look. “Someone’s in that garage and the door is opening.”
“Stay in the house, Alison, and just tell me what you see,” he said.
But I had other plans. I hung up without saying good-bye and went searching for a pair of shoes, decided that I didn’t have any on the first floor of my house, and stole my saliva-soaked slippers from Trixie’s mouth. I ran back into the kitchen in time to see a small red car exiting the garage, slowly, in reverse. I grabbed my keys from the counter, letting out a little shriek as the phone began ringing—Crawford, I presumed—and left the house, running across the sopping grass of the backyard. I hit the key pad and unlocked my car doors, at the same time trying to get a look at who was driving the car. The rain and darkness conspired against my making an identification, so I contented myself with backing down the driveway at fifty miles an hour, hoping to catch the car, which had picked up speed on the straightaway of my block.
I spied my cell phone on the passenger’s seat next to me and I turned it on. Moments later, it began ringing.
“Hello?” I said, making a left turn onto Broadway, keeping a safe distance from the red car. I’m sure whoever was driving knew that I was tailing them because when we approached Route 9 the driver ran the red light at the corner and took a hard left.
“What are you doing?” Crawford asked, none too pleased. “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”
“Crawford, whoever this is, I’m not letting them get away.” I sped up as we approached the light at the Stop & Shop and sailed through as the light went from yellow to red. I couldn’t drive like Jeff Gordon and talk to Crawford, so I put the phone back on the passenger seat and both hands on the wheel. Ashford Avenue led straight to the Saw Mill River Parkway, winding through a residential and business area; I continued behind the red car, speeding along, hoping that I wouldn’t lose whoever this was once we hit the highway. I looked at my speedometer and saw that I was going sixty miles an hour in a thirty zone and hoped that all of the cops were either asleep at the station house or getting their morning coffee. If I got pulled over I would (a) lose the driver in the red car, (b) get a hefty summons, and (c) be exposed as being dressed only in pajamas. I sped up and was now tailgating the red car, still unable to identify anyone at the wheel.
We approached the light at the Saw Mill and the red car surprised me by blowing right by the highway and driving straight, heading down the hill toward the next light and the center of Ardsley, the town next to Dobbs Ferry. I stayed with whoever it was, in the center lane, until the driver took a sharp right and headed toward the thruway. We headed south on the thruway, and the red car blew through the toll plaza’s E-ZPass lane, not slowing down (as recommended) to the fifteen miles an hour posted. I did the same, not noticing the state trooper waiting for me on the shoulder.
I heard the trooper before I actually saw him. I had just passed the exit for Home Depot when I heard the sirens and looked in my rearview mirror. The red car sped up and pulled out of sight in that instant and I realized that the jig was up, so to speak. I drove a bit past the exit, slowed down, and pulled over onto the shoulder, banging my head on the steering wheel. “Stupid.” I realized that my cell phone was still on the passenger seat and that Crawford might still be on it. I picked it up while I waited for the trooper who sat in his car, probably running my plate. “Crawford?”
“Yes?” he said, preternaturally calm. “Is that you, Lucy?” he asked, doing his best Desi Arnaz impression. Not funny.
“I just got pulled over.”
“Big surprise.” I could hear him sighing over the lousy connection. “NYPD or State?”
“State.”
“You’re dead,” he said. “The only trooper I know retired last year. Where are you?”
“Stew Leonard’s.” I looked in my mirror again and saw the trooper sitting in the front seat, looking down. I could feel the sob starting in my chest and took a couple of deep