She said:
“Run the registration.”
“I am running it.”
“Then wait for the result.”
Holloway stepped closer.
“You don't tell me how to conduct my stop.”
“No.”
“I’m telling you the registration will answer your question.”
He looked at her suit.
Shoes.
Bag.
Car.
Then laughed once.
“An eight-hundred-thousand-dollar truck.”
Alyssa corrected automatically:
“It's not eight hundred thousand.”
Holloway stared.
Wrong response.
She realized it immediately.
His expression sharpened.
“How much?”
“That's irrelevant.”
“No.”
“It's becoming relevant.”
He stepped closer.
“People get hurt over stolen cars like this.”
“I agree.”
“Then cooperate.”
“I am.”
“Who sold it to you?”
“Authorized dealer.”
“Which?”
Alyssa named it.
“Purchase date?”
She gave approximate month.
“Financing?”
“No.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Paid cash?”
“Wire transfer.”
He laughed.
Pedestrians were openly recording now.
A young man across the street had his phone held horizontally.
Holloway noticed.
Anger appeared.
He turned toward the crowd.
“Keep moving.”
Most did not.
Alyssa looked toward his chest camera.
Indicator light active.
Good.
Then Holloway's radio crackled.
Dispatch voice:
“Unit Seven-Twelve, plate returns valid. Registered Monroe Strategic Consulting LLC, Baltimore address. No stolen hit.”
Alyssa looked at Holloway.
He did not look at her.
He pressed radio.
“Confirm VIN.”
Dispatch answered:
“Need VIN query.”
Holloway turned.
“Open the door.”
Alyssa said:
“The VIN is visible through the windshield.”
“Open the door.”
She hesitated.
“Are you asking for consent to search?”
His face tightened.
“I need the VIN.”
“It is visible from outside.”
“You refusing?”
“I’m asking whether you're requesting consent.”
Holloway stepped closer.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“You're making this much harder than it needs to be.”
Alyssa's expression remained neutral.
“I’m standing where you told me.”
Malloy walked around.
“Grant.”
“What?”
“VIN's visible.”
Holloway ignored him.
Alyssa noticed.
Interesting.
Malloy bent near windshield.
Read VIN.
Called it.
Dispatch returned:
“VIN valid. Registered same owner. No theft entry.”
That should have ended the stolen-car theory.
Alyssa waited.
Holloway stared at the Rolls-Royce.
Then her.
“Do you have proof you work for that company?”
“My name is on public corporate records.”
“Not enough.”
“Why?”
“Because people steal identities.”
Alyssa felt something inside her harden.
He was moving the goal.
Plate.
VIN.
Registration.
Now corporate identity.
She asked:
“What fact still suggests the vehicle is stolen?”
Holloway's eyes narrowed.
“Your attitude.”
Several phones captured that.
Alyssa heard someone nearby whisper:
“Oh, man.”
She said:
“My attitude isn't evidence that a vehicle is stolen.”
Holloway stepped closer.
“Turn around.”
Alyssa stared.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Turn around.”
“For what?”
“Obstruction.”
“How?”
“You keep interfering with my investigation.”
“I have complied with every physical instruction.”
“You refuse questions.”
“I answered your questions.”
“Turn around.”
Malloy said quietly:
“Grant.”
Holloway snapped:
“Stay out of it.”
Alyssa looked toward Malloy.
His face changed.
Conflict.
Then Holloway grabbed Alyssa's wrist.
She did not pull.
Her voice sharpened.
“I am not resisting.”
“Other hand.”
She gave it.
Metal closed around one wrist.
Then the other.
Click.
Click.
The crowd reacted.
Alyssa stood beside her own vehicle with her hands cuffed in front.
She looked at Holloway.
“Your body camera is recording?”
He smiled.
“Absolutely.”
“Good.”
Something about that word irritated him.
He leaned toward her.
“You think you're smarter than everybody.”
“No.”
“I think records matter.”
He laughed.
Then:
“Search the car.”
Malloy froze.
“On what?”
Holloway stared at him.
“Incident to detention.”
Malloy said:
“That's not—”
Holloway stepped close enough that Alyssa could not hear the rest.
They exchanged words.
Malloy looked uncomfortable.
Alyssa knew this could become important later.
Not because Malloy was heroic.
Because disagreement inside a scene could reveal what officers understood contemporaneously.
Holloway opened the driver's door.
Alyssa said:
“I do not consent to a search.”
He ignored her.
Looked inside.
Then toward passenger seat.
Handbag.
Center console.
He reached toward the bag.
Alyssa repeated:
“I do not consent.”
Holloway turned.
“You're detained.”
“That does not create unlimited search authority.”
His face reddened.
“Enough.”
He grabbed her handbag.
Opened it.
Wallet.
Phone.
Notebook.
Lipstick.
Keys.
A black leather credential wallet.
Holloway stopped.
Malloy noticed.
“What is that?”
Holloway opened it.
Inside:
Federal credentials.
Photograph.
Name.
Badge.
ALYSSA MONROE
SPECIAL INVESTIGATOR
OFFICE OF PUBLIC INTEGRITY
Holloway stared.
Malloy went pale.
“Grant.”
Holloway looked at Alyssa.
Then the credential.
Then laughed.
“Fake.”
Alyssa almost could not believe it.
Not because forged federal credentials did not exist.
They did.
Verification was appropriate.
But his laugh came before checking.
Decision before evidence.
Again.
Malloy said:
“We should verify.”
Holloway snapped:
“We'll verify downtown.”
Alyssa said:
“Call the number through an independently sourced federal directory.”
He ignored her.
She continued:
“Do not use any number printed inside the credential wallet if you believe it's counterfeit.”
That was correct verification practice.
Malloy looked at her.
He understood.
Holloway did not like it.
“You're giving us instructions again.”
“I am telling you how to avoid making this worse.”
He held up the badge.
“Women buy these online.”
There were gasps from nearby.
Alyssa looked directly into his eyes.
“Put it into evidence if you believe it's fraudulent.”
His expression changed.
Tiny.
She continued:
“Bag it.”