“This bullshit,” the driver said.
“You’re welcome to think so. But I need to see your documents.”
“Or vaht?” the driver sneered.
“Or you’ll be arrested,” Carson answered.
The driver laughed. “You? Little girl like you take me to jail?” He shook his head and said something in Russian. The three of them laughed.
Carson considered her options. She wanted to rip the driver out his window, slap handcuffs on him, and take him to jail. See if that wiped the sneer off his face. But she wasn’t sure she could manage that one on one, much less if his two friends decided to jump in.
She could demand the documents again, but it was pretty plain he wasn’t going to give them up to her.
What she didn’t want to do was continue standing at the driver’s door like an idiot, so she mustered the firmest tone she could and said, “Wait here.”
He snorted, but made no move to pull away.
Carson walked back to her patrol car to get the driver’s name off the vehicle registration. As she reached her door, another patrol car cruised up next to her. The driver engaged his overhead take-down lights and aimed his spotlight on the gold Honda. The passenger window descended. Carson leaned in and was surprised to see that Battaglia was alone.
He must have read the question in her eyes, because he immediately said, “Sully got sick and went home.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s Irish,” Battaglia said with a shrug, as if that should explain everything. “Whattaya got?”
Carson motioned toward the Russian driver. “He’s being difficult.”
Battaglia’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”
She nodded. “He won’t give me his name, reg, or insurance. Says he wasn’t speeding, so I don’t have the right to ask.”
Battaglia pursed his lips and said nothing.
Carson swallowed and spoke quickly. “Of course, I know he has to, but instead of getting into a fight right away, I figured I’d check the registration and see if that turns up his name. Maybe once he knows I already know, he’ll be more cooperative.”
“Maybe,” Battaglia said doubtfully.
“If not, he’s going to jail,” Carson said.
“Yeah, huh?” Battaglia gave her an approving nod. “Not taking any shit? Good for you.”
Carson felt a twinge of gratitude for the support.
“You want another car here?” he asked.
Good officer safety tactics clearly dictated that Carson should have a third officer present, just in case the passengers got squirrely. But she also knew that there was the academy way and there was the way it rolled on the street. She’d never lose respect doing things the academy way, but she’d never make her bones, either.
“I think we’ll be fine,” she told Battaglia. She tried to appear casual, but she was glad that he’d let her make the call.
Battaglia shrugged. He turned his attention to the threesome in the car. Carson left his window and slid into her driver’s seat. A message was waiting on the mobile data terminal on the console. She pushed the “read” button and a message from the dispatcher appeared, consisting solely of the vehicle registration.
Carson smiled. One thing she’d learned early on about the dispatchers was that they definitely took care of their officers, in large ways and small. She scrolled down the registration information; the legal and registered owner was William J. Bryan, with an address in nearby Cheney. She scowled. Bryan didn’t sound much like a Russian name, but maybe-
She scrolled down a little further and saw the words “report of sale,” followed by the date of June 10.
She sighed. That meant Mr. Bryan sold the car back in June and notified the Department of Licensing of that sale. Unfortunately, the new owner hadn’t transferred the registration into his own name yet. Carson scoured her memory. How long did he have to do that? It was one of those two-tiered statutes that had some sort of grace period, after which there was a fine. Was that fifteen days? And when did the second time limit expire, making it a criminal offense for failure to transfer ownership?
She shot a quick glance over at Battaglia, but the veteran officer remained intent on the car in front of them. That was his job as the cover officer and she knew that they took their roles seriously on this shift.
She reached for her ticket book and removed her cheat sheet. She ran her finger over the codes, searching for the particular charge regarding ownership transfer. When she reached the bottom of the page she flipped it over and scanned the back as well.
Nothing.
Carson scowled. It had to be there. She must have missed it. She turned the paper to the front and checked once again, this time more slowly. Two thirds of the way down, she found the listing. It was an infraction after fifteen days, a misdemeanor crime after forty-five. She sighed. That meant it was only a ticket, not an arrest.
Carson stepped out of the car and leaned in Battaglia’s window. “The car has a report of sale,” she told him.
“Over forty-five days?”
She shook her head.
Battaglia shrugged. “So we pull him out and you write him some tickets, then.”
“Yeah,” Carson said. Somehow, she didn’t think it was going to be that easy.
Battaglia exited his patrol car and stood by, waiting for her to take the lead. Carson didn’t hesitate. She strode back up to the car and shined her flashlight on the sneering driver’s face.
“Step out of the car,” she said forcefully. “Now.”
The driver muttered something in Russian, but surprised her by opening the car door. Carson took a step back to allow him room. She motioned for him to follow her back to the front of the patrol car. He paused, casting her a disdainful look, but eventually followed.
Carson maneuvered into position at the side of her car while he stood at the nose. Battaglia positioned himself at the front of his own car, within two easy strides of the suspect driver.
The driver stared at Carson with cold, hard eyes.
She opened her notebook. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Why I have to tell you?” he shot back. “I no do nothing wrong.”
“Answer her,” Battaglia rumbled, “or you’re going to jail.”
The driver met Battaglia’s gaze with an unimpressed stare of his own. The two men locked into a brief battle of wills while Carson stood by, realizing that control of this stop-her stop-was slipping away from her.
She opened her mouth to ask the driver for his name again, but the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut cut her off. Recognition, followed by a wide smile, spread slowly across the driver’s face. He shouted something in Russian that sounded like a greeting.
The two passengers in the suspect vehicle exited and began walking calmly toward the driver.
“Get back in the car!” Carson called to them, but they ignored her.
She glanced at Battaglia, but he’d followed the driver’s gaze to the rear of their patrol cars.
Five white males walked toward them, approaching in a loose semicircle. A shot of fear exploded in Carson’s stomach and reverberated up into her chest. Her breath quickened.
The driver said something in Russian and one of the approaching men grunted in return. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I still going to jail, suka?”
Carson swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. She winced inwardly at how weak it sounded. “You’re under arrest for failure to cooperate. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
The driver laughed, that same sneer plastered on his face. “I think we leave now.” He turned away.
Fear pulsed through Carson’s veins, but a small patch of anger bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was the police. People were supposed to listen to what she said, and do it. She was the one with the badge and the-