Persuader

with you," he said. "Before I go public with it and move myself up a rung or two." There was silence.
    "How would you do that?" I asked.
    "By telling them an extra little thing they don't know about yet," he said. "Maybe I'll even earn myself a nice big bonus. Like, maybe I'll get the five grand they earmarked for you." I pressed the Glock's trigger lock in my pocket. Glanced to my left. I could see all the way through to the back office window. Beck and Duke were standing by the Cadillac.
    They had their backs to me. They were forty feet away. Too close.
    "I dumped the Maxima for you," Doll said.
    "Where?"
    "Doesn't matter," he said. Then he smiled again.
    "What?" I said again.
    "You stole it, right? At random, from a shopping mall."
    "So?"
    "It had Massachusetts plates," he said. "They were phony. No such number has ever been issued." Mistakes, coming back to haunt me. I said nothing.
    "So I checked the VIN," he said. "The vehicle identification number. All cars have them.
    On a little metal plate, top of the dash."
    "I know," I said.
    "It came back as a Maxima," he said. "So far, so good. But it was registered in New York. To a bad boy who was arrested five weeks ago. By the government." I said nothing.
    "You want to explain all that?" he said.
    I didn't answer.
    "Maybe they'll let me waste you myself," he said. "I might enjoy that."
    "You think?"
    "I've wasted people before," he said, like he had something to prove.
    "How many?" I said.
    "Enough." I glanced through the back office window. Let go of the Glock and took my hands out of my pockets, empty.
    "The New York DMV list must be out-of-date," I said. "It was an old car. Could have been sold out of state a year ago. You check the authentication code?"
    "Where?"
    "Top of the screen, on the right. It needs to have the right numbers in it to be up-to-date. I was a military cop. I've been in the New York DMV system more times than you have."
    "I hate MPs," he said.
    I watched his gun.
    "I don't care who you hate," I said. "I'm just telling you I know how those systems work.
    And that I've made the same mistake. More than once." He was quiet for a beat.
    "That's bullshit," he said.
    Now I smiled.
    "So go ahead," I said. "Embarrass yourself. No skin off my nose." He sat still for a long moment. Then he swapped the gun from his right hand to his left and got busy with the mouse. He tried to keep one eye on me while he clicked and scrolled. I moved a little, like I was interested in the screen. The New York DMV search page came up. I moved a little more, around behind his shoulder. He entered what must have been the Maxima's original plate number, apparently from memory. He hit search now. The screen redrew. I moved again, like I was all set to prove him wrong.
    "Where?" he asked.
    "Right there," I said, and started to point at the monitor. But I was pointing with both hands and all ten fingers and they didn't make it to the screen. My right hand stopped at his neck. My left took the gun out of his left. It dropped on the floor and sounded exactly like a pound of steel hitting a plywood board covered with linoleum. I kept my eyes on the office window. Beck and Duke still had their backs to me. I got both hands around Doll's neck and squeezed. He thrashed around wildly. Fought back. I shifted my grip.
    The chair fell over under him. I squeezed harder. Watched the window. Beck and Duke were just standing there. Their backs to me. Their breath was misting in front of them.
    Doll started clawing at my wrists. I squeezed harder still. His tongue came out of his mouth. Then he did the smart thing and gave up on my wrists and reached up behind him and went for my eyes. I pulled my head back and hooked one hand under his jaw and put the other flat against the side of his head. Wrenched his jaw hard to the right and smashed his head downward to the left and broke his neck.
    I stood the chair upright again and pushed it in neatly behind the desk. Picked up his gun and ejected the magazine. It was full. Eight bottle-necked 5.45 millimeter Soviet Pistol shells. They're roughly the same size as a .22, and they're slow, but they're supposed to hit pretty hard. Soviet security forces were supposed to be happy enough with them. I checked the chamber. There was a round in it. I checked the action. It had been set to fire.
    I reassembled the whole thing and left it cocked and locked. Put it in my left-hand pocket.
    Then I went through his clothes. He had all the usual stuff. A wallet,