left and he knew some dipshit was trying to make a left against the light like they always did and he slid over to the right lane. He would have gotten snared up, too, but he used his lights and a couple of hits on the siren and skirted by the on the right.
“Fucking lemmings,” he said aloud and then looked up into his rearview to watch the mess and registered in his head the midnight blue pickup truck that had just run a red light half a block back. He kept driving. Maybe he ought to wait. But shit, he’d be back on shift tomorrow and that would only give him the daylight hours to get out to the Glades site and back in time, and he was even more wary about doing anything in the daylight. Only bad shit happened in the light, he thought. Right now he could stop out there and check for fresh tire tracks or signs of disturbance with a flashlight and be a hell of a lot less conspicuous.
He went through the intersection at Ninth Avenue and glanced at the old bagman starting across the street. Christ, I just busted that guy for carrying dope two weeks ago and he’s already back on the street, he thought and looked back to see for sure if it was the same guy pushing the same old grocery cart. That’s when he saw it again, the blue pickup, charging through the intersection, but then easing back. Following.
At the next light he made a hard right and watched his mirror. He saw the pickup hesitate and then make the same turn.
“Son of a bitch,” he said and slowed down, watching his mirrors, trying to see the single driver, his image behind the windshield high up over the one car between them. A minute later he snatched up his radio.
“Two-fourteen. Two-eighteen. This is two-oh-four in need of assistance. Switch over to tack channel three,” he said into the microphone.
CHAPTER 27
I sat with both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. I didn’t know what Morrison might have called in, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Make no quick moves and keep your hands in full view. I watched the three cops in front of me huddle at Morrison’s trunk, talking and cutting their eyes to me. It was Morrison’s meeting and I watched him, trying to match him up with the figure I’d seen briefly at the bar. He hooked his thumbs into his polished leather belt, turned his face to me a couple of times for emphasis. It was the same face as in the photo. They talked for a full two minutes and I did not move my hands, not even to turn off the engine.
Finally, the two other officers nodded and started toward me, one moving to the left, the other to the right of my truck. Morrison leaned back against his trunk and crossed his arms and stared into my face. His eyes felt much closer than they physically were.
“License and registration, please,” said the cop who came to my open window.
“What, uh, seems to be the problem, officer?” I said, truly interested in what they were going to come up with.
“License and registration, please,” he repeated.
The other cop was at the passenger window, looking into the seat and on the floor and checking what he could see in the bed of the truck.
“May I go into the glove box?” I asked before leaning over to turn the knob.
“Sure,” said the cop. “Turn off the ignition first, please.”
I shut down the engine and then reached in and got my registration and insurance card. I asked if I could get my wallet from my back pocket. Again he agreed, but I noticed that he had flipped off the strap on his 9mm holster and was resting the web between his thumb and forefinger on the butt of the gun.
I handed him the documentation and he said: “I’ll be right with you, sir.”
He was a younger man, sandy blonde hair and skin that was too fair for the semitropics. He was wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips and the short sleeves of his shirt were too tight to fit comfortably around his biceps. He nodded at the other one over the hood and then walked my paperwork back to Morrison.
We were a good forty feet apart and maybe I could feel his sneer more than actually see it. Morrison was