Troopers in the Texas Highway Patrol are endowed with buckets of swagger by the time they graduate the DPS Academy in Austin. But swagger could get you killed if it wasn’t backed up with good procedure. As tired as he was, Calderon was careful and precise as he prepared to make the stop.
He gave Ellis County his new location and followed the Chrysler over to the right shoulder, stopping far enough back that the other car’s rear license plate was just visible over the front of the Mustang’s hood. He cheated the cruiser over a few feet to offer a little cover from traffic coming up behind him. Instead of walking up immediately, he flipped on the white, forward-facing halogens on the interceptor’s light bar. These “takedowns” flooded the back of the vehicle with bright light. Never one to engage in a fair fight when it came to his own safety, Calderon did one better and turned the dash-mounted spotlight so it hit the rearview mirror, effectively blinding the driver to his approach.
Then, instead of going up on the driver’s side, the trooper skirted around behind the Mustang so as not to cross in front of his own headlights, and made his approach on the right shoulder. He thought the guy with the peach-colored polo shirt was going to crap himself, he jumped so bad when Calderon tapped on the window with the butt of his flashlight.
Once the driver got over his initial shock, he blinked up at the trooper but kept both hands on the wheel. A lone girl was seated directly behind the driver. She was tiny—just a child, really—with long hair hanging down and obscuring her face. This was surely the girl he’d seen in the rear window. She pretended to be asleep, but her breath was uneven.
One hand on the butt of his SIG Sauer pistol, the trooper motioned with his flashlight for the driver to roll down the window. It came down with a motorized whine.
“Good evening, Trooper,” the guy at the wheel said.
He didn’t look like a Parrot.
“Morning,” the trooper said, getting a better view of the Chrysler’s interior with the periphery of his flashlight’s beam now that the window was down. He didn’t say anything else for a long moment.
“Is everything okay?” the driver said, right on cue. Nature wasn’t the only thing to abhor a vacuum. People—especially guilty people—hated silence.
“You tell me,” Calderon said.
“I’m fine,” the driver said.
“Are you Parrot?”
“I . . . where did you hear that name?” His hands began to slide down the sides of the steering wheel.
Calderon wagged his flashlight at the guy’s lap. “Scares me when you do that,” he said, grinning. The beam of his light illuminated an empty condom wrapper at the driver’s feet. Calderon shot a quick glance at the girl in the backseat. The grin bled from his face.
“Scares you?” the driver said.
“Do me a favor and keep your hands on the wheel until I tell you.”
The driver nodded but didn’t say anything.
“So,” Calderon asked again, “are you Parrot?”
“Parrot loaned me his car,” the driver said. “My name’s Reggie Tipton.”
“Is this your daughter, Mr. Tipton?”
Reggie gave a forced smile. “No.”
“Who is she?”
A long pause.
“She’s Parrot’s niece,” Reggie said. “I’m taking her to visit her aunt.” His hands started to slide down the wheel until Calderon wagged his light again.
“Parrot’s sister?”
“No,” Reggie said. “The girl’s aunt.”
“Parrot’s sister-in-law?”
Reggie shook his head.
The trooper raised an eyebrow. “Parrot’s wife?”
“No, her aunt,” Reggie said, looking up toward the ceiling, exasperated. “She’s not related to Parrot.”
Calderon nodded. “I get it,” he said.
Reggie finally caught on to his mistake. “I mean . . . Parrot just calls her his niece.”
“Okay,” the trooper said. “That makes sense.” The hairs on the back of his neck were already on end. “Had anything to drink tonight?”
Reggie’s shoulders slumped, visibly relaxing at the new line of questioning. He shook his head. “Not a drop, Trooper.”
“This is just a routine stop,” Calderon said. “You crossed the center line a couple times back there, so if you haven’t been drinking, I’ll just write you a warning.”
“Thank you,” Reggie said, relaxing even more.
“I just need to see your license and insurance and I’ll get you on your way.”
“Can I move my hands to get my wallet?”
“Anything down there I should be worried about?”
The girl in the backseat glanced up and shook her head, then pretended to be asleep again.
“No.” Reggie gave a nervous chuckle. “Nothing that I know of.” He moved slowly, pulling his driver’s license out of his wallet with trembling fingers, and then leaning across the passenger seat to pass it through the open window.
The girl behind him looked up again. Her hair fell away and Calderon was horrified to see the thick layers of makeup around her eyes and cheeks. It was smudged and streaked, as if she’d been crying. She was hardly old enough for a bra, but the lace straps of a lacy black one peeked from under her pink tank top. It was cold enough to hang meat inside the car, but the poor kid had on nothing but skimpy gym shorts and the thin shirt.
The trooper hoped he managed to hide his surprise. “What’s your name, hon?”
Tipton jumped at the question. He shot a glance over his shoulder, not bothering to conceal his anger. His leg began to bounce.
“Her name’s Mag . . . I mean Blanca,” Tipton whispered.
“Hi, Blanca,” Calderon said. He kept one eye on the driver but offered the child his best smile. It was difficult enough not to look imposing in the gray-green Highway Patrol uniform and Stetson. “My name’s Roy. How old are you?”
“She’s thirteen,” Reggie said. “She doesn’t have a license or anything. Look, if you don’t mind—”
Calderon put the light directly in the driver’s eyes while his right hand drew his SIG. “Reggie,” he said, his voice raspy and tight. “Keep your hands where I can see them. Shut your mouth and get out of the car.”
Tipton’s hands dropped as if to open the door but went to his lap instead.
Calderon saw the black metal of the pistol glint in the beam of his flashlight, and fired two quick shots from his SIG. Tactically, he should have stepped to the rear to keep more of the Chrysler between him and the shooter, but that would have put the girl directly in the line of fire, so he stepped backward, firing as he moved.
Tipton wasn’t smart, but he was committed, and he managed to get off four shots from his nine-millimeter before the third of Calderon’s .357 SIG rounds struck him below the right eye, ending the fight.
Calderon kept his SIG Sauer still trained on the dead man while he reached for his radio with his left hand.
“Shots fired, Dispatch,” he said into the mic, sounding more excited than he wanted to. He yanked open the passenger door and pulled the gun out of Tipton’s hand.
Suddenly woozy, Calderon grabbed the door post to steady himself. He looked at Blanca. “Are you okay, hon?”
“Yes,” she said, pointing at him. “But you . . . you are bleeding.”