attached.
“Where is it?” Herb asked.
“On the floor, behind my seat.”
Herb took a glance at his expansive waistline, then at me. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t reach that.”
“Pretend it’s a big box of cupcakes.”
“What kind of cupcakes?”
The light ahead of me turned red, but I blew through it anyway, narrowly missing a sideswipe by an overeager bus driver.
“Recline your seat,” I told him, swerving around the bus. The Cadillac was long out of sight, but I knew where the storage place was. Worst case, we’d get there two, maybe three minutes behind him.
Herb pulled the lever and his seat immediately snapped backward. “I can see the siren,” he said. “I think I can reach it.”
He made a strange grunting sound, sort of like an elephant trumpeting, as he stretched behind me for the light. I turned into oncoming traffic to pass some idiot driving the speed limit and following the rules of the road.
“Got it.” Herb blew out a big breath. “Whew. Got any Gatorade?”
“Now sit up and attach it to my roof,” I said, inching the Nova up to forty-five.
“Sit what now?”
“Up, Herb. Haven’t you ever watched those shows about those morbidly obese people who haven’t gotten out of bed in five years?”
“Those shows make me hungry.”
Herb had the siren cradled in his prodigious lap. I had ten white knuckles on the steering wheel and couldn’t pull them off to help him.
“Come on, partner,” I urged. “Crank down the window—”
“You have manual windows? When was this car made, during the Depression?”
“—and stick the cherry on my roof. You can do it.”
There was heaving. Grunting. Swearing. And labored, strangled breathing which—if witnessed by a doctor—would have resulted in the crash cart being wheeled over, stat. But somehow Herb managed to get that window open.
“Good work. Now sit up and stick it on the roof.”
“You’re driving too fast. I can’t get the seat up.”
“Come on, Herb. You can do this. Say it. Believe it.”
“Okay.”
“You can do this.”
“I can do this.”
“You got it.”
“I got it.”
“You’re the man.”
“I. Am. The man.”
Herb held the cherry out the window, then immediately dropped it outside. I checked my rearview and watched it bounce off the street, where it splintered into a million little red and blue pieces.
“I owe you a siren,” Herb said.
I frowned. “I never even got to try it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call Starsky and Hutch and get you a new one.”
I turned onto Fullerton, seeing that Dalton’s Cadillac was already parked across from the storage place. I hit the brakes right next to the building.
“Put in your earpiece,” I told Herb, screwing my Bluetooth into my ear. “Guard the exit unless I call for help.”
Herb managed to sit up and he nodded, reaching for his pocket. I exited the car and ran into the storage building. The same watchman was there, feet up on his small desk, eyeballs sewn onto the TV screen. I banged on his bulletproof glass.
“Police. Buzz me in.”
“Got a warrant?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.
“Open the goddamn door, pinhead!”
He buzzed me in. I hurried to the elevator, saw it was on the third floor. Once again I trudged up the stairs, tugging out my Colt, feeling a weird sort of déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu at all because I had actually done this before, earlier today.
“Where are you?” Herb, in my ear.
“Coming up on the third floor,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Check out his car. See if there’s anything in it. Be discreet.”
By discreet I meant don’t get caught inside without a warrant .
I stopped at the doorway, crouched, and went through low. First I looked left, and saw John Dalton standing four yards away, hands at his sides, looking at me. His expression was neutral, his stance relaxed. I kept my gun aimed at the floor.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve been expecting
“Where is it?” Herb asked.
“On the floor, behind my seat.”
Herb took a glance at his expansive waistline, then at me. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t reach that.”
“Pretend it’s a big box of cupcakes.”
“What kind of cupcakes?”
The light ahead of me turned red, but I blew through it anyway, narrowly missing a sideswipe by an overeager bus driver.
“Recline your seat,” I told him, swerving around the bus. The Cadillac was long out of sight, but I knew where the storage place was. Worst case, we’d get there two, maybe three minutes behind him.
Herb pulled the lever and his seat immediately snapped backward. “I can see the siren,” he said. “I think I can reach it.”
He made a strange grunting sound, sort of like an elephant trumpeting, as he stretched behind me for the light. I turned into oncoming traffic to pass some idiot driving the speed limit and following the rules of the road.
“Got it.” Herb blew out a big breath. “Whew. Got any Gatorade?”
“Now sit up and attach it to my roof,” I said, inching the Nova up to forty-five.
“Sit what now?”
“Up, Herb. Haven’t you ever watched those shows about those morbidly obese people who haven’t gotten out of bed in five years?”
“Those shows make me hungry.”
Herb had the siren cradled in his prodigious lap. I had ten white knuckles on the steering wheel and couldn’t pull them off to help him.
“Come on, partner,” I urged. “Crank down the window—”
“You have manual windows? When was this car made, during the Depression?”
“—and stick the cherry on my roof. You can do it.”
There was heaving. Grunting. Swearing. And labored, strangled breathing which—if witnessed by a doctor—would have resulted in the crash cart being wheeled over, stat. But somehow Herb managed to get that window open.
“Good work. Now sit up and stick it on the roof.”
“You’re driving too fast. I can’t get the seat up.”
“Come on, Herb. You can do this. Say it. Believe it.”
“Okay.”
“You can do this.”
“I can do this.”
“You got it.”
“I got it.”
“You’re the man.”
“I. Am. The man.”
Herb held the cherry out the window, then immediately dropped it outside. I checked my rearview and watched it bounce off the street, where it splintered into a million little red and blue pieces.
“I owe you a siren,” Herb said.
I frowned. “I never even got to try it.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call Starsky and Hutch and get you a new one.”
I turned onto Fullerton, seeing that Dalton’s Cadillac was already parked across from the storage place. I hit the brakes right next to the building.
“Put in your earpiece,” I told Herb, screwing my Bluetooth into my ear. “Guard the exit unless I call for help.”
Herb managed to sit up and he nodded, reaching for his pocket. I exited the car and ran into the storage building. The same watchman was there, feet up on his small desk, eyeballs sewn onto the TV screen. I banged on his bulletproof glass.
“Police. Buzz me in.”
“Got a warrant?” he asked, not bothering to look at me.
“Open the goddamn door, pinhead!”
He buzzed me in. I hurried to the elevator, saw it was on the third floor. Once again I trudged up the stairs, tugging out my Colt, feeling a weird sort of déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu at all because I had actually done this before, earlier today.
“Where are you?” Herb, in my ear.
“Coming up on the third floor,” I said, taking the stairs two at a time. “Check out his car. See if there’s anything in it. Be discreet.”
By discreet I meant don’t get caught inside without a warrant .
I stopped at the doorway, crouched, and went through low. First I looked left, and saw John Dalton standing four yards away, hands at his sides, looking at me. His expression was neutral, his stance relaxed. I kept my gun aimed at the floor.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’ve been expecting
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