cover position at the right rear quarter panel of the silver race car just like we'd all been taught to do it at the Academy.
'Hands in the air. Put 'em out the window!' I yelled at the driver, adrenaline pumping up the volume. He was alone in the car.
'Okay, okay. Hold your water, dude,' the man said. He poked his hands out the window holding the car keys, then dropped the keys to the pavement. He'd done this drill before.
'Okay, out of the car,' I instructed.
He opened the gull wing door on the expensive Mercedes and stepped out. He was a tall, handsome, Latino- looking guy with a tennis sweater tied around his neck. Senor Suave Bola.
'What is this, Officer?' He was the very picture of innocence.
'What's your name?' I barked.
'Enrico Palomino.' No accent; no attitude. He could easily have joined the group of UCLA students driving by, staring at us.
'Let's see some ID.'
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his driver's license, and handed it to me. Enrico Jorge Palomino. He was twenty-six and lived in Van Nuys on Woodman. I knew from two years working patrol in the Valley that Woodman was in a blue-collar neighborhood.
'Whose car is this?'
'It belongs to a friend, Wade Wyatt, okay? You can call him. I've got his cell. He lets me borrow it. I had a hot date. UCLA girl. Just dropped her off.'
'Of course, that's total bullshit because I just saw you racing this thing at close to a hundred miles an hour up on Mulholland.'
'I don't think so. Must've been another car that looks like this one.'
'It's a half-million-dollar McLaren,' Secada said, still standing in a cover-fire position with her gun drawn. 'There aren't ten of those in the entire United States. Come up with something else.'
He held out his hands and smiled.
'Okay, okay. Look, can you guys put the guns away? It's a little frightening.'
I reholstered my weapon. Secada lowered hers but kept it at the ready.
'Keep talking,' I said. 'I wanta hear the real story.'
'Maybe you could cut me some slack, Officer.' He smiled again. 'Would that be too much to ask?'
'Why would I do that, Mr. Palomino?'
'Professional courtesy,' he said.
'Professional what?'
'Can I reach into my pocket? I want to show you something.'
I glanced at Scout. She looked puzzled, too, but finally nodded.
'Okay,' I said. 'Go slow.'
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out another wallet. This was thick and black, like the ones detectives carry. Then he opened it and showed me a beautiful gold and porcelain engraved police badge and ID card.
'What's this?' Scout asked.
'My credentials. I'm with the North Van Nuys Transit Authority Police,' he said. 'I work closely with Homeland Security.'
'Transit Authority Police,' I said, and looked over again at Scout.
'Is that anything like the Disneyland Police?' she deadpanned.
'It's an actual police department,' Rico said. 'I'm sure, as brother officers, we can work something out.'
'Just a minute. Stand right there,' I said.
I led Scout back to the Caddie and handed her the badge. 'Look at this.'
She examined the gold shield. It was expensive and well made. Across the top was inscribed, north van nuys transit authority p. D. The credentials in the glassine pocket read, enrico jorge palomino, commissioner of police.
'What's with this?' Secada said. 'This weasel's only twenty-six and he's already a P. C.? I wasn't figuring to make commissioner until I was at least fifty.'
'You ever hear of these guys?'
She shook her head. 'Lemme check.' She got in the car and picked up the rover mike.
I watched Rico Palomino standing next to Wyatt's car, looking cool and confident. I was trying to understand why Wade Wyatt would let this guy drive his super-rare, half-million-dollar car at breakneck speed down Mulholland, risking its destruction. Then it hit me. Actually, it was pretty obvious. The car was undoubtedly insured and they were betting high stakes on the outcome of the road races. That meant Enrico Palomino was probably the best street racer Wade knew.
Scout got out of the car and handed the badge back to me. 'It's legit. A small, transit police department, located in North Van Nuys, chartered and registered.' She bit her lip. 'What do you wanta do?'
'I don't care about citing this guy for reckless driving, but something isn't right. Let's turn him loose and check this out.'
'Okay with me,' she said.
I walked over and handed Rico back his expensive badge. 'Okay, Commissioner,' I said, almost choking on the words. 'Sorry for the inconvenience. You have a nice night.'
He smiled, unable to hide a tinge of entitlement. He took the credentials and got back behind the wheel of the McLaren. Then he pulled out and drove slowly up Sunset, disappearing like a silver ghost in the dense coastal fog.
Chapter 16
It was well after midnight by the time we drove back to Bel Air. I dropped Scout at her car, which was parked on Madrono, two blocks from the Wyatt estate. We agreed to meet for breakfast in the morning. In the meantime I intended to find out more about the North Van Nuys Transit Authority. If I could get an address I would run over there in the morning and check it out.
She got out of the Caddie, but hesitated before saying goodbye. 'Listen, I agreed to do this stakeout with you because we weren't gonna touch anything, just watch. But we ended up pulling another guy over and drawing our guns. A police commissioner, yet.'
'We must be good,' I said. 'We're peeling an onion here. I want these guys.'
'My grandmother used to tell me an old Mexican story about that,' she said. 'It's about wanting too much.'
'Oh, boy.'
'The way the story goes, this little boy is on a beach and finds an oyster with a huge pearl the size of a robin's egg inside. He shows it to the village elders, and they know it will feed and clothe the town for years. But there is a tiny, dark spot on the side.
They call the pearl doctor, who comes from another village and examines the treasure. He says he can sand the pearl and maybe the spot goes away, but maybe it gets bigger, making the pearl less valuable. The townspeople tell the pearl doctor to sand the pearl. But as he sands, the spot gets bigger. Now the pearl doctor explains that with more sanding the spot might get smaller again and the value of the pear will be restored. They decide to keep sanding until it's worth only a few pesos as pearl dust. They ended up with nothing.'
'What's your point?'
'That's what this case feels like. It started with a murder over a six-pack of beer, but things didn't seem right. A tiny dark spot. We've been sanding and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger. And now we're in major trouble and if we're not careful, we're both gonna end up getting sacked with nothing to show for it.'
'Except we aren't after money, we're after truth,' I reminded her. 'Didn't you tell me just yesterday that you gotta take on the shitty ones a case at a time?'
