As we tore up the asphalt, I radioed dispatch, saying to notify Monterey PD that we were in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle. I gave them the make, the model, and the two numbers I’d been able to grab off the plate.
Conklin switched on the lights and siren and I gripped the armrest. We flew along Lighthouse Avenue, following the BMW onto a residential block called Ridge Road. Ridge T’d into another block of homey houses with front yards, and as Conklin took a two-wheeled turn, I prayed that no dogs, cars, or children would get between us and the SUV.
I switched the mic to bullhorn mode, leaned out the window, and shouted, “This is the police! Pull over. Now.”
The BMW kept on going.
CHAPTER 46
THE DRIVER OF the BMW had the bit in his teeth, and also a solid lead. He sped past the gate in the residents’ lane and switched around on the winding roads, taking us out to 17 Mile Drive, the scenic route that goes around the peninsula and through Carmel.
I was beat up again from the chase, slammed from side to side against the straps, feeling like I’d been thrown into a commercial-grade clothes dryer.
But as soon as we hit the divided two-lane drive, our speed was cut in half. Traffic filled in between the treed divider on our left and the vegetation and backyard fencing on our right.
Our lights and sirens flashed and screamed, and as cars scrambled to get out of our way, we passed Rip Van Winkle Open Space at a jerky forty miles per hour. Conklin was doing a fine job under the circumstances, weaving around the balky cars and the ones that were hugging the edge of the golf course on our right.
It was clear to me that the guy we were chasing knew his way around this town when he pulled hard to the right, cut across scrub terrain, and skirted the Pacific shoreline before clipping a pickup truck at a stop sign and making a breathtaking and hazardous left onto Ocean Road.
Horns blew. Brakes squealed and pileups ensued. I radioed dispatch again, reporting that we were still in pursuit and needed assistance. Forthwith.
The driver of the black BMW took Bird Rock Road, a narrow and winding road that passed through a forested stretch of yet another golf course, and he did it at seventy. Then he broke from the road and cut across the
links.
We followed into chaos and panic as golf carts tipped and golfers scattered. Flags were mown down and sand sprayed out from under tires before the BMW got back onto Bird Rock Road, taking a wide loop toward 17 Mile Drive again.
We lost ground on the links.
Our well-used Ford was a repurposed drug dealer’s ride that had been ridden hard for three hundred thousand miles. It was no match for the spanking-new four-wheel-drive crossover. By the time we got out to the drive, there were dozens of cars between us, but I spotted our BMW stuck in the same traffic up ahead.
My partner focused on the road and the BMW buried inside a pack of other vehicles a hundred fifty feet in front of us. We passed Pebble Beach at a crawl, then merged onto Highway 1 heading north.
And now the traffic was so thick that our bleating sirens couldn’t budge it.
Where were the patrol cars we needed to assist us?
Where was the roadblock? The choppers?
Was the driver of the BMW a deadbeat dad or a dope dealer? Or was he one of the men who had attacked me? My gut said he was one of my attackers—and not to let him get away.
I counted three black SUVs in the near distance, any of which could have been the BMW we were chasing, but I couldn’t make out the plates.
We stopped and started and gained ground where we could, but after we passed the Highway 68 exit toward Salinas, I recognized the long gash in the passenger-side door of a BMW crossover cruising at high speed down the off-ramp.
“Ah, shit, Richie, we lost him.”
“Christ,” Conklin said. “Sorry about that, Linds.”
Just then, a couple of cherry-lit Highway Patrol cruisers came up from behind. They weren’t after the BMW. They were signaling us to pull over.
My partner said, “What now?” and cursed as he braked the car on the verge.
We buzzed down our windows, put our hands where they could be clearly seen, and waited for the cops. Gravel crunched under hard-soled boots. A pair of uniformed Sheriff’s Department officers approached our windows.
“We’re on the job,” I said to the one who appeared two yards off my right shoulder. “I’m opening my jacket to show you my badge.”
PART THREE