J. Daniel Sawyer - Clarke Lantham 01 by And Then She Was Gone

blasted Rawles’s gravely cheeks ghost-white.
    “Place your hands on the top of your head and kneel on the ground.”
    My ears tried to crawl back inside my skull to hide in my head from Danville’s finest bullhorn operator. Right behind me, maybe ten feet away judging by the sound of the engine.
    Fast response time. The community policing ballot measure must have passed with flying colors last year.
    “Now! Both of you.”
    I knew the drill. I interlaced my fingers on top of my head and dropped to my knees. The kid waited just long enough so that everyone would know he was only obeying because it suited him.
    The cop’s rubber shoes scuffed out of the car and, as near as I could tell, stopped five feet behind me. His Mag Lite swept between my head and Rawles, checking to make sure we weren’t palming anything. Textbook.
    The cop said: “What’s going on here?”
    The kid flicked his eyes up to the cop and then back into the middle-distance, trying to find a good story.
    I jumped out in front of him before his brain could get in gear. “Officer, I called dispatch. My name is Clarke Lantham. I’m a licensed private investigator. There’s a woman in the guest house back there,” I nodded at the garden gate, “bleeding to death.”
    “Stand up, Mr. Lantham.” The cop shifted a few feet to my right—better cover on my dominant hand.
    “Officer, I am obligated to inform you that I am carrying a legally concealed weapon in a waistband holster.”
    Snap. The fastener around the cop’s gun butt flicked open.
    “Mr. Lantham, please move to the rear of the vehicle.”
    I rose to my feet and stepped around Rawles. I didn’t take my eyes off the kid for a minute—his face was twisted so tight it might shatter any second.
    I circled around so I was facing the hatchback. The cop knew his stuff—stayed behind me out of arm’s reach the whole way.
    “Lean forward over the car and place your hands, palms down, on the glass.”
    I did what I was told, made sure I was far enough from the car that when I bent over it put me off balance. I stepped my feet shoulder-width apart and put my hands on the hatch, one by one.
    I’d been this cop before—I wasn’t going to give him any excuse.
    “Are you carrying any other weapons or sharp objects?”
    “There’s a three-inch folding knife in my right hip pocket. My credentials and permit are in my left hip pocket.”
    I heard him shift his belt behind me. If he was going by the book, that sound would be his right hand grabbing the gun grip. He patted down my top half first, making sure I didn’t have a second weapon more accessible, then took the .357 from the small of my back.
    He swept over my crotch, legs, ankles, and thighs. Confident I was clear, he pulled my wallet out of my pocket and stepped back.
    “Stand up.”
    I pushed myself up to my feet, but didn’t turn around.
    “Clarke Lantham, 83941 Pacific, Stockton.“
    “Yes sir.”
    “Your PI license is through Alameda County.”
    “Yes sir. My office is in Oakland.” The ambulance lights rounded the corner three blocks away.
    “Hell of a commute.”
    “It’s where I can afford the rent.”
    The cop snorted, then pointed his flashlight at the kid. “What’s your story?”
    “This prick was hanging around in the bushes with a camera. When I told him to get lost, he told me he had pics of my girlfriend he’d sell to me, and if I didn’t pay him he’d put them up on the net.” Rawles pivoted so he could look the cop in the face, and took the full glare of the flashlight. Probably preferable to the floodlight.
    “Look, officer,” I risked turning around to face him. Young guy, maybe twenty-five. No insignia, so just a patrolman. “There’s a woman in there bleeding to death. Arrest me if you have to, but we have to get in there.”
    “All right, you got it. You’re under arrest on suspicion of extortion, trespassing, and aggravated assault.” I turned around and gave him my wrists—he Mirandized me