Trace by Patricia Cornwell

up is the chief, I can't remember his name, asked her help in a case, some kid, a girl, who suddenly died and he can't figure out why. His office can't, so no big surprise. He's not even been there four months, and he washes his hands of the first big problem and calls my aunt. Hey, how about you coming on up and stepping in this shit so I don't have to. Right? I told her not to touch it and now it seems there are other problems. Huge surprise. I don't know. I told her not to go back to Richmond, but she doesn't listen to me."
         "Listens to you about like you listen to her," Rudy says.
         "You know something, Rudy. I don't like this guy." Lucy looks in her rearview mirror, at the unmarked Ford.
         It is still on her bumper, and its driver is a dark-skinned person, perhaps a man, but Lucy can't tell and she doesn't want to seem interested in him or even aware of him, and then something else occurs to her.
         "Damn, I'm stupid," she says, incredulous. "My radar's not going off. What am I thinking? It hasn't made a chirp since that car pulled in behind us. It's not a police car with radar. It can't be. And he's following us."
         "Easy," Rudy says. "Just drive and ignore him. Let's see what he does. Probably just some dude looking at your car. That's what you getfor driving cars like this. I've told you and told you. Shit."
         Rudy didn't used to lecture her. When they first met years ago at the FBI Academy, they became colleagues, then partners, then friends, and then he thought enough of her personally and professionally to leave law enforcement not long after she did and come work for her company, which might be described as an international private investigation firm for lack of a better definition of what The Last Precinct or its employees do. Even some of the people who work for TLP don't know what it does and have never met its founder and owner, Lucy. Some employees have never met Rudy, or if they have, they don't know who he is or what he does.
         "Run the plate," Lucy says.
         Rudy has his palm-size computer out and he is logging on, but he can't run the plate number because he can't see it. The car has no license plate in front, and Lucy feels stupid for ordering him to run a number he can't see.
         "Let him get in front of you," Rudy says. "I can't see his plate unless he gets in front."
         She touches the left paddle and drops to second gear. Now she is going five miles below the speed limit, and the driver stays behind her. He doesn't seem interested in passing her.
         "Okay, let the games begin," she says. "You're fucking with the wrong chicken, asshole." She suddenly turns a hard right into a strip mall parking lot.
         "Oh shit. What the hell. . . ? Now he knows you're messing with him," Rudy says in annoyance.
         "Get the plate now. You should be able to see it."
         Rudy twists around in the seat, but he's not going to get the plate because the Ford LTD has turned off too, and is still on their tail, following them through the parking lot.
         "Stop," Rudy says to Lucy. He is disgusted with her, completely disgusted with her. "Stop the car right now."
         She eases on the brake and shifts the car into neutral, and the Ford stops right behind her. Rudy gets out and walks toward it as the driver's window rolls down. Lucy has her window open, her pistol in her lap, and she watches the activity in her side-view mirror and tries to chase away her feelings. She feels stupid and embarrassed and angry and slightly afraid.
         "You got a problem?" she hears Rudy say to the driver, definitely a Hispanic male, a young one.
         "Me have a problem? I was just looking."
         "Maybe we don't want you looking."
         "It's a free country. I can fucking look. You have the problem, fuck you!"
         "Go look somewhere else. Now get the hell out of here," Rudy says without raising his voice. "You