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―Do you even shave?‖ she said as they raised her off the tarmac. Her knees nearly buckled and a wave of blackness consumed her so she had to lean on them for a minute.
―Ma‘am, you‘re white as a sheet,‖ the kind face said. ―I really think—‖
―Please don‘t call me ma‘am. My name is Moira.‖
―The cops will be here in a minute,‖ the other one said under his breath.
She felt a clutch in the pit of her stomach.
The kind face said to her, ―Moira, my name is Dave and my partner here is Earl. There are policemen who want to ask you what happened.‖
―It was a policeman who caused all this,‖ Moira said.
―What?‖ Dave said. ―What did you say?‖
―I want to see Jay.‖
―Believe me,‖ Earl said, ―you really don‘t.‖
Moira reached down, patted her Lady Hawk. ―Don‘t fuck with me, guys.‖
Without another word they took her down the street. It was littered with car parts and the glitter of blown-out windows and taillights. She saw a fire truck, an EMT ambulance beside the hideous wreck of the Audi. No one could have survived that crash. With each step she gained strength and confidence.
She was banged up and bruised, possibly, as they said, in shock, but otherwise unscathed. Luck beyond words. She thought of the pig spirit in Bali, who must still be protecting her.
―Here come the Warm Jets,‖ Earl said.
―He means the cops,‖ Dave translated.
―Guys,‖ she said, ―I need some alone time with my friend and the cops won‘t let me have it.‖
―Neither should we,‖ Dave said dubiously.
―I‘ll handle these bozos.‖ Earl peeled off to intercept them.
―Steady on.‖
Dave gripped her more tightly as she staggered without Earl‘s countervailing support. She took another couple of deep breaths to clear her mind and steady her body. She knew she had very little time before the cops would brush aside whatever smokescreen Earl managed to concoct.
They passed the all-but-unrecognizable crumple-and-twist of the Audi. She took a deep breath, righted herself, then they were at what remained of Jay Weston. He looked more like a lump of raw meat than a human being.
―How in the world did you get him out?‖
―Jaws of Life. In his case, it didn‘t help.‖ Dave helped her to squat down beside the corpse, held her up as another wave of dizziness threatened to topple her. ―It might be my job for this,‖ he said.
―Relax. My friends will keep you safe.‖ Her eyes were roving over every inch of the wasteland that was Jay. ―Jesus, nothing could survive this mash-up.‖
―What are you looking for?‖
―I wish I knew, but his jacket…‖
Dave reached down, drew something out from underneath the wreckage. ―You mean this?‖
Moira‘s heart rate accelerated. It was Jay‘s sapphire-blue suede jacket, miraculously unscathed except for a couple of burned patches on the sleeves.
It stank of smoke and toasted cologne.
―Believe it or not, things like this happen all the time,‖ Dave said. He had deliberately positioned himself between Moira and the two cops who now brushed by Earl, having had their fill of his medical gobbledygook. ―We find things—wallets, keys, baseball caps, condoms—you wouldn‘t believe—in virtually mint condition, thrown clear of the most horrendous wrecks.‖
Moira was listening with only one ear as her nimble fingers rifled through the outer and i
She was about to give up when she spotted the loose thread at one of the inside seams. Pulling it opened a small hole out of which she dug a two-gigabyte thumb drive. Hearing the sound of heavy footfalls coming up behind her, she made the sign of the cross over Jay‘s body and, with Dave‘s strong hand gripping her elbow, stood up to face her wearying interview with the Warm Jets.
Which turned out to be fully as stultifying and dunderheaded as she had foreseen, but at least she had the last laugh because before they got around to asking her the same questions for the third time she pulled out her Federal Securities Act ID, at which point they went silent. It was all Dave and Earl could do not to snicker into their red faces.
―About this traffic cop,‖ Moira said. ―I need to know who he was. I‘ve already told you twice even though you clearly didn‘t believe me, he discharged his weapon through the side window of Mr. Weston‘s Audi.‖
―And you say Mr. Weston worked for you?‖ The taller of the two cops was a badge named Severin.
When she said yes, he nodded at his partner, who stepped away to use his cell phone.
―What were you doing kneeling over the body?‖ Severin said. Maybe he was just marking time, because he‘d seen what she was doing and he‘d already asked her twice.
―Praying for my friend‘s soul.‖
Severin frowned, though he nodded, possibly in sympathy. Then he jerked his head at Dave and Earl. ―These yahoos shouldn‘t have let you anywhere near your friend. This is a crime scene.‖
―So I understand.‖
His frown deepened, but the nature of his thoughts remained a mystery as his partner returned to the huddle.
―Here‘s a kick in the groin,‖ he said facetiously. ―There‘s no record of a motorcycle police from traffic or from any other department, for that matter, in this vicinity in the time frame we have.‖
―Damn it to hell.‖
Moira palmed open her cell, but before she had a chance to make a call, two men strode up. They wore identical dark suits but had the slope-shouldered military bearing of NSA operatives. She knew she was in trouble the moment they showed their IDs to the detectives.
―We‘ve got it from here, boys,‖ Dark Suit Number One said while his partner gave the cops the thousand-yard stare. As the police backed off, Dark Suit Number One slipped his hand into Moira‘s pocket with the deftness of a professional pickpocket. ―I‘ll take that, Ms. Trevor,‖ he said, holding Jay‘s cell between the tips of his blunt fingers.
Moira lunged for it, but Dark Suit One snatched it out of her reach.
―Hey, that‘s the property of my company.‖
―Sorry,‖ Dark Suit One said, ―this has been impounded as a matter of national security.‖