V Is for Vengeance

blocking my windshield so I couldn’t actually see out. I could hear the sound of a car idling and I assumed it was his patrol car. Around the edges of the cardboard screen, I could see flashes of red and blue, a Morse code of dots and dashes that spelled out you-are-so-screwed . I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just past midnight and pitch black outside. Except for the flashing lights, of course, which would probably alert everyone in the neighborhood that some kind of trouble was going down. I turned the key one notch in the ignition and lowered the window, saying, “Hi. How’re you?”
    “You’re parked on private property. Are you aware of it?”
    My mind was blank. How could I not be aware of it? I didn’t live here. I flashed on my alternatives—telling lies, fibbing, making stuff up, or telling the truth—and decided on the latter. Under the circumstances, lying was only going to make life more complicated and I didn’t want to risk it. “I’m a private investigator and I’m running a surveillance on the woman who lives in the house across the street.”
    He remained expressionless and kept his tone neutral. “Have you had anything to drink in the past two hours?”
    “No, sir.”
    “No wine, beer, cocktails of any kind?”
    “Honestly.” I put my hand over my heart as though reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.
    Unconvinced, he held up his flashlight, directing the beam into the backseat and the front, ostensibly looking for empty wine, beer, or whiskey bottles, weapons, illicit substances, or other evidence of bad behavior. I knew for a fact the flashlight was equipped to pick up traces of alcohol. Good luck to him. I had no outstanding wants or warrants, and if he insisted on a Breathalyzer test, I was going to blow a zero, which he must have realized when his tricky flashlight failed to detect even one particle of ethanol per gazillion. If he put me through a field sobriety test, I’d pass with flying colors unless he asked me to recite the alphabet backward. I’ve been meaning to practice that just in case, but so far I haven’t gotten around to it.
    “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the car.”
    “Sure.” I released the power locks and opened the car door. There was a second officer, standing in the street beside the patrol car, radio to his mouth, probably calling in the license plate number. Aside from my occasional (very minor) violations of the law, I consider myself a model citizen, easily intimidated by police officers when I know I’m in the wrong. I was guilty of trespassing and also in violation of municipal codes unknown to me, but very well known to the police. I was glad I hadn’t added public urination to my list of sins. I was also glad I didn’t have my handgun in my briefcase anywhere within range.
    Once I was out of the car, the officer said, “Would you turn around and face forward, put your hands out, and lean against the car?”
    He couldn’t have been more polite. I did as instructed and was subjected to a brisk but thoroughly professional pat-down. I wanted to volunteer the fact that I had no weapon, but I knew that would sound suspicious when he was already on red alert. Stops like this can turn deadly without warning or provocation. For all he knew, I was a parolee in violation of section such-and-such. I might have been a fugitive with a felony warrant out against me.
    “May I see your license and registration?”
    “I’ll have to reach into the glove compartment. Is that all right? My wallet’s in my shoulder bag.”
    He gestured his assent. This was the second time in twenty-four hours I’d been asked to provide identification. I slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to the glove compartment. Henry was meticulous about things of this sort, so I knew I could lay hands on the current paperwork, including proof of insurance. I found both and offered them to the officer. “The car belongs to my landlord,” I said. “He’s out of town and said I could drive the car in his absence to keep the battery from going dead.” I didn’t like talking to him from a seated position, but I wasn’t keen to exit the car again unless instructed to do so. Here are some handy little tips for those of you who don’t want to fall victim to deadly officer shootings: Do as you’re told. Don’t talk back. Don’t be rude or belligerent. Don’t try to escape. Don’t get back in your car and try to run over the nice