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the intersection, scoot up to the next parallel street and make his turn. A cop would come ahead around but would close up fast and touch off his rollers. Only an idiot or a shooter would stay behind us. The car behind us made the turn with his headlights off.
    â€œHe’s still there,” said Ben. He got his foot into the gas. The torque raised the right front fender.
    â€œEase off,” I said. “This is a residential area. Just lock the doors and head for the bright lights.” My pistol started to itch, but it’s one of those things you just can’t scratch in polite company—or in front of your impressionable, almost seventeen-year-old son. “If this guy is dumb enough to think he’s still covered, let’s let him follow us down to the Kentwood Police Department.”
    The driver of the car following us waited until we were on Forty-fourth and he had a cover car before he pulled on his headlights. It had to be embarrassing for him because the oncoming cars kept flashing their lights. The stiff suspension on the Camaro made it hard to ID the make of our trail car in the vanity mirror.
    The parking lot of the Kentwood Police Department was an island of bright light in a sea of vacant land. To the west and the north apartment complexes stood silhouetted in the night-time glow of Grand Rapids. To the west and south fallow farm lands and feral orchards waited for the city to consume them. Kentwood dispatches through the county at night, so the doors were locked. I picked up the red telephone by the door.
    â€œEmergency operator,” said a sweet but mechanical female voice.
    â€œMy name is Art Hardin. My vehicle was vandalized in the parking lot at my office, and now I am being followed.”
    â€œWhere are you?”
    â€œAt the front door of the Kentwood Police Department.”
    â€œAre you alone?”
    â€œMy son’s with me,” I said.
    â€œHow old is your son?”
    â€œNearly seventeen.”
    â€œWhat kind of car was following you?”
    â€œKind of a small white car with a dark top. I’m not certain of the make or model.”
    She asked, “How many people were in the vehicle?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œDid you have some kind of altercation in traffic?”
    â€œNope,” I said.
    â€œHow do you know this car was following you?”
    â€œIt followed us through a half-dozen turns and made some of them with the headlights off.”
    â€œWell, if the car isn’t there now, perhaps you were mistaken,” she said.
    â€œI’m a detective, ma’am. There’s no mistake.”
    â€œWhat department are you with?”
    â€œI’m private.”
    â€œAre you armed?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” I said.
    â€œDo you have a permit?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œWhat’s your day job?”
    â€œI’m a detective—all day and all night.”
    â€œIf there’s no car there now, I can’t send a police officer. Perhaps you could come to the office in the morning and make a report.”
    â€œSure,” I said. She hung up while I was saying. “Thank you.” I went back to the car, climbed in, and hooked up my seat belt.
    â€œWhat did they say?” asked Ben.
    â€œTold me to take two aspirin and phone them in the morning. Let’s go home.”
    â€œThey didn’t say that,” said Ben. He turned on the radio—head-banger music. I turned it off.
    â€œNo way I’m listening to that,” I said.
    â€œI don’t want to listen to them ‘doo-wop’ oldies you always put on. What did they really say?”
    â€œThey wanted to know if the guy was here now. How about country?”
    â€œYou can listen to that while you’re riding with Daniel. That’s all he has on the buttons. I don’t see why you’re always so sarcastic about the police.”
    â€œI’m a child of the sixties,” I said.