Deb Putnam steadied the clipboard on the hood of her Jeep to write the citations. The four boys sat on their ATVs, watching her with amusement. She didn’t know these boys, but she knew their type—she’d been dealing with their type for the last five years now. And their family names were immediately familiar.
If Deb recognized their names, chances were they were rich, and the fine would be meaningless, and there was no reason for them not to go on tearing through the saw grass and bogs, trashing the terrain and filling the air with blue smoke and engine din.
She laid out their drivers’ licenses on the hood in a neat row and sighed; all four lived in the Beaches. Big surprise.
She glanced back at them, and immediately one of the little fuckers looked away, his face flushing deep red; he’d been checking out her ass! Great! Horny little environment-destroying cretin! What was he, sixteen, seventeen tops?
Deb supposed the boy was at that age. She decided to take it as a compliment, but mostly it was just irritating. And it was hot and sweaty out there, and Jenner hadn’t called to say when they’d meet.
Two of Captain Bashful’s friends were yakking on their cell phones, not at all worried or concerned—at their age, she’d have been petrified. The fourth had taken off his shirt, and was stretched out on his four-wheeler working on his tan, the long bill of his Polo Grounds cap tilted coolly over his face.
Deb had just finished the fourth citation when she saw Jenner’s blue Accent drive by—he was moving fast. She cursed under her breath, and pulled out her cell; the display showed a couple of bars but immediately dropped them. He’d probably been trying to reach her but hadn’t got through because of the shitty reception in the Glades.
Less than a minute later, an unmarked county car, a cream Taurus, flew by, heading north after Jenner toward Bel Arbre; to her surprise, she recognized Tom Nash at the wheel. Even odder, he was in plainclothes. She wondered if there’d been a killing in Bel Arbre, then remembered that Jenner wasn’t the ME anymore.
She turned to the boys and handed out the paperwork. “There you go, gentlemen. I’ll be calling your parents, just to make sure the word doesn’t slip through the cracks.”
The tall, tanned kid smirked and said, “Thanks, officer. And our parents will be calling your boss, just to make sure their gratitude for you not shooting us doesn’t slip through the cracks.”
His boys snorted as she rolled her eyes and tapped the Glock at her hip.
“If they didn’t make us fill out so much paperwork for shooting someone, things might’ve gone differently.” She smiled sweetly. “Now, please remember to think twice the next time you decide to ruin a beautiful ecosystem!”
She started the Jeep. She didn’t have turret lights, but if she hurried, she might be able to catch Jenner. The boys were peering dully at the citations; she was sure the tickets would be in the trash in under fifteen minutes. Or, far more likely, blowing across the beautiful ecosystem.
Deb headed north, half an eye on the rearview mirror, wanting to see what they’d do. They didn’t disappoint: Suntan Boy climbed onto his four-wheeler, stood high off his saddle, and when she was at a safe distance, dropped his pants and pointed his ass in her direction.
She laughed out loud—now that was something she’d have done at their age!