Lawson distrusted simple ambitions. He preferred the language of instinct, command presence, and proactive enforcement, terms he used to make nearly any decision sound like experience. Brennan had watched him select drivers for additional questioning without identifying a traffic violation, then dismiss their discomfort as proof that further questioning had been necessary. When Brennan asked for a reason, Lawson generally answered that the academy taught procedures but the road taught people. It was an argument that made inexperience sound like a moral failing and silence sound like respect.
The black Mercedes passed the billboard at a steady legal speed. Lawson watched it move along the straight section of roadway, taking in the expensive bodywork, dark glass, and solitary Black woman at the wheel. His expression tightened before the cruiser had even pulled into traffic. Brennan, who was looking at the in-car computer, heard Lawson mutter that the driver looked wrong for a car like that, then heard him add a contemptuous comment about people who wanted to show off wealth they could not possibly have earned.
"Did she do something?" Brennan asked.
Lawson did not immediately answer. He adjusted his sunglasses, started the cruiser, and eased onto the highway behind the Mercedes. "We'll find out," he said, which was not an answer and did not pretend to be one. A few seconds later he activated the emergency lights, and Faith saw blue and red flare across her rearview mirror.
She signaled, reduced her speed, and steered onto a broad section of gravel shoulder near mile marker twelve. The Mercedes came to a smooth stop with enough room for passing traffic to remain well clear. Faith lowered the window, turned off the engine, and placed both hands on the wheel, the same deliberate routine she had taught younger relatives and Soldiers alike. She felt no panic, but an old, unwelcome vigilance took the place of the pleasant anticipation she had carried all morning.
Lawson approached slowly, boots grinding against the gravel, his hand settling near his duty belt. He leaned toward her window without returning the polite greeting she offered. His mirrored sunglasses reflected her face and the honey-colored seats behind her, making it difficult to tell where he was looking. When he demanded her license and registration, she told him exactly where she would reach before moving her hands.
Faith handed him a Virginia driver's license bearing her correct name and address, along with current registration and proof of insurance. Lawson studied the documents with unusual interest, looking from the photograph to Faith and back again. He asked who owned the car, although the name printed on the registration answered the question directly. When she said she did, he let a pause expand long enough to communicate disbelief.
"Nice car," he said at last.
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Really nice. Something like this doesn't come cheap."
"No, it doesn't."
He looked around the cabin, making no effort to conceal his suspicion. Faith waited for an explanation of the stop, but none came. Instead Lawson asked where she was headed, whether anyone was expecting her, and how she had obtained the vehicle. She answered that she was visiting her mother for a birthday, then politely asked whether there had been a traffic violation.