“We’re screwed,” J.T. says.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” I hiss.
It’s the cops. A dark two-toned sedan, headlights wigwagging and blue lights whirling on a bar across the roof, pulls up two car lengths behind us. I see a huge emblem painted across the hood, all eagles and flags. It says Newton Police.
“J.T. Right now. Put down your camera. Put it on the floor of the backseat. And close your window, except for just a crack.”
“But-” J.T. begins. There’s enough light for me to recognize the fear in J.T.’s eyes. And mine must certainly mirror his expression of alarm. Is it us they’re after? Or something-or someone-else?
“Do it. The windows. The cops can’t see us inside.”
I yank my focus back to the garage as I feel J.T. lift the camera over the front seat and lay in on the floor. The rolling metal door is on the way down, almost closed. That’s the end of getting video of whatever they’re doing inside. I mentally cross my fingers for the hidden cameras. And for our story. And for J.T. and me. Although we’re not the ones doing anything wrong.
The garage door hits bottom. Its metallic slam on the concrete below clangs across the street. No-Hat certainly knows the cops are here. Question is, does he know about us?
Not a move comes from the police car. The siren is now off, but the whirling blue lights blast unnatural indigo shadows through scrawny municipal trees and onto snow-spotted front yards. I see a light pop on in a house next door to the garage, a fragment of motion barely visible behind a gauzy curtain.
“What if they’re coming to arrest the garage people? To take down No-Hat and his pals?” I whisper. “What if they’re busting this whole operation, right in front of us?”
That would be a horrendous disaster. Except I suppose there might be one tiny silver lining. “I guess we’d have exclusive video of the raid, at least. Still, that would-”
“Suck,” J.T. says.
I smile, despite my thudding heart, thinking for a fraction of a second about Josh. Safe at home.
“Exactly,” I say.
Back to the cops. Nothing. Then a light flips on inside the car. Through the windshield, I can make out two uniformed officers in the front seat. One is talking into a radio. No other police cars arrive. Maybe it’s not a raid?
Still, this is grim. And, if you like irony, I suppose it’s kind of funny. Our surveillance of the bad guys is getting ruined by the good guys.
I untie the belt of my black coat, struggling out of the sleeves. Then twisting over the back of the seat, I cover the camera with the dark wool, like a blanket. Now it’s invisible. Now we’re a man and a woman sitting in a car on a public street. No biggie. Which reminds me, fleetingly, of Penny. Safe at home.
J.T. and I have to play this out. But I’m not quite sure how.
“We can’t tell them what we’re doing,” J.T. begins. Then, eyes widening, he points out his window. One door of the police car opens, then slams. Then the other. “Uhoh. What should we-?”
J.T.’s question is interrupted by two beams of white light, crisscrossing in the murky darkness.
Flashlights. And behind them, the still-shadowy but obviously determined figures of two uniformed police officers. Cops on a mission. Their booted strides are confident as I watch their high beams play across sidewalks and front lawns and onto our car. Through our windows. The good news? They’re not headed for the garage. The bad news? They’re coming for us.
“We’re not doing anything wrong, remember that,” I whisper, touching the arm of J.T.’s leather jacket. “Let me handle this.”
Footsteps crunch on frozen grass. Coming closer. A beam of light glints on the hatchback. It crosses the roof of our car. And then, there’s a sharp rap on J.T.’s window.
J.T. turns to me, his eyes questioning.
There’s no time to explain it to him, but I think I have a plan. It’s not a clever plan. Or a very original one.
“Roll down the window, honey,” I say. Batting my eyelashes, I make a little kissing motion with pouted lips. J.T.’s expression almost makes me burst out laughing. But there’s no time for that.
“Oh,” J.T. whispers. “Gotcha.”
The window buzzes down. The dark glass recedes. Revealing-nothing.
“Newton Police.” A brusque voice comes out of the darkness. “Everything all right in there?”
I know they don’t come up close to the window right away. In case you’re planning to shoot them.
“You’ve been sitting here for a while now,” the voice from behind us continues. “Neighbors were concerned.”
Nailed by Neighborhood Watch. You’re kidding me. Why don’t those folks report the people who are really doing something wrong? I flash a look at the garage. Closed and dark. Damn.
What’s making this even more complicated is the fact that No-Hat’s got to get the Explorer back to the hotel before the bar closes. What if the cops’arrival has unwittingly trapped them inside?
Go away. I send the telepathic message to the police. Go away.
“Sure, no problem, Officer,” I say. I try to make my voice sound completely innocent but somewhat embarrassed. As if we’ve been caught making out. Or whatever they call that these days. “We were just leaving.”
One officer takes a step forward, possibly because we haven’t a pulled a gun on them. He holds his flashlight high, aiming it so he can see inside. Now we can see him, too. His gold-and-black plastic name tag is embossed Ofcr. Solano. His fifty-something face is round as tonight’s hide-and-seek moon. Every part of it-chin, hairline, eyebrows-is receding.
He points the flashlight directly at J.T. J.T. holds one hand up, shielding his eyes, instantly on the defense.
“We’re only talking,” J.T. says. Very man-to-man. “Me and my girlfriend. You know how it is.”
The flashlight shines on me. “Ma’am?”
“Yes?” I say. I put my hand up to block the flare of light as well as cover my face a bit. Then I look down, going for demure. I hope he doesn’t notice I don’t have a coat on. Or maybe that’ll play right into our love deception. “Are we doing something wrong? I’m so sorry.”
Officer Solano is gesturing “come closer” to someone else. I hear more footsteps. Then he turns his attention-and his flashlight-back to us. “May I ask why you were taking pictures? Lady across the street saw your camera. Called 911.”
Busted.
I lean back into the beam of light, defeated. Might as well get this over with, quick as possible. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. It’s bad enough that we’ve lost our view into the garage. But No-Hat and his crew are no doubt watching this shakedown. If they recognize me, or figure out we’re TV, the whole cloning operation will shut down faster than you can say no comment.
“Officer? I’m-”
“Charlie McNally! Hey, I’m a big fan.” Cop number two is at our window, leaning his elbows on the door and grinning as if I’m the prize in a scavenger hunt. “I’m Hal Harker. Used to be in vice. Remember when we worked on the-hey, what are you guys really doing here? You’re not makin’ out. Hey. You working a big story? What are you guys really doing?”
Music comes from the floor by my feet.
It’s the theme from Charlie’s Angels.
Harker stops, midsentence. Then he grins, brandishing a thumbs-up as he recognizes the tune.
And finally, I get a really good idea.
“McNally,” I say, almost before I flip the phone open. I know it’s Franklin, but the cops don’t. Smiling conspiratorially, I hold up one finger, signaling “wait.” Franklin begins talking. I talk right over him.
“We’re in the wrong place?” I say, feigning disappointment into the phone. “It’s the other Rantoul Street? The one in Lawrence? That’s ridiculous. You have got to be kidding.”