The next morning came too fast. Persona non grata in my own department, I met Harry in a coffee shop a few blocks away. He held up a black flash drive. “Austin’s and Mailey’s midnight stop.”
“What’d you promise Baines?” I asked.
“If you see someone looks like Baines and me at that fancy new seafood joint in Daphne, it ain’t us. Where we gonna look at the thing?”
Plugging it into my or Harry’s computer was out of the question. Baggs probably had snipers focused on my desk. We jumped in my truck and I drove seven blocks to a small store off Government, the sign saying Grant’s Security.
Nicolas Grant was Welsh, an ex-Royal Marine who’d fought in the Falklands and did tours of Northern Ireland in the tougher days. A few years back he’d visited the States, found the coastal sunshine to his liking, and made the jump, opening a security and surveillance-oriented shop. The tech types at the MPD sometimes rented equipment from Grant.
We went inside, saw shelves of video cameras, monitors and other electronic gimcrackery. The proprietor pushed through curtains from the back, six-two, goateed and tatted and with a head shaved bald as an egg.
“If it isn’t the terrible twosome,” Grant said in a gruff brogue, fixing a blue eye on me. “I saw you on the news last night, Carson. Telling the world the Chief of Police wasn’t fit to command an ox-cart. How are you still working?”
“It’s a fluid situation, Nick,” Harry said, holding up the drive. “You got a player can handle video from a cop cruiser?”
“Digital CCTV? Sure. Encrypted?”
“Doubt it.”
Nick held the curtains wide. “Step into my parlor.” He set us up at a bench holding a computer and monitor, plugged in the drive. “I expect you want me somewhere else, right?”
“Thanks, Nick,” I said. “We owe you.”
“A couple whiskies would be nice,” Nicolas Grant grinned. “But the full story would be even better.”
Nick disappeared and I pressed the forward button. A shiver on the screen was replaced by a nighttime street scene, Austin and Mailey’s cruiser beside a building for concealment while providing a full view of an intersection. We watched the lights turn red on the north–south side. Three seconds later a white Toyota Avalon blew through the light as if it were invisible.
Austin’s voice: “Look at that muthafucker, goddamn light was so red it was almost green again. Let’s roll.”
Headlights led the cruiser into the street a half-block behind the taillights of the violator. Mailey’s voice next, calling the department to run the license of a white Toyota Avalon.
Then Austin on the tape. “Let’s pull the asshole over on the next block, up by the Empire Bar. I like these hoo-hahs to know we’re on the streets.”
Lights flashed. The cruiser raced up on the bumper of the Avalon as it pulled to the curb just past the neon-lit Empire Bar.
The female dispatcher over the radio: “Got a read on that plate, Horse. Registered to a Gregory T. Nieves of 2367 Parchwell Drive in Mobile, twenty-five years of age. Clean record. Not so much as a traffic ticket.”
“We’re gonna give him one, hon,” Austin laughed. “A hundred-buck cite for Disregarding. Wish I got a commission on these things.”
“I’ll bet you do too, Horse,” the dispatcher yawned. “Have fun.”
Both cars were stopped now. In the periphery I saw shadowy forms and figured they were denizens of the Empire Bar, out to ogle the action.
Austin’s voice. “You take it, Mailey. I’m busy.” I heard a rustle of what might have been paper and a wet sound. It could have been an ass on the seats or a sip from a bottle.
Mailey addressed the driver over the loudspeaker: “Stay in your car, sir. I’ll come to you. Please shut off the engine and place your hands atop the wheel.”
I heard the door open as Mailey stepped out. The cruiser-cams were sensitive to both image and sound. The head of the stoplight runner was craned back and I caught a glimpse of an impassive face as Mailey walked to the Avalon, stopping by the window.
“I need to see license and registration, sir,” Mailey said.
“What did I do?” the driver said.
“I need to see your license and registration,” Mailey repeated.
“What – did – I – do?” the driver repeated, petulant, speaking as though Mailey was a child. I heard Austin’s door open, his voice trumpeting into the dark.
“Hey, asshole! Get the fucking license out and do like you’re goddamn told.”
I heard chuckling from the side and figured it was the audience from the Empire.
“I’m sorry,” the driver said, affecting a conciliatory tone. “What’s this about, officer?”
“What are you doing here this time of night?” Mailey said, his big Maglite scanning the rear of the Avalon, coming to rest on the driver’s face. The guy just sat there like a robot.
“I asked you a question, sir,” Mailey repeated. “Why are you here this time of night?”
“I couldn’t sleep, officer,” the driver said. “I was driving to relax.”
“How much you had to drink?”
“A couple beers, sir. But that was hours ago.”
Austin yelled, “Get him outta the car, Mailey! I wanna look at him.”
“Step out of the car, please,” Mailey said, pulling the door open.
“Is there a reason why I—”
Austin again: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE GODDAMN CAR!” I pictured him bellowing out the window. The guy still sat there. I heard the cruiser door open and Austin’s big feet hit the pavement. He entered the picture, lumbering toward the car with his nightstick in his hand.
“OUT OF THE CAR,” he bellowed.
The man exited the vehicle. Harry and I could see a dark wet sheen spreading down the man’s tan gabardines.
“Jesus, Horse,” Mailey said. “The guy’s shitting himself.”
The driver clutched his belly and fell to his knees. I could actually hear his bowels squirting fluid. “I – can’t – help – myself,” he moaned.
I heard the audience begin to laugh, followed by derisive comments.
“Look at the boy shittin’ hisself.”
“Hey, mister, you need some Imodium.”
One of the bar drunks stepped into the light, hip-hopping toward the man on his knees, pulling giggles from his buddies.
“Look at the boy with his face inna trance, got shit dripping down the legs of his—”
The man stopped with a whoof as Austin’s nightstick jabbed his sternum. He grabbed his belly and staggered away.
“Get back to the bar, buncha goddamn drunks,” Austin snarled. ‘NOW!” I heard muttered words and receding footsteps.
“The driver drunk, you think?” Austin asked Mailey.
“I didn’t smell alcohol, Horse. I’m sure he’s sober.”
Disregarding what must have been a terrible stench, Austin crouched beside the stricken driver and put a hand under the guy’s bicep, the bull-strong Austin bringing the driver gently to his feet and making sure he had his pins under him before releasing his grip.
“It’s all right, buddy,” he said. “Happens to the best of us. Think you’re gonna be OK?”
“I think so—”
“Tell you what, my partner and I will follow you home, make sure you get there in good shape. That cool?”
“Thank you,” the man said. “Thank you so much.”
Harry and I watched as the man pulled away, Austin and Mailey on his bumper. We heard a final line from Austin, a threatening rumble: “You tell anyone about me babysitting a guy home, Mailey, you and me are gonna tangle ass.”
The cruiser-cam went dead.
“Nothing bad there,” Harry said, pulling the zip drive. “A dead end, like Mailey said.”
“Zilch,” I agreed. “But we had to check.”