“All right,” Cross said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Stiff with anger, he disconnected.
“You remember my detective Emily Thompson?” he asked.
“Sure,” Covington said. “From two years . . . oh Lord, she’s not dead, is she?”
“No. But she came this close,” Cross said, pressing thumb to forefinger. “Someone walked into a spa she was at and stabbed the receptionist.”
“And Emily?”
“She ran outside and tried to capture the killer. He hit her with a car.”
“Goddamn murdering scumbags!” Covington bellowed, flushing so dark his eyes glowed like high beams. “How bad was she injured?”
“She bounced off instead of going under the wheels. Nothing serious.”
“Thank God. Was she able to-”
Cross shook his head. “Car absorbed the bullets. Manhunt’s under way.” He stubbed the cigar. “If we’re done . . .”
“Yes, yes, by all means get going,” Covington said. “You want my jet? It’ll get you home in thirty minutes.”
“No, that’s all right,” Cross said. “Branch is acting chief when I’m out of town. Nothing I can do that he won’t do better.” He smiled, but it held no humor. “Just tell your troopers I’m driving a Naperville black-and-white, and I’m not stopping for any speeding tickets.”
11:31 a.m.
“You want tickets, lady?” County Sheriff’s Sergeant Rayford Luerchen mumbled as the maroon Subaru wagon wove over the yellow line. “I’ll give you tickets.”
He’d gotten lippy in a roomful of brass the other day, airily correcting one of the lieutenants without dicks about some point of law she’d been droning about. Payback came this morning in the form of a new assignment - traffic citations, and nothing but, for two months. Him! A senior sergeant. A leader of men. Pulling over jerk drivers like some carrot-brained newbie.
He tried groveling. “I was wrong, ma’am, and I’m very extremely sorry,” he’d said. No good. She’d insisted on her pound of flesh.
So he’d write up every two-bit violation he could muster.
In Naperville.
The people in this snooty burg would raise hell for getting ticketed one mph over the limit. Or putting a toy in their back window - “dangerously obstructed view” - or sporting an unwashed license plate. Enough flame-throwing to the sheriff from the gentry, Luerchen reasoned, and lady lou would get the message.
Don’t cross Ray Luerchen.
He accelerated.
The Executioner stiffened. He was well away from the spa, in a quiet residential area. Five miles under the limit. Signaling every turn. There’s no way he should be pulled over.
So then why was this cop swooping down in his rear-view?
He caressed the Sig’s walnut grips as he sorted his options.
Luerchen shook his head, wondering what to do. His computer wasn’t connecting because Plank Road was a cellular “dead zone” with its steep hills and valleys. He couldn’t ask the dispatchers to run the plate - they were swamped from the spa murder. Like I should be. He dare not wait for either problem to clear because lady lou would rip him for loafing.
“Awright, awright,” he decided. “I’ll write it up now and call it in later.”
He flipped on his roof lights and burped the siren.
The Executioner spotted the colorful wooden sign for Seager Park. Nodded. He knew Seager. Lots of trees for concealment. With no playground equipment to attract children, usually deserted this time of day. It should work.
* * *
He put on his signal and crunched up the gravel driveway.
“Park it while we’re young, pal,” Luerchen muttered, scratching his sunburned scalp.
As if hearing him, the Subaru pulled underneath a towering maple. Brake lights flashed, window went down, engine shut off. The driver shrugged dramatically: “What did I do, Officer? I didn’t do anything! Why are you pulling me over?” - but kept his hands in plain view, as the Rules of the Road encouraged.
We have a winner! Luerchen thought, smirking. The guy’s panties were already in a bundle from being pulled over. When he found out he’d pay triple-digits for bumping the yellow line during his oh-so-careful turn from a side street . . . well, he’d be just the type to phone the sheriff. Even better, send one of those snippy “I pay your salary” letters to the local paper. Those always made cops hoot with laughter.
He grabbed his ticket book, already thinking about the next jerk.
“Focus,” the Executioner murmured as the cop widened in the side mirror. “Do what you have to do, then get out,” He hung his left elbow out the window like he was preparing to defend his driving skills, and let his right hand slip casually into his lap.