Whitmore spoke into the radio before walking forward. "Possible stolen vehicle," he said. "Black McLaren, eastbound Route 16. Young male driver. Stand by."
Cole glanced at him. "There's no active report on that plate."
Whitmore did not slow down. "Run it again."
"I already did."
Whitmore turned just enough to give him a warning look. "Then run the driver."
Jordan could not hear every word, but he saw the exchange in the mirror. He saw Cole's hesitation. He saw Whitmore's posture harden. Then Whitmore reached the driver's side window and shined a flashlight into Jordan's face.
"License and registration?"
"Yes, Officer," Jordan replied. "My license is in my wallet in my right jacket pocket. The registration is in the glove compartment. May I reach for them?"
Whitmore stared at him for a long second. Slowly, Jordan moved exactly as instructed. He handed over the documents without sudden motion and returned both hands to the wheel.
Whitmore looked at the license first, then at Jordan, then at the car's leather interior. "Jordan Hayes," he read aloud. "Seventeen years old."
"Yes, sir."
"Where are you coming from?"
"The Franklin Center."
"Doing what?"
"Receiving a scholarship."
Whitmore gave a short, skeptical breath. "And where are you going?"