TEN
Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden arrived together, in Officer McFadden’s Volkswagen, at Highway Patrol headquarters at quarter to eight, determined to be on time and otherwise to make a good first impression. They were both wearing business suits and ties, McFadden a faintly plaided single-breasted brown suit, and Martinez a sharply tailored double-breasted blue pinstripe.
He looked, McFadden accused him, not far off the mark, like a successful numbers operator on his way to a wedding.
The available parking spaces around the relatively new building were all full. There were a row of Highway motorcycles parked, neatly, as if in a military organization, at an angle with their rear wheels close to the building; and a row of Highway radio cars, some blue-and-whites identifiable by the lettering on their fenders, and some, unmarked, by their extra radio antennae and black-walled high-speed tires.
There were also the blue-and-whites assigned to the Seventh District, the Seventh District’s unmarked cars, and several new-model cars, which could have belonged to any of the department’s senior officers.
And there was a battered Chevrolet, festooned with radio antennae, parked in a spot identified by a sign as being reserved for Inspectors.
“That’s Mickey O’Hara’s car,” Charley McFadden said. “I wonder what he’s doing here?”
“There was a woman kidnapped last night,” Hay-zus said. “It was on the radio.”
“Kidnapped?” McFadden asked.
“Couple of people saw some nut forcing her into a van, with a knife,” Hay-zus said.
They had driven through the parking area without having found a spot to park. McFadden drove halfway down the block, made a U-turn, and found a parking spot at the curb.
“That’s abducting,” McFadden said.
“What?”
“What you said was kidnapping was abducting,” McFadden said. “Kidnapping is when there’s ransom.”
“Screw you,” Hay-zus said, in a friendly manner, and then, “Hey, look at them wheels!”
A silver Porsche was coming out of the parking lot, apparently after having made the same fruitless search for a place to park they had.
“I’d hate to have to pay insurance on a car like that,” McFadden said.
“You got enough money to buy a car like that, you don’t have to worry about how much insurance costs,” Hay-zus said.
Both of them followed the car as it drove down Bowler Street past them.
“I know that guy,” Charley McFadden said. “I seen him someplace.”
“Really? Where?”
“I don’t know, but I know that face.”
Jesus Martinez looked at his watch, a gold-cased Hamilton with a gold bracelet and diamond chips on the face instead of numbers, and on which he owed eighteen (of twenty-four) payments at Zale’s Credit Jewelers.
“Let’s go in,” he said. “It’s ten of.”
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bsp; McFadden, not without effort, worked himself out from under the Volkswagen’s steering wheel, then broke into a slow shuffle to catch up with Martinez.
They went into the building through a door off the parking lot, through which they could see Highway Patrolmen entering.
They looked for and found the to-be-expected window counter opening on the squad room. A Corporal was leaning on the counter, filling out a form. They waited until he was through, and looked at them curiously.
“We were told to report to the Commanding Officer of Highway at eight,” Hay-zus said.
“You’re a police officer?” the Corporal asked, doubtfully.