“Not yet?”
Boyd removed his radio. “Run the plate and license.”
James folded his hands in front of him. Ruiz studied the old man. Most people became nervous during traffic stops. They talked too much, moved too quickly, or stared at the officers with obvious fear. James did none of those things. He stood beside the motorcycle with the patience of someone who had waited through far more dangerous situations.
Ruiz noticed the scars on his hands. One curved from the base of James’s thumb to the wrist. Another crossed two knuckles. A small portion of his left index finger was missing.
“You work on motorcycles?” Ruiz asked.
“Among other things.”
“What did you do before retirement?”
James looked toward the hills. “Transportation.”
Boyd overheard. “Truck driver?”
“Sometimes.”
The radio crackled. “Unit Twelve, plate returns valid to James Franklin Harris. No wants. No warrants. Motorcycle registered and insured.”
Boyd pressed the microphone. “Any stolen-vehicle reports matching an old military-style motorcycle?”
“Negative.” The dispatcher paused. “Sergeant Ruiz, confirm subject’s middle name.”
“Franklin.”
Another silence followed.
“Stand by.”
Ruiz frowned. Boyd looked pleased again. “Maybe we found something.”
James glanced at the dashboard clock inside the cruiser. “What time is it?”
Boyd tilted his head. “Why?”
“I am expected at ten.”
“You’ll get there when we’re finished.”
James looked west. The ceremony would begin in thirty-two minutes. He had left home before sunrise to give himself more than enough time. He had stopped once at a diner for coffee and once beside a cemetery where his wife was buried. He had not expected two officers to hold him on a highway shoulder because one of them disliked the appearance of his motorcycle.
Boyd walked around the bike. “What is in the saddlebags?”
“Tools, rain gear, and a folded uniform.”
The officer stopped. “What kind of uniform?”
“Army dress uniform.”
“You said you were a truck driver.”
“I said I worked in transportation.”
“Open the other bag.”
James did not move. “You already have my identification, registration, and insurance. You have confirmed there are no warrants. Am I free to leave?”
Boyd’s face tightened. “I’m still investigating.”
“What crime?”
“Possible possession of stolen government property.”
Ruiz looked at him. “Based on what?”
“The markings.”
“The motorcycle is registered to him.”
“That doesn’t prove the frame wasn’t stolen.”
James let out a slow breath. “That motorcycle was released through a federal surplus auction sixty-five years ago.”
“Do you have the receipt?”
“In my files at home.”
“Convenient.”
Ruiz stepped between them slightly. “Boyd, we need an articulable reason to extend the stop.”
“I have one.”
“No, you have a suspicion you created after the plate came back clean.”
Boyd removed his sunglasses. “You taking his side?”
“I’m asking why we’re still here.”
Before Boyd could respond, the dispatcher returned. “Unit Twelve, use caution with the identification return.”
Both officers listened.
“Subject name produces a protected federal record. No criminal alert. Confirmation request sent to Fort Kendrick Provost Marshal’s Office.”
Boyd smiled triumphantly. “Protected record. I knew it.”
Ruiz did not share his excitement. Protected records often belonged to judges, federal officials, undercover officers, witnesses, or military personnel whose information required special handling.
James remained silent.
Boyd pointed toward the second saddlebag. “Open it.”
“No.”
Boyd stepped closer. “That was not a request.”
James met his eyes. “You do not have consent to search my property.”
“You think you know procedure?”