?What?s your name??
?I don?t want to give my name,? Nikki said. ?I?m afraid of the drug dealers. I want to remain anonymous.? She hung up.
Years ago her family had rigged up a switchboard for just such calls. To the police dispatcher it would appear as if the call came from a pay phone three blocks away. It was less suspicious to use the pay phone than for no number at all to appear to the dispatcher. Also, by saying the person in the car was a drug dealer, the cops were more likely to approach the sedan with caution. They might even search it. In any event, it would get rid of the sedan at least temporarily.
From her upstairs window, Nikki kept watch. In the brief flashes of lightning, she could almost make out somebody sitting in the driver?s seat. She watched until the red-and-blue lights appeared at the end of her street and headed for the sedan. She looked at her watch. Four minutes since she?d called.
It was nice to live in an upscale neighborhood.
* * *
Jack Sprat saw the cop car heading right for him and spat every curse word he knew in a long stream. This could drop the plan right into the toilet. The squad car pulled within a foot of Sprat?s sedan. A cop got out of the driver?s side, rain battering his yellow slicker. The cop would probably be in a pissed-off mood, having to shake him down in the thunderstorm. That?s all Sprat needed was an angry, soaked, fucking flatfoot screwing things up right before everything got started.
The cop went around back, noted his license plate. Sprat glanced at the big knife between his seat and the door. He could chuck it right into the copper?s chest, then stash the body. His hand eased toward the knife as the cop came up to the driver?s side.
The passenger door of the squad car swung open, and another cop climbed out, stood in the rain, watching Sprat. The cop?s hands were low. He might have been holding a pistol, or he might have been scratching his balls. Sprat couldn?t see.
Sprat put his hands on the steering wheel at ten and two. He didn?t have a play. The second cop could splatter him through the windshield before Sprat could even twitch. He?d have to ride this out, play nice like a normal citizen.
The first cop tapped on his driver?s-side window with the tail end of a long black flashlight. ?Sir.?
Sprat rolled the window down three inches. ?Problem, Officer??
?What are you doing around here??
Keep it simple. ?My hotel isn?t too far, but I got lost. I didn?t want to drive in the storm.? He had to shout for the cop to hear him.
?You can?t loiter. Where?s your hotel??
Sprat told him which hotel. He tried to emote harmless cooperation. He really didn?t need the cop getting suspicious, busting his balls and searching the car.
The cop pointed. ?Two blocks that way, then turn left on St. Charles. You?ll see where you are.?
?I was hoping to wait until it let up a little.?
The cop shook his head. ?Keep it slow, and you?ll be fine. There?s no traffic.?
It was no use. Any more protests, and he?d be pushing his luck. Sprat started the sedan, waved at the cop, and pulled away. He got two blocks and took out his cell phone, thumbed the speed dial as he turned onto St. Charles at ten miles per hour.
?It?s me, love,? Sprat said. ?We?re going to push it back twenty minutes.?
Mavis chattered on the other end.
?Local constabulary telling your boy to move along. I?ll swing back when they?ve cleared off. And remember not to cut the alarm until the last second. We don?t want to tip our hand.?
Sprat hung up and began the long, slow circle back to the Cornwall mansion.
