“Here we go, girl!” I called to Brigit. I flipped on my lights and siren and eased into the crosswalk. Vehicles were not technically supposed to cross over on the pedestrian lane, but as a cop I was exempt, of course. The only problem was all of the college students who were in the way.
The young man driving the Accord floored the gas pedal and ran the red light, forcing students to dash out of the way or be run over. The college kids scurried to the curbed median to let me through, and I took off in hot pursuit of the Accord.
Grabbing my mic from the dash, I cried, “Backup needed! In pursuit of armed robbery suspects heading north on University Drive at Princeton Street.”
That all-too-familiar male voice came back. “Officer Mackey responding.”
Damn!
I pursued the car north past the cross streets of Cantey, McPherson, and Park Hill. My eyes spotted Derek’s patrol car sitting up ahead at the Colonial Parkway intersection. He pulled into the lane as the Accord approached. Mackey attempted to force the Accord over, but the driver pulled an evasive maneuver, braking and circling around the back of his cruiser.
The three of us rocketed over the bridge spanning the Trinity River. Just after the bridge, the Accord made a sudden left onto Collinsworth—screeeeee!—the excessive speed temporarily taking the car up on two wheels. An oncoming Suburban swerved to keep from hitting the Accord. Unfortunately, the driver overcompensated when trying to correct and ended up spinning out in the middle of the intersection—a three-ton metal whirligig, slamming into a silver Dodge Avenger and sending it careening across the road.
With the intersection blocked and potential injuries suffered, I feared we’d have to abort our pursuit. Fortunately, however, one of the evening-shift officers approached from the north and contacted us via radio. “I’ll take care of this mess. You two go get those bastards.”
Derek wove his way through the glass and metal debris, and I followed along on his bumper, continuing westbound on Collinsworth.
My eyes scanned the area, looking for the car on the road or abandoned in a parking lot, the men fleeing on foot. I saw nothing until we approached an automated, conveyer-driven car wash. The back end of the Accord disappeared behind a veil of soapy water as it proceeded into the bay.
Nice try, guys. You can run, but you can’t hide. Your crime spree is over now.
I grabbed my mic again. “Mackey! They pulled into the car wash.”
Ahead of me, Derek whipped into the lot. “I’ll take the exit,” he said over the radio. “You made sure they don’t try to back out the front.”
Dammit, again! Obviously, the officer at the exit would be the one to nail the suspects. A Cadillac coupe had followed the Accord into the car wash. There was no way they’d be able to back up. Still, as frustrated as I was, my duty had to come before my pride.
While Derek drove around to the exit, I parked my cruiser sideways across the entrance to prevent anyone else from entering the bay. I opened the back door to let Brigit out. If the men attempted to flee on foot once the car emerged at the exit, her services could come in handy. “Come on, girl.”
She hopped down, her tail wagging as if she were looking forward to a chase.
As Brigit and I stood there, I began to fume. When Derek and I had been partners, he’d always made me do the grunt work, forced me frisk suspected drug dealers and risk the needle prick, ordered me to get out in the rain to write traffic tickets, left me to wrangle the drunk and disorderly suspects while he stood by laughing when one of them threw a fist at me or puked on my shoes. Once again, I would do the bulk of the work and Derek would get the credit.
Or would he?
Maybe I could get a worker to stop the machines so that Brigit and I could enter from the front and nab the suspects as they sat in the car.
Next to the bay was a door marked OFFICE set in the cinder block wall. I hurried over, Brigit trotting along with me. I peered through the narrow glass panel at the top of the door but saw nobody inside. I knocked anyway, but saw no movement inside. Is the attendant outside somewhere? I hurriedly glanced around but saw no one.
Surely there was an emergency shutoff switch somewhere. I led Brigit back to the entrance. I found a box mounted on the left wall that looked promising. Unfortunately, a key was required to open it. I toyed briefly with the idea of smashing it with my baton, but decided against it, realizing the property damage would be difficult to justify.
Undeterred, I decided to head into the bay on foot. The brushes and pads should be easy enough to avoid if I stuck to the side wall. All I risked was getting a little bit wet. Right?
I wrapped Brigit’s leash tight around my hand. “Come on, girl. We’re going in.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
This Ain’t No Dog Wash
Brigit
Oh, hell no. If Megan thought Brigit would voluntarily go into a car wash she must be smoking catnip.
Brigit sat on her haunches, dug in her heels, and pulled back on the leash with all the force she could muster.
“Come on!” her partner demanded.
Still Brigit resisted. She realized doing so would mean her partner would be stingy with the liver treats for a while and that she might renege on that spoonful of peanut butter, but the dog would deal with it.
“All right,” Megan spat. “Have it your way.” She quickly tied Brigit’s leash to the door handle of the cruiser, turned, and ran into the car wash.
Yep, definitely on the catnip.
Chapter Twenty-Four
A Clean Getaway
The Switchman
As the soapy water rained down and the big blue brushes rolled over the car, the Switchman’s gut puckered with guilt and disgrace, shame and self-loathing, terror and regret. He’d wanted to see where this new bold course would take him, but if they got caught it would take him to jail—the last place he wanted to go.
Last week when Grant had looked him in the eye, flashed that arrogant grin, and asked whether he, too, thought Serena’s appendix scar was oddly sexy, something inside him had snapped. That bastard had defiled the woman he loved. The woman he thought loved him back. For that he must suffer.
Only Grant hadn’t suffered. Instead, he’d jerked his head back before the Switchman could land a single punch. The Switchman had never felt so furious, so betrayed, so frustrated and powerless.
Sure, he’d wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t the pushover everyone thought him to be, that he could be wild and reckless and tough and dangerous. But as he sat trapped in the stolen foam-covered car, listening to the sound of the sirens as the cops pulled into the parking lot, he wished he could go back in time and undo everything he’d done today.
It had all been a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake.
And now all three of them would have to face the music.
Or would they?
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Brush with Death
Megan
The blue brush swung down from the ceiling, the bristles whipping against me, threatening to rip my skin from my body. I’d thought I’d be able to sneak along the wall, but the margin was much smaller than I’d anticipated, only six inches or so. There’d been no way to avoid the deluge of bubble-gum scented foam that nearly blinded me, the long hanging cloths that bitch-slapped me from both the left and right, and the high-pressure undercarriage spray that blasted me from below, going right up my nose.
Dear God, this was a stupid idea! Brigit had been right to refuse to come into the car wash.