She clenched her jaw, and she pushed a stray spiral curl behind her ear.
“It’s Deputy Tancredi, not sweetheart. Get off your bike, please,” she said. “And show me some ID.”
Bass rolled his neck, the crackle of his vertebra as they popped loud in his ear, and did as he was told. He paced back and forth on the edge of the road to loosen up as she ran his license and came back with… well, him. It wasn’t a pretty read.
When she stomped back along the shoulder this time, she had her hand on her gun.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, sir,” she said. “You’ve got open warrants against you from Montana.”
Bass held up his hands, palms out and fingers relaxed. “I’ve got a gun in the small of my back,” he said. It was never a good idea to surprise a cop with a gun. “I have a license for it.”
Tancredi grabbed him by the collar and marched him over to the patrol car. Her partner had gotten out too. He was stocky and had acne scars over his jaw.
“Assume the position,” she snapped as she shoved him at the hood of the car. He did as he was told, the metal hot under his hands, and waited while she snapped on gloves. Once she was gloved up, she ran quick, practiced hands down his back and pulled the gun out from under his T-shirt. She pinched it between a blue-gloved thumb and finger as she handed it to the other deputy. “Do have any other weapons on you? Knives? Needles?”
“Pocket knife in my boot,” Bass said. He bit a growl as she kicked his feet apart. “You know, this would be a lot more fun for me if your partner did it.”
Tancredi put her hand between his shoulders and pushed him down onto the car. He grunted as she wrenched his arms back and cuffed him tightly. Then she pulled him back up and led him to the back of the car so she could push him in. At least she put her hand on top of his head so he didn’t crack it against the doorframe.
The back seat was sticky, and from the faint ripe reek, someone had puked back there recently. So it was like every other cop car someone had bundled Bass into over the years. He slouched down, tilted his head back against the seat, and closed his eyes.
“Wake me up when we get there,” he said. “If you stop for coffee on the way, I like it plain and black.”
Tancredi muttered something under breath, but Bass was already halfway to a nap—he hadn’t gotten that much sleep last night—and he didn’t bother to wake up and work it out.
THE LASTtime Bass had been in the Plenty cop shop, he was fourteen and, for once, actually innocent of the crime he’d been accused of. Not that he stuck to that for long, not once the detectives on the case beat some sense into him.
For a second he could almost hear the ringing in his ears that had hung around for a week after Detective… Peartree? Peterlee?… backhanded him with his class ring. His throat felt dry as well when he glanced toward the interview room they’d penned him in.
Jesus. He shook his head impatiently and swallowed hard. Talk about water under the bridge. It was half a lifetime ago, and by all accounts, the sheriff’s department had cleaned out most of the crooks when they took over. Besides, they’d done him a favor. If he hadn’t been routed to that money-farm juvie in Nebraska, he’d have stayed here and gotten to watch his dad rot away from failure and whiskey instead of just hearing about it.
Still. Bass turned his head and spat on the scuffed old tiles underfoot.
“Dirty bastard,” Tancredi blurted indignantly. She yanked on his arm to pull him around the corner. “You want to spend the night in jail before we check the warrants?”
“Depends on the company.” Bass swaggered along the hall, all heavy boots and confidence. That was who he was now, not some scared little petty thief.
Tancredi snorted at him and marched up to a door at the end of the hall. She rapped on it twice before she opened it and pushed Bass in ahead of her. He gritted his teeth at being manhandled, but held on to his temper as he stepped into the room.
It looked like the interview rooms here hadn’t changed much since his day. Instead of the cracked, stark-white paint he remembered, the walls were painted an industrially bland slate gray. But the heavy steel table with the soldered-in handcuff ring was the same. It smelled the same too, like bleach over old sweat.
“Agent Merlo,” Tancredi said. She closed the door behind her with the sharp click of an engaged lock. “I brought him in.”
The Fed on the other side of the scarred steel table looked up from the paperwork he had spread out in front of him. Dark eyes flickered over Bass from head to toe as he stood up.
“I see that. Uncuff him, Tancredi.”
Bass rolled his shoulders back to give her room as she unlocked the metal rings from around his wrists. They hadn’t been tight or on for that long, but Bass’s skin still itched once they were free. He brought them around in front to chafe them absently.
“I’m sorry that was necessary,” Merlo said. He extended his hand. “It’s good to see you again, Detective Sebastiani.”
Nico Sebastiani, NYPD undercover detective on secondment to the San Diego County Sheriff’s department, gripped Merlo’s hand easily.
“Better safe than sorry.” He glanced over his shoulder at Tancredi and grinned at her. “Deputy Tancredi was very convincing.”
