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as he backed farther along the sidewalk so that if the Fusion’s owners left the store, their attention wouldn’t be drawn immediately to the cop vehicle.
    â€œThree zero four, copy that. Illinois two baker thomas, three zero five.”
    In a moment, Estancia repeated the electronic computer news. “No wants or warrants,” he radioed. Just a plate borrowed off someone’s pickup truck, the theft—if that’s what it was—not yet noticed. Pasquale pondered that for a few moments.
    â€œPCS, three zero four.”
    â€œGo ahead, three zero four.”
    â€œPCS, find me the phone number for the sheriff’s department that serves that area in Illinois.” Silence followed. Had Estancia fallen asleep? Or had he expected the deputy to explain how to find the number?
    In a moment, his tentative “Ten four, three zero four,” followed. “Be a minute.”
    Pasquale settled back to wait. If the plate was stolen, the Illinois SO would know. There were all kinds of possibilities. He didn’t have long to ponder that before his cell phone interrupted, jarring the peace and quiet with a ringtone that mimicked a Harley Davidson motorcycle revving and then accelerating away.
    â€œWhat you got?” The three unadorned words announced Sheriff Robert Torrez, and his voice was hard to hear, little more than a hoarse whisper. The call surprised Pasquale, since it was possible to work for days—maybe even weeks—without any indication that Torrez inhabited the same planet. And the big man wouldn’t show much interest in a license plate stolen out of Illinois.

Chapter Three
    â€œSir, we have a new gray Ford Fusion sedan in The Spree parking lot, and it looks to be carrying an Illinois plate originally tagged to an Illinois pickup truck.”
    â€œYou talked to the driver?”
    â€œNegative, sir. I would guess he—or she, or they—are inside the store.”
    â€œHuh.” Just bubbling enthusiasm, but Pasquale knew Sheriff Torrez would sound the same way if the impending end of the world were announced.
    â€œNegative twenty-eight, though. Maybe he just borrowed the plate off the truck for a few days for the trip.”
    â€œCheck him out anyway. Pay attention.”
    â€œTen four.” Pay attention? Was I not? Pasquale thought. During his now-ten years total employ with first the now-defunct Posadas Police Department and then with the Sheriff’s Department, the thirty-two-year-old Pasquale had managed enough bone-headed escapades to warrant a sharp supervisor’s eye, but he’d also managed more than a handful of truly spectacular apprehensions—including one that had put him in the hospital with a bullet through the hip.
    Apparently it took a long time to earn Sheriff Robert Torrez’ unqualified respect. The man still treated Thomas Pasquale as if the deputy were a fresh sixteen-year-old. Pasquale took comfort in realizing that Robert Torrez treated most people that way.
    The sheriff had terminated the phone call with nothing more to say, and Pasquale keyed the mike.
    â€œThree zero four is ten six Spree, reference Illinois two zero baker, two seven five. You have that information for me?”
    â€œTen four, three oh four.” Estancia transmitted the phone number for the Cathay County Sheriff’s Department, repeating it twice. “And be advised we have a complaint of an infant locked in a vehicle, that location. The sheriff is responding.”
    In the radio background, Pasquale could hear voices, which meant that dispatcher Estancia was still holding down the transmit bar. “Sheriff Torrez is heading that way, three oh four,” the dispatcher repeated.
    â€œTen four.” He surveyed the parking lot, seeing only a handful of customers in transit to their vehicles, or in the act of loading purchases. Out on the sidewalk of Grande Avenue, a gaggle of half a dozen middle-school-aged kids moved