More Twisted

report from the speed pass main computer,” one of the officers across the room called. “Muller turned onto the four-oh-eight at Stanton Road four minutes ago. He entered at the northbound tollboth.”
    The little box on your windshield that automatically paid tolls on highways, bridges and tunnels could report exactly when and where you used it.
    Another pin was stabbed into the map.
    Hager directed the pursuing officers to that interchange.
    Fifteen minutes later, the cop monitoring the speed pass computer called out once again, “He just turned off the tollway. At Markham Road. The eastbound tollbooth.”
    Eastbound into the Markham neighborhood? Carnegie reflected. Well, that made sense. This was a tough part of town, populated by rednecks and bikers living in ramshackle bungalows and trailers. If Muller had an accomplice Markham would be a good source for that sort of muscle. And nearby was the desert, with thousands of square miles to hide the Anco loot.
    “Still no visual yet,” Hager said, listening on his phone to the pursuing officers.
    “Damn. We’re going to lose him.”
    But then another officer called, “I just got a ping from Muller’s cell phone company—he’s turned on the phone and’s making a call. They’re tracing it . . .” A moment later he called out, “Okay. He’s headed northbound on La Ciena.”
    Another blue-tipped pin in the map.
    Hager relayed this information to the county cops. Then he listened and gave a laugh. “They’ve got the car! . . . Muller’s pulling into the Desert Rose trailer park . . . . Okay . . . . He’s parking at one of the trailers . . . . Getting out . . . . He’s talking to a white male, thirties,shaved head, tattoos . . . . The male’s nodding toward a shed on the back of the property . . . . They’re walking back there together . . . . They’re getting a package out of the shed . . . . Now they’re going inside.”
    “That’s good enough for me,” Carnegie announced. “Tell ’em to stay out of sight. We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Advise us if the suspect starts to leave.”
    As he started for the door, he said a silent prayer, thanking both the Lord—and Big Brother—for their help.

    The drive took closer to forty minutes but Jake Muller’s car was still parked in front of the rusty, lopsided trailer.
    The officers on the scene reported that the robber and his bald accomplice were still inside, presumably planning their escape from the jurisdiction.
    The four police cars from headquarters were parked several trailers away and nine Annandale cops, three armed with shotguns, were crouching behind sheds and weeds and rusty autos. Everybody kept low, mindful that Muller was armed.
    Carnegie and Hager eased forward toward the trailer. They had to handle the situation carefully. Unless they could catch a glimpse of the Anco payroll money through the door or window, or unless Muller carried it outside in plain view, they had no probable cause to arrest him. They circled the place but couldn’t see in; the door was closed and the curtains drawn.
    Hell, Carnegie thought, discouraged. Maybe they could—
    But then fate intervened.
    “Smell that?” Carnegie asked in a whisper.
    Hager frowned. “What?”
    “Coming from inside.”
    The sergeant inhaled deeply. “Pot or hash,” he said, nodding.
    This would give them probable cause to enter.
    “Let’s do it,” Hager whispered. And he gestured for the other officers to join him.
    One of the tactical cops asked if he should do the kick-in but Carnegie shook his head. “Nope. He’s mine.” He took off his suit jacket and strapped on a bulletproof vest then drew his automatic pistol.
    Gazing at the other officers, he mouthed, Ready?
    They nodded.
    The detective held up three fingers, then bent them down one at a time.
    One . . . two . . .
    “Go!”
    He shouldered open the door and rushed into the trailer, the other officers right behind him.
    “Freeze, freeze, police!” he shouted, looking around, squinting to see better in the dim light.
    The first thing he noticed was a large plastic bag of pot sitting by the doorway.
    The second thing was that the tattooed man’s visitor wasn’t Jake Muller at all; it was Carnegie’s own son, Billy.

    The detective stormed into the Annandale police station, flanked by Sergeant Hager. Behind them was another officer, escorting the sullen, handcuffed boy.
    The owner of the trailer—a biker with