Ramsey shrugged. “You know. I told them what’s what and to never darken our doors again…for six months. But I was tough when I said it, plus, I gave them the eye.”
“Show me the eye.”
Ramsey did.
“You’re squinting.”
“I’m working on the eye.”
Paul gave her the eye. One caterpillar eyebrow curved slightly higher than the other. Frosty blue eyes turned glacial but only one narrowed. This was accompanied by an almost imperceptible tightening of his plump lips.
“Hold that,” said Ramsey. She dug in her back pocket for her phone and took a picture. She could hardly believe he stood still for it, but then he was funny that way. “Got it. It will inspire me.”
“Uh-huh. I better not see it blown up to poster size and hanging in the lunch room.”
“Damn, but you’re good, Paul. How’d you know?”
“I knowyou.” He stepped out of the doorway and waved her to pass. “Next time, Ramsey, at least call in the parents. And calling the cops isn’t out of line, especially when you haven’t mastered the eye.”
“I was on my way to find the dad of one of the girls when you stopped me. He’s in bikes with his son if I haven’t missed him. Besides, the police were here two times this morning. Camping equipment and a 55-in 4HD television. Do I need to remind you who caught the guy walking out of the Ridge with a tent, camp stove, two lanterns, six weenie forks, and a bag of marshmallows? Uh-huh.” She batted her long sable eyelashes. “That wasmoi. We can let cosmetics and duct tape slide for now, can’t we?”
Paul sighed heavily and indicated the open doorway again. “Go. Just go.”
2
Sullivan Day was havinga hard time staying awake, and he was wishing he hadn’t volunteered to pull the double. Randy Facemire had offered to do it, but then he got a call from his wife saying one of the kids was sick and she really needed him at home. Randy could have probably used the overtime pay, Sullivan thought, but Randy was a family man. Money always took a backseat to his wife and kids. Dave Stubbins had also volunteered for the extra shift. Apparently Dave’s wife didn’t care if he ever came home, at least until he made enough to buy her the new car she wanted. The chief sent him home anyway and told him to get a loan. “Looks like you’re up, Sully,” the chief said, and that was that.
It was not the time for him to remind Chief Bailey that he did not like to be called Sully. The chief was getting a little of his own back after last night’s poker game when he was the big loser and Sullivan was the beneficiary of his losses. Sullivan figured the chief would have found a way to double his rotation even if he hadn’t volunteered, which was precisely why he had. There was some satisfaction in taking a little bit of wind out of Bailey’s sails. The man pulled rank, which could be forgiven since he’d earned it, but he was also a lousy poker player, which could never be excused.
So here Sullivan was, shifting uncomfortably in his patrol car, working the taut muscles in his neck and back, stretching as much as he was able, yawning widely enough to crack his jaw, and blinking furiously to keep from drifting off. No problem staying awake when he patrolled, but nabbing speeders and writing tickets? He yawned again. He had never clocked anyone at ninety on this stretch of highway, no matter what Mrs. Burnside and her coffee club cronies claimed at city council.
This five mile section of West Virginia four lanes between Pennsylvania and Ohio was a short stretch on the heroin highway, and the drivers transporting smack, oxy, and fentanyl tended to be careful and stay well within the speed limit. Broken taillights, expired inspection stickers, and mud-covered license plates got them pulled over; suspicious behavior got them searched.
Sullivan checked his rearview mirror, adjusted his Oakley sunglasses, then shifted his attention to the radar gun when a car passed him. The driver slowed immediately upon catching a glimpse of the Clifton patrol car.
Seventy-two. Not worth the gas or the hassle. He settled back into his seat and stretched his long legs, careful to avoid the pedals. He checked his watch. Seven on the dot. He’d be off in a few more hours, making way for his replacement on the midnight shift. He took off his sunglasses to clean them and had to drop the visor as the lowering orange ball of a sun nearly blinded him. He almost missed the equally bright cardinal red Mercedes SL550 roadster streaking by him in the passing lane. The gun said eighty-seven. He put on his sunglasses, turned on his lights, and pulled out.
The Benz didn’t slow until it approached the next exit. Sullivan wasn’t sure if the driver saw him in the rearview yet. The convertible’s hardtop top was up; there was no way to tell if the driver was male or female, but Sullivan bet she was female. He hit the siren once, twice, and saw the roadster’s brake lights come on in earnest. The driver extended an arm out the window, a long, lean arm that Sullivan decided could only be feminine, to indicate she was aware of his presence.
There was not enough room on the off-ramp’s shoulder to safely pull over. She pointed ahead to a gas station-convenience store, turned right at the end of the ramp, and right again into the station’s parking lot. He pulled up behind her. When she turned off the engine, he got out of the car and approached on the passenger side. The roadster’s hardtop began to retract and he waited beside the trunk until it finished folding into place.
Yes, definitely female. There was a certain satisfaction in winning that bet with himself. Her hair, and from what he could tell she had a considerable lot of it, was piled and pinned rather lopsidedly on her head. Loose tendrils brushed the back of her long neck. The lowering sun highlighted copper streaks in the thick sweep of sable. She was looking for him on the driver’s side so when he knuckle-rapped the passenger side door, she started in surprise then swiveled her head on that long neck to stare up at him.
Behind his Oakleys, Sullivan blinked twice. “Oh, Jeez, it’s you.”
“You just stepped on my line.” Ramsey kept her hands on the steering wheel. “License is in my wallet, which is in the glove box along with my registration and my gun. You can get them yourself.”
“You own a gun?”
“Uh-huh.”
He looked at the empty passenger seat. “And you don’t own a purse?”
“I own plenty of purses. I don’t carry one when I work.” She turned her head and regarded him suspiciously. “I thought the fashion police were a myth. Guess not. Are you undercover?”
“You’re pissing me off, Ramsey.”
“And just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better.”
