Hollister walked back to the Tahoe with the license pinched between two fingers. His tone had changed from impatient to amused. "So you're telling me you work for the United States Department of Justice?"
"That's correct."
"Doing what, exactly?"
"I'm an attorney and federal administrator," Byron said. He decided against presenting his full appointment credentials on a highway shoulder to a man already mocking him. "The registration is accurate. You can verify my office through official channels."
"I know how to verify people," Hollister said. "Get out of the vehicle."
Byron held the officer's gaze. "Can you tell me why you need me outside?"
"Because I said so. That's why."
Byron knew that an officer conducting a lawful traffic stop could direct a driver to step out for safety. He also knew that arguing roadside would not change the sergeant's state of mind and could create unnecessary danger. He shut off the engine, unfastened the seat belt, and got out slowly, keeping both hands in clear view. The hot air struck him harder than he expected after the cool interior.
Hollister looked him over with a mixture of triumph and contempt. "Hands where I can see them. Gallagher, check him."
Gallagher approached with an expression Byron could not read. He explained that he was going to conduct a pat-down, then carried it out despite the lack of any specific statement that Byron was armed or dangerous. He found a phone, a wallet, a handkerchief, and the ordinary contents of a man's pockets. Byron did not resist, but he asked why the search was necessary.
"Officer safety," Hollister said, supplying the phrase before his deputy could answer. "People who ask a lot of questions usually have something they're worried about."
Gallagher stepped back. "No weapons, Sergeant."
"Fine. Search the vehicle."
Byron turned his head. "I do not consent to a vehicle search. You have no warrant, and nothing about this stop suggests criminal activity."
"I'm not looking for a lecture," Hollister said. "I'm looking for what you're hiding."
He positioned himself between Byron and the Tahoe while Gallagher opened the passenger door. Inside, Gallagher found an orderly vehicle. A jacket hung from a hook behind the driver's seat. There was a folded paper map tucked into the door pocket, a travel mug with a little coffee left in it, and an envelope in the center console. Gallagher glanced toward Hollister before touching the envelope, and the sergeant answered with a sharp nod.
"Open it," Hollister ordered.
Gallagher counted the bills without removing them fully from the envelope. Twenty one-hundred-dollar notes. He recognized the sort of paper sleeve banks sometimes supplied for large cash withdrawals. He also saw that a dated teller slip had been folded behind the stack, but Hollister reached in before he could say anything about it.
"Well, what have we got here?" Hollister announced. He fanned the notes so the sun caught their edges. "Two thousand dollars. That's a pretty lucky afternoon for somebody."