They pulled off the hardpan while the sky was still mostly dark, and Ace drove like an honest-to-God citizen toward the lightshow that represented the roadblock.
“Nice job on the seatbelts,” Ace said, indicating the racing webbing with the quick-release catch Sonny had installed on both front seats. He was held tight as a baby in a bundle, which was a little dangerous, because he kept imagining he could fly.
“I know you, Jasper,” Sonny said. “I got plans for us in five years.”
“Yeah? Plans?” Ace grinned, tickled. “Your last plans were a racing car and a garage—look at all it got us. What plans you got us now?”
“For one thing,” Sonny said, “we need an extra racing car. People are starting to run away from the SHO, you know that? Somethin’ in forest green, like this car, somethin’ people don’t see coming.”
Ooh…. Ace liked that idea. “That’s good,” he said, seeing the roadblock ahead and picking up speed. All them cops, drinking their coffee, leaning on cars—there had to be a dozen cars, all set up in a row like that. What absolute fun! “Maybe forest green with some gold pinstriping, you think?”
“That’s real good, Ace,” Sonny said, his hand creeping up to the oh shit! bar. “Course, blue’s a classic too. You see any of those throwing star things they use to pop tires up there?”
“Nossir,” Ace said. “I asked Jai, and he said all they had was road flares and attitude. And coffee, it looks like. You see anybody with their hand on a gun?”
“Nope,” Sonny said, fingers flexing as Ace hit the gas a little harder.
“I didn’t think so,” Ace muttered. On its mount on the dashboard, Ace’s phone started to buzz with Burton’s number. “Hit that,” he said mildly, and Sonny used one finger to do that.
“Lee?” he asked.
“Cuthbert just pulled into the station, and Eric and Brady need a distraction.”
Ace laughed, and even he had to admit it was one of the most disturbing sounds he’d ever made. “Don’t you worry now, son,” he said. “Cuthbert won’t be there long. Sonny, you got that chicken stick throttled yet?”
“Almost dead, Ace,” Sonny said, sounding breathless and happy at once. Oh yeah, he worried about Ace, but they’d come together riding cyclones through the sand in a faraway desert. A part of him was right on this apocalyptic horse with Ace, and Ace was sure glad to have him back.
“Let’s kill it,” Ace said, and the roar of the Forester’s engine had nothing to do with safety ratings of happy families and everything to do with speed.
ERIC DIDwhat Burton said and kept his Bluetooth buds in his ears, even though he felt like a complete asshole. It didn’t help that the police station was about a quarter of a mile down a long driveway, with a parking lot in front so the lobby faced the parking lot and the interstate. To stand at the counter, Eric had to have his back tothe entire world, and besides feeling like an asshole, he also felt like a sitting duck and, as he watched the complete waste of skin and oxygen at the desk try to shine him on, a failure at his profession.
“Sir,” said the night-desk sergeant, “are youpositiveit was vandals that broke the window of your car?”
“Absolutely,” Eric told him. “I could hear them talking on their phones the whole time.”
“And you’re positive this is your address?”
Desk sergeant could be an honorable position—it was the public’s first introduction to their law enforcement community, and the person who could reassure a crime victim the most when they were trying to file a complaint.
Thisparticulardesk sergeant was everything that was wrong with Brady’s entire department. He was short—although Eric wouldn’t normally hold that against him—but he carried himself with that bearing that said, “I know you are, but what am I?”
It was five thirty… erm, five forty-five in the fucking morning, and Eric had come in with a complaint of his car being vandalized in his apartment complex parking lot. And he’d used Brady’s address, so the place wasn’t a dump.
And this guy was disdainful of Eric, the public in general, and Eric’s assertion that he was filing a complaint so his insurance company could fix the damage in particular.
“I’m not even trying to get you todoanything,” Eric said bitterly, feeling a grievance building for his imaginary car and his imaginary job in LA that he was commuting to that morning. “I just want the paperwork done so my insurance company can do all the work.”
“But we haven’t even ascertained if a crime has been committed,” said the little man, hoisting his belt up over his middle-aged tummy with his thumbs.
“The vehicle is right outside,” Eric lied. This little man had no intention of looking at his imaginary car, which was too bad, because Eric had needed to beg for a paper cup of water to get the guy to leave the front desk while Brady crept in.
“Well, hold on now,” the man said, “I thought you said the car was broken?”
“I said the windows were broken, and it was spray bombed,” Eric repeated coldly.
“But if the windows were broken, how could you drive it here without breakin’ the law? I’m gonna have to cite you for driving a car—”
“SUV,” Eric corrected, because he felt like being an ass.
