He’d made a mistake. It was the only one he’d made—the only one, at least, since that beginner’s mistake, with that first woman. That one had cost him dearly; had cost him a career and a future. This one might be as bad. Would she go to the cops? Probably not, he told himself, for the hundredth time. Hookers hate cops. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. Then again, he fretted, hookers don’t fight back. And they damned sure don’t win. Don’t get away. Not from me, they don’t. But she did; she had. So clearly she wasn’t like most hookers. And even if she didn’t go to the cops, she could put the word out on the street about him, warn the others against him, and sooner or later that could circle back to bite him in the ass. If he didn’t spot her by midnight, he’d have to start asking around, loosening some lips with some cash or some crack. The girl—shit, he hadn’t even bothered to ask her street name—was a serious loose end, one that had to be tied up, fast and tight. This is not good, the voice in his head shouted again. Not good.
Behind him, a horn honked—he hadn’t noticed the light turn green—and Satterfield thrust his arm out the window and gave the guy the finger. The gesture was answered by the squawk of a police siren and the strobing of blue lights. “Shit,” he hissed. Distracted and distraught, he hadn’t even noticed the KPD cruiser come up behind him at the red light. “Shit, shit, shit.” He eased the van forward and turned into the Family Dollar lot so he wouldn’t block traffic. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He slapped the right side of his face so hard he saw stars. “Stupid.” The stinging pain helped focus his mind.
Keeping his eyes locked now on the outside mirror, he watched the cruiser pull into the lot behind him. Satterfield tugged his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open, removing the driver’s license from the clear sleeve and laying both items on the dash, the license on top of the wallet. Then he reached behind him and tucked his hand into the deep pocket on the back of the seat. There, his searching fingers closed around the serrated slide of the Glock, and he slid out the pistol, which felt heavy and reassuring in his hand. He racked the slide to chamber a round and laid the gun across his lap, the muzzle pointing at the center of the driver’s door. Then he covered it with the wrapper from the Hardee’s burger he’d just eaten. The shreds of lettuce littering the wrapper were still crisp, the smears of ketchup still bright as blood.
In the mirror, he watched as the door of the cruiser opened and the cop got out—a red-faced kid, probably no more than a year out of the academy, Satterfield guessed. He was already porking up, his blue shirt straining and bulging over his belt from a surfeit of sausage biscuits or Krispy Kremes or Coors; a few years from now, by the time he was Satterfield’s age, the porky kid would probably be on blood-pressure and cholesterol meds. Was his face flushed because he had a drinking problem, too, on top of the eating problem? Or was that just sunburn, or maybe a rookie’s anger at being flipped off?
Satterfield was on high alert—coiled—debating between playing it cool and striking preemptively. Maybe all he’d need to do was grovel. Gosh, officer, I am so sorry, he rehearsed. Some punk was tailgating me a couple blocks back, and I thought . . . But what if the girl had already gone to the police? What if all the patrol units already had his description? And what if this guy, eager to prove himself, had memorized the description—had seen Satterfield trolling for her and had recognized him?
Satterfield’s finger tightened as the blue uniform loomed closer and larger, now filling the mirror. If he fired through the door, Porky would never even see it coming. His piglike eyes and jowls would open wide in surprise, and then—just as the sound of the shot registered in his brain—he’d crumple to the asphalt. Shooting him through the door might require a second shot to finish him, though—time-consuming and riskier, potentially exposing Satterfield to more witnesses. What if he held on to his license when the cop tried to take it? Would that distract the guy long enough for Satterfield to raise the gun and take a clean headshot?
“Sir, I need to see your license and registration,” Porky said, peering through the window at Satterfield’s face.
“Officer, I am so sorry,” Satterfield began, reaching for the license with his left hand, shaking his head in a show of embarrassment and contrition. “I had no idea that was you behind me.” He picked up the license by one corner, gripping it tightly as he extended it toward the window. “My father was a police officer,” he added, laying it on thick as syrup. “I respect the hell out of you guys.”
Instead of taking the bait—and instead of taking the license—the cop said, “Sir, would you remove your sunglasses, please?”
Satterfield hadn’t expected that. Shit, now what? he thought. Do I put down the license, or let go of the gun? Or do I shoot now? He stalled for time. “Excuse me?”
“I said take off your sunglasses, please.”
Fuck. Is he just seeing if I’m stoned, or does he have a description? The day was cool, but Satterfield felt a crown of sweat beading his scalp, felt moisture gather under his arms and trickle down his sides. The Glock had a six-pound trigger pull, and Satterfield’s finger pressure was already pushing three pounds, easy—maybe four—and climbing.
Suddenly the cop’s face swiveled toward the cruiser, and Satterfield heard a radio call blaring through the loudspeaker. “All units, all units. Armed robbery in progress, Home Federal Bank, 3001 East Magnolia.”