The hands came to the front of the jacket, and stopped.
"What's this?"
The envelope. In the inside pocket, folded, flat against his chest. The officer's palm was pressed over it.
"It's money," Lorenz said. "My money. For my mother."
There was a pause. He felt the zipper of his jacket being pulled down the rest of the way. He felt the hand go into the inside pocket and draw the envelope out. He heard the paper rustle, and the flap, which wasn't sealed, come open.
"Jesus," the officer said, not to Lorenz, to himself, very softly. And then, to Lorenz, in a voice that had gone flat and cold and certain: "Okay. Okay. Put your hands behind your back."
"Sir, please, that is my—"
"Hands behind your back. Now."
He put his hands behind his back. The cuffs went on, the right wrist first, a cold hard ratcheting click, and then the left, and the officer tightened them down until the steel bit into the bones of his wrists, and then checked them with a finger, and then, after a moment, loosened the right one by one click. Lorenz noticed that. Later he would think about that one click a great deal.
"You are not under arrest right now," the officer said. "You're being detained. Do you understand the difference?"
"Yes, sir."