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of the “twelve cell rule.”
    Kent County District Courts guarded the twelve cell rule jealously. Unarmed desperados who resisted arrest could be subdued within the twelve cell rule. The amount of force was calculated as follows: two strokes with a six cell, three strokes with a four cell, et cetera. I expected that Van Huis could probably subdue an ox with his six cell and stay within the budget. He flashed it up and down the side of my car.
    â€œWhat the hell make is this thing, anyway?” he asked. “There’s no emblem.”
    â€œBuick body, Olds engine, Chevy transmission.” I said. “Pick a brand you like and go with that. When they made this one, they all looked alike except for the bumpers and tail lights.”
    â€œWhere do you get off ragging on my van and driving a dinosaur like this?”
    â€œIt’s got five hundred horsepower.”
    â€œIt’s got bullet holes, for God’s sake,” said Van Huis.
    â€œI was a little slow making the jump to light speed.”
    â€œBut not in Kentwood?”
    â€œâ€™Course not,” I said.
    â€œI think the windshield job probably totaled it,” said Van Huis. “You still want a report for the insurance company?”
    â€œI want you to catch the perpetrators and bring them to justice.”
    Ben laughed.
    â€œMight have been eco-terrorists trying to get this thing off the road,” said Van Huis.
    I caught a glint of light off a puddle next to Van Huis’s foot. I pointed. “I think you got a clue, right next to you on the ground.”
    He searched out the puddle—really just a dribble—with his light. I stooped over, stuck my fingers in the liquid, and stood back up to inspect my fingers in the light of his torch. They shimmered pale green.
    â€œAntifreeze,” he said. “Probably yours.”
    I rubbed the liquid between my thumb and fingertips and held it under my nose. “No,” I said. “Hydraulic fluid.”
    â€œHydraulic fluid is red,” said Van Huis.
    â€œWhen it’s green, what does that mean?”
    Van Huis guessed. “Foreign car?”
    â€œIn this case a Jag, I think.”

6
    â€œD ANNY HAD A DOUBLE DATE so he took Mom’s car,” said Ben. We lined up at the stop sign with Detective Van Huis’s fake-woody minivan. He went left and Ben turned right onto Forty-fourth Street.
    â€œIt’s a school night,” I said.
    â€œDanny would’ve been in college if he hadn’t broke his leg and been in traction for six weeks.”
    â€œCoulda, shoulda, woulda,” I said. “Take the next …”
    I flopped down the visor and focused the vanity mirror out the rear window. We had three sets of headlights behind us.
    Ben flipped up the turn signal. “It’s a school play,” he said. He took his foot off the gas and pushed in the clutch.
    â€œOh yeah? What are they doing?”
    â€œOklahoma,”
he said, and eased into the turn—onto a residential street.
    â€œSorry I missed it.”
    â€œIt’s on again tomorrow and Friday,” said Ben. “What are we doing? Do we know somebody down here?”
    â€œNope. Checking for a tail.”
    â€œCool.”
    The car directly behind us passed the intersection, but the second one turned in after us. I watched for it to flash under the street light—a small white car with a dark top.
    â€œMaybe your mother and I will go see it on Friday,” I said. “Take the next right.”
    â€œFriday is sold out. We have somebody?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œCool.”
    â€œSignal a left turn but turn right.” I watched the car in the mirror. Ben flipped down the turn indicator and got on the clutch and brake for the turn. The car behind us signaled a left turn. We made the right.
    At this point the casual observer would think we were nuts, but a pro would know he was toasted or that I was cleaning myself. He’d pass