened the wallet.
Driver’s license.
Two bank cards.
A health insurance card.
A business card with no company logo, only a phone number and a simple name.
Rourke read the driver’s license.
“Adrian Cole.”
The Black man did not answer.
Rourke looked at the address.
Then at him.
“That’s where you live?”
“Yes.”
Rourke gave a little laugh.
The address was in one of the wealthy neighborhoods three miles away.
Adrian recognized the reaction.
He had seen it too many times.
The tiny pause.
The recalculation.
The suspicion that ownership itself might be fraudulent.
Rourke looked again.
“That house worth about one-point-two?”
“I don’t know its current valuation.”
“You don’t know what your own house is worth?”
“I know what I paid.”
“How much?”
Adrian looked at him.
“That has nothing to do with this stop.”
Rourke closed the wallet.
“You don’t want to answer?”
“No.”
The officer tossed the wallet onto the concrete.
It landed face-down near the base of the pump.
Adrian looked at it.
Then back at Rourke.
The officer said, “Leave it.”
Adrian kept his hands visible.
Rourke reached into his inner jacket pocket.
His fingers stopped.
There was something there.
A small sealed black pouch.
The officer’s expression changed.
“What’s this?”
Adrian said nothing.
Rourke pulled it free.
The pouch was about the size of a cigarette pack.
Black nylon.
Tamper strip across the top.
No obvious label visible from the side Rourke held.
The officer squeezed it.
Something rigid inside.
Paper.
Maybe currency.
Something electronic.