Читать книгу I Hate Walt - Vicki Andree - Страница 16

Bobby Porter activated the light and sirens on his patrol car to initiate the traffic stop. It was twelve forty-five, and he had been sitting on the shoulder of I-25 when the car raced past him at ninety-five miles an hour. Bobby read the license plate to the dispatcher as he pulled the late-model Hummer over. He requested a 10-28. The dispatcher entered the information into the NCIC database and instantly received the pertinent information—the type and color of car, the dates of license, and to whom the car was licensed. The car was not listed as stolen or wanted. Everything seemed in order. The dispatcher relayed the information to Bobby. The Hummer pulled far off the shoulder, away from the light traffic.

Bobby felt the knot in his stomach tighten as he walked up to black-tinted windows. He hated tinted windows, especially at night. The habitual questions raced through his mind as he approached the driver’s side. Does he have a gun? Does he have a hostage? Is the driver dangerous? Has he been drinking? Is this a setup? Is the vehicle carrying illegal drugs or weapons? How will the driver react to getting a citation? Will he become combative?

The black window slid down, and a muscular black man stuck his head out the window and smiled too brightly. “Hey, there. You got me. I know it.”

Bobby hesitated a second until he could see into the car and that the man had both hands on the steering wheel. “May I see your driver’s license and proof of insurance?”

“Sure, man, no problem.” The man pulled down the sun visor and retrieved his registration and insurance information. “Hey, man, my license is in my wallet.”

Bobby could tell from the few words spoken that the man was sober. “Go ahead.”

The man got his wallet from his back pocket. Bobby took the documents back to the cruiser and called dispatch for a 10-27, driver’s license check on Mark Phelps. Nothing came up out of the ordinary, so Bobby routinely requested a printout of the NCIC report. He would need it when he got back to the station for his report. He dreaded the paperwork for even a normal traffic stop.

Mr. Phelps accepted the citation without comment.

Bobby got back in the cruiser and waited for Mr. Phelps to leave.

As soon as the black Hummer got up to speed, a car roared past doing over ninety miles an hour, and he activated his lights and sirens. That vehicle looked all too familiar. Mary Lou!

Mary Lou pulled over immediately.

He threw the cruiser into park and strode up to the open driver’s window.

Mary Lou blinked back tears. “Oh, Bobby, I was hoping it was you. Thank God.” She broke out in a full-blown meltdown.

He opened the car door and put his arms around her. “Hey, it’s all right.”

She sniffed and looked up. “Get in the car. It’s freezing out there.”

He walked around to the passenger seat. That’s Mary Lou, the pragmatist. Get out of the cold, dummy. He grinned and felt light as he got into the car beside her.

She turned and embraced him, burying her head in his shoulder. “That’s better. I feel better now. Oh, I’ve missed you so much. Why didn’t you call? Do you have any idea how isolated I felt? Alaska is a horrible place.”

He patted her hair and pushed her away to look her in the eye. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you. But I’m on duty right now. Mary Lou, you know you were speeding.”

Her face went innocent. “I was?”

“Over ninety miles an hour.”

She dried her eyes and blew her nose. “Oh, I just wanted to be home. Home in my own house, in my own bed. It’s been nothing less than hell the last two weeks.”

Bobby sighed. Everything in Mary Lou’s life was larger than life and more awful than life or, in good times, better than life. He leaned back in his seat. “I need to get back in the cruiser. You slow down the rest of the way home.” He patted her hand.

She grabbed his hand. “Is that it? Bobby, when are we going to see each other again?”

He rubbed his forehead. “It’s been busy. I’m not sure when I’m off.”

“What?” she shouted. “I’ve been in hell over Christmas and New Year’s and you can’t even figure out when we can go out? We didn’t see each other over Christmas or New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day. I hate this!” She grabbed the steering wheel and banged her head against it.

He reached out to stop her. “Let me think. Let’s see. It’s Saturday, and—”

Mary Lou screeched, “It’s Sunday!” She pointed at the clock on the dashboard and sniffed, then whined, “It’s 1:30 a.m. on Sunday.”

He relaxed. This was Mary Lou in her tensed-out mode. “Monday—Monday, I’m off. That’s tomorrow. I can pick you up at seven. Can I take you to dinner Monday evening, Princess?”

Her shoulders went down, she wiped her eyes, “Yes, I’d love to see you tomorrow evening.”