Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.
“At least he uses his blinker,” I said.
“Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?”
We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.
“This is good,” I said.
Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.
I said, “You don’t have to do this. He’s my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble.”
“Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective.”
“And less paperwork.”
“And less paperwork,” said Sanchez. “Wait here.”
35.
I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez’s face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.
Sanchez said something and Peterson reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV’s hood.
I watched intently.
Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson’s feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard the thump from here. Peterson’s sunglasses fell from his face.
Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, twisted Peterson’s arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman’s wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds, faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed his gun and pointed it at Peterson’s chest.
Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez walked him back to the vehicle.
And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child molester.
He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took off my shades and turned around.
“Hi, Dick,” I said. “Dick is an acceptable variant of Richard, am I correct?”
Recognition dawned on Peterson’s red and sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. “It’s you. The detective. What the fuck is going on?”
I turned to Sanchez. “Do you want me to quiet him up for the ride out?”
“Go ahead, I’m tired of hearing him already.”
I stepped out of the front seat, opened the back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply across the temple, snapping his head around.
Dazed, he didn’t go unconscious, but it sure shut him up.
I turned and headed toward the Escalade.
“Follow me,” I said to Sanchez.
I followed a street called Carbon Canyon through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.
I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn’t use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping, and now this.
We were now following a small creek, and when we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.
Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside. With Sanchez’s help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek, hissing and steaming.
The vehicle was totaled.
“Damn shame,” said Sanchez.
“Yep.”
36.
“Let him go,” I said to Sanchez.
Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his voice, along with much nastiness.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked.
“You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?”
He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. “You can’t prove any of it,” he said, still looking down. He might have considered bolting if he wasn’t still dazed.
“I’m not here to prove anything.”
“So what’s going on? You want money to keep everything quiet?”
Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the fender of his vehicle.
“No,” I said. “You have been tried and found guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow you to defend yourself.”
“It’s two against one, hardly fair.”
“My compatriot is here for entertainment purposes only.”
“Compatriot?” said Sanchez.
“Yeah.”
Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly. Sweat was on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.
“You’re bigger than me.”
“I’m bigger than most.”
“Not me,” said Sanchez.
“We’re even,” I said to Sanchez. “Besides, we’ve already had this argument before, which is why I said most.”
I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson again.
“No running,” said Sanchez.
“You didn’t give your children a chance to run, did you?” I asked. “When you beat them or forced yourself on
