No greeting, no explanation for the stop, just the words delivered flatly, as though she had already done something wrong.
She reached slowly toward the storage compartment on the side of the motorcycle, keeping her movements deliberate and visible. She produced her license, her registration, and her insurance card. She held them out.
He took them without looking at her. He looked at the motorcycle instead—at the lines of it, at the price implied by those lines. And something shifted in his expression: a small tightening around the eyes, a reassessment.
"This is your bike?"
"It is."
"Registered to you personally?"
"Yes."
He looked at the registration card she had handed him. He looked at her license. He looked at the motorcycle again.
"You know why I pulled you over?"
"I don't," she said. "You haven't told me."
He turned the license over in his hand. "We had a report: motorcycle matching this description stolen two days ago from a private owner. Black sportbike, same model, similar plate configuration."