"Step out of the vehicle," he said.
Jordan's stomach tightened. "May I ask why?"
Whitmore opened the door from the outside. "Because I'm asking the questions now."
Jordan stepped out slowly, keeping his hands where Whitmore could see them. The evening air felt colder away from the warmth of the car, and the steady pulse of the patrol lights made every passing second feel longer than it was.
Whitmore guided him toward the front of the McLaren and told him to stand beside the hood. Jordan obeyed. He could hear tires slowing on the opposite side of the road as drivers turned their heads toward the scene. A woman near the sidewalk lifted her phone and began recording. Whitmore noticed her, but he did not ask her to stop; he seemed certain that whatever happened next would support the story he had already chosen.
"Do you have anything in the vehicle I should know about?" he asked.
"No, Officer," Jordan said. "Only my school papers, my jacket, and some documents my father asked me to bring home."
Whitmore looked through the open door. "What kind of documents?"
"I do not know. The envelope is sealed."
Whitmore glanced at Cole. "That sounds convenient."
Cole held the tablet closer to his chest. "The vehicle is properly registered. The address matches his license. There is no theft report."
Whitmore ignored him. He reached into the car and lifted the scholarship certificate from the passenger seat. Gold lettering caught the streetlight: Jordan Hayes, Franklin Center Academic Excellence Award. Whitmore read it, then placed it back without comment.
Next, he picked up the family photograph. Jordan stood between his mother and Marcus in front of a brick house, all three smiling into the summer sun. Marcus wore a dark suit, but there was no badge, no government seal, nothing that announced who he was.
"That is your father?" Whitmore asked.
"Yes, sir."
"And he gave you this car?"