Niceville

you fucking asshole—”
    The State car was pulling alongside, the window coming down—
    “Sir, without an ID number I can’t stop a—”
    “Yes, you fucking can, you dumb cock—”
    The line went dead.
    Deitz looked to his left and he was looking at a young black female cop who was looking back at him and making a
pull-the-fuck-over
sign.
    Deitz powered his window down.
    “Look, I’m FBI, okay—”
    The wind was whipping his words away.
    She shook her head at him, made an emphatic gesture for him to pull over.
    Now the driver was on his bullhorn.
    Pull to the right and stop
.
    Pull to the right and stop now
.
    Deitz thought about pulling away. He also thought about shooting them both dead and
then
pulling away. He could not
believe
the day he was—
    Bam
.
    He jumped in his seat, the wheel going bats under his hand, looked to his left and the young lady cop was holding a Remington 12-gauge out the window and she was aiming it at his left front wheel again, steadying it on the window frame.
    The truck was already wobbling and he had to fight to keep it from rolling—it was weaving crazily from side to side, lurching like a moose on a log—he jammed on the brakes, the nose took a dive, and he managed to get it settled enough to roll it onto the right shoulder.
    He shut the engine off and looked up at two highly pissed-off State cops leaning on the far side of the cruiser hood and he was also looking down the muzzles of a Remington 12-gauge and a Glock 17.
    He popped the door, thinking how was he going to chill these cops, maybe even get them to stop the Lear—no, he’d have to tell them why and then he’d be—
    “Stay in your vehicle,” the lady cop was shouting. “Stick both hands out the side window. Do it now.”
    Deitz did as he was told.
    “You shot my fucking car!”
    “Just stay where you are.”
    The male cop moved out to the left to get a line of fire that allowed the lady cop to come up to the driver’s-side window without getting in his way. She still had the shotgun in her hand, but the muzzle was pointed down.
    She stood there at his window for a second, breathing hard, her eyes wide and angry. Deitz had his license out and he handed it to her.
    “You shot my car, officer!”
    “No idea what you’re talking about. You had a blowout while speeding … Mr. Ditz.”
    “Deetz, officer. It’s pronounced Deetz.”
    She looked down at his license, shoved it into her uniform pocket.
    “Insurance and registration, Mr. Ditz.”
    “Deetz. Not Ditz. Look, officer, I’m sorry about—”
    “Insurance and registration. Now.”
    Deitz leaned over to open the storage panel beside him. As he did this, he felt the shotgun muzzle come up again. She was one totally wired cop, that was for sure. He moved very slowly, riffled through the compartment, came up with the vehicle ownership and the insurance binder.
    She was watching his hands as he did so and when he gave her the papers he saw her eyes slip past and focus on something in the cup holder. Her expression got even harder.
    He looked where she was looking.
    Saw the pill bottle.
    Thad Llewellyn’s Happy Caps.
    “You taking medication, Mr. Ditz?”
    Deitz looked at the bottle, and then back at her.
    “No. Ah, those belong to a friend—”
    “May I see the bottle, please?”
    Illegal search
, he was thinking.
This is just a speeding bust. Gives her no rights to search the fucking truck. I don’t have to show her dick all
.
    “Ah, look, officer …” He looked at her name tag. “Officer Martinez. I’m the head of Securicom—I’m ex-FBI—I’m real sorry about all this and I’m sincerely apologizing for the speeding. I’m in the middle of an emergency here and I sorta lost it back there, but how about you just write me up and let me—”
    “The bottle, Mr. Ditz.”
    “Look, lady, I’m a cop too, in case you fucking missed it, and the fact is, I don’t have to show you any fucking thing other than my license and—”
    “Plain sight, Mr. Ditz. That bottle is in plain sight. During a traffic stop, I have the right to examine any object in plain sight. Are you refusing to show me that bottle?”
    Deitz sighed, picked the bottle up, and handed it to her through the window. She turned the bottle in her left hand, reading the label.
    “This prescription medication is not in your name, Mr. Ditz. It’s in the name of a T. Llewellyn.”
    “Yeah. I know. He’s my banker. I guess he left it in the car the other …”
    His