The detective’s eyes were a mild gray in the crime-scene lights, and utterly without illusions. “I bet,” he said. “So where’s the dog?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “I never found him. But I did see a black Ford SUV chasing a Chevy Impala going north on Twentieth about an hour ago, going really fast. The Ford almost ran me over. I got the license plates.”
The detective raised his eyebrows, an understated disbelieving will-wonders-never-cease? kind of look. “Oh, really.”
Peter gave him the plate numbers from the Impala and the black SUV that had followed him from Dinah’s house.
The detective licked his pencil again, and this time he wrote down the numbers. And some other things, too, because he kept writing.
Peter said, “You mind my asking what happened?”
“Shoot-out in the big city,” said the tall detective, pencil still moving on his notebook. He tilted his head toward the man Peter had killed, who had tried to kill him. “Young man over there, now deceased. Appeared to be armed with an AK-47. Probably not on his way to church.”
He closed the notebook and tucked it into his jacket pocket, lifted the yellow tape. “C’mon in,” he said. Then strolled through the crime scene like it was his backyard. Peter walked beside him.
“Guy hosed down half the block,” said the detective. “Most of two clips, fifty or sixty rounds. Really a fine American. Didn’t hit any people I know of yet, although the night is young. Put a bunch of holes in cars and houses. Most of those holes in your truck, unfortunately,” he said, pointing at it with his chin. But he stopped short of the pickup, beside a patrol car parked blocking the street.
“No official suspects on the killer. Whoever did it drilled him dead center, right in the forehead. Single shot. That’s marksmanship.”
Then the tall detective opened the rear door of the patrol car.
“Get inside,” he said.
“What for?” asked Peter, keeping his voice mild although the static sparked inside him. His heart thumped harder in his chest. Goddamn it. “I wasn’t here. I just want to get my truck and find my dog, and get some dinner. I’ve been working all day. I’m hungry.”
“I’m not taking you in,” said the detective. “I’m just going to run your record.”
“Because I parked on the wrong block?”
“Because, looking at you, I’m guessing you’re a vet.”
“I’m a carpenter.”
The detective gave him a look. “Don’t be an asshole. You were over there. Am I right?”
Reluctantly, Peter nodded. “Marines. Recon.”
The detective filed it away. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“Both,” said Peter.
“Welcome home, son,” said the detective, not unkindly. “But you’re the only guy I’ve got with practice shooting at people. So get in the car.”
“Goddamn it, I’m trying to be helpful,” said Peter.
“So you say,” said the detective. “So keep being helpful. Get in the fucking car before I have four cops put you in. With handcuffs.”
Peter felt his muscles tense, his pulse rising. He turned and bent and sat, leaving his legs out. It was awkward. The plastic seats were formed to fit a person with his hands cuffed behind him. He could still hear the wind in the trees. It helped, a little. But the back of a police car was just one step removed from a holding cell. And the white static didn’t like it.
He shifted on the seat, heart going hard, knee bobbing faster as his interior metronome went into overdrive. The tall detective was looking at him. Peter’s shoulders rose and his neck tightened up. An error in judgment. He should have kept going. He should have come back tomorrow. The space got smaller around him. He took deep breaths, in and out, in and out, trying to keep the oxygen moving. The headache would come soon.
The detective leaned on the open door. “You okay there, pal?”
Peter shook his head. “I’m really hungry,” he said. “My blood sugar gets low.”
The detective eyed him skeptically. “Uh-huh. Listen, when they go through your truck, are they going to find anything? Weapons? Drugs? Pills? Needles? I don’t care about a little weed, because, hey, it’s practically medicine now. But anything else, you better tell me, because they’re going to find it.”
The detective leaned over him and Peter felt the disadvantage. Which was why the detective did it. The white static was just a fringe benefit. But the police were unlikely to find where he’d hidden the plastic explosive without putting the truck up on a lift.
“No,” he said. “No drugs. Just tools. Some food, camping gear.” He was glad he had gotten rid of the gun.
“So,” said the detective. “You’re living out of your truck.” But he seemed sympathetic.
Peter really didn’t want to have this conversation. But it was manifestly true, down to the sleeping bag and coffeepot. And it put Peter in a certain category for the man. Maybe that would be helpful.
So he nodded. “Just for a few days,” he said.
“The address on your driver’s license: that’s your parents’ house, right?”
Peter nodded again.