“I was thinking about hockey as a complex adaptive system for controlled violence, but then I stepped out on the street with the Mod Squad.” She turned to Lindsey. “That’s a baby boomer pop-culture reference.” Lindsey ignored her.
“It’s Mapstone,” Peralta groaned, waving his hand at me. “He spent fifteen years teaching college and now he just can’t get enough action.”
“Stop,” I said. It hurt to smile.
“He’s right, Dave.” Lindsey stroked my un-bruised hand. “You seem to be a magnet for this kind of thing.”
“I’ve never seen you draw down before.”
“I’ve never had to before,” she said quietly.
We were right across from Union Station, a charming Spanish mission-style building from the 1920s that sat dark and closed. The last passenger train had been canceled a few years ago. The building’s old stucco front glowed yellow-white in the reflected light of the street lamps. Off behind it, a freight train slowly trundled along, steel wheels clanking across steel rails. Several police cars and a fire truck were arrayed on the street in front of us. The cops were all in the building and the firemen, tall and bulked up, milled awkwardly around their truck, not sure whether to go or stay. A figure slumped in the back seat of one of the PPD cars, safely behind locked doors and Plexiglas prisoner screen: my antagonist from the elevator shaft.
Peralta and Lindsey filled me in on what had happened. They saw the bad guy too late, as he jumped out of the darkness and landed on me. It hurt all over again to hear them describe our roll into the wooden gate of the elevator shaft, and then through it. About that time, the guy’s partner took a shot at Peralta and got the hell out of the building before Peralta canceled his ticket for good.
Somewhere in the melee Peralta tore a nasty gash in his arm. Then there was nothing to do but try to get me out of the elevator shaft, a task that had to wait for the fire department. It was a good fifteen feet down there. Somehow I got out with just a twisted ankle, some bruises, and a black eye.
“At least we got two of the dirtbags,” Peralta said. “With any luck, PPD can find out who their friend is. They say there’s been a smash-and-grab gang of carjackers working downtown for a month. This is probably them.”
Peralta sniffed. “So much for their little bicycle patrols. You want a job done, call a deputy sheriff.”
“What about the women in the Benz?” I asked.
