Read Online Fugitive Nights by Joseph Wambaugh - Free Book Online

its name in 1850 when an army engineer—probably drinking fermented cactus juice—saw something in the canyon that resembled a cathedral. But it was an affordable town for cops.
    Breda decided she needed a bike ride, and there was enough daylight left. Aside from her Datsun Z, her other luxury in life was a Tour de France-class custom bicycle with a Holland frame. She’d saved up a long time for the bike, and had ridden it in a fifty-mile endurance run down in Baja California, from Rosarito Beach to Ensenada. Every time she’d passed a shabby Mexican kid watching that race she’d wondered if her $2,500 bike was worth more than the shack the kid lived in. Gringo guilt had ridden on her shoulder that day and slowed her down a bit.
    Even in a pack of bikers she felt alone, and that was good. Breda’s favorite place to ride was in the Indio Hills, where she could gain downhill speeds up to fifty miles per hour. But she never went biking without a seat pack. Her .38 two-inch revolver was in the pack.
    Once, while biking on a lonely road near Desert Hot Springs, two dirtbag rednecks in a raggedy pickup truck had played bumper tag, forcing her off the road. They were the kind that rushed out to shoot a spotted owl as soon as it was designated an endangered species in order to get theirs while they had the chance. The kind who hung signs that said “Rattlesnake Farm” on their front gates to ensure privacy, as though anyone wanted to see them in the first place.
    One of them had slouched toward her with a beer in his hand, and said, “Hey, pretty baby, you’re a long ways from home. Put that bike in the back. We’ll take you where you’re goin.”
    Before she could get her bike back onto the asphalt, the other guy, whose only clean flesh was along his upper lip where he’d been licking off the suds, said, “Get in the truck, sweet stuff.”
    Breda heaved a sigh and opened her seat pack. By the time she’d bicycled away that afternoon, they were both lying face down on the sand behind their pickup, fingers interlocked behind their heads, whining about how they were only kidding. She’d told them she realized it was awfully hot, but their radiator had enough water in it and the antifreeze probably didn’t taste as bad as some of the swill they’d consumed in their time, and maybe they should keep their traps shut or she just might forget to keep reminding herself that they were all fellow mammals here.
    She’d flattened two tires and took their ignition key with her, tossing it away in the desert. It was actually one of the most enjoyable biking experiences she’d ever had and she’d slept like a baby that night.
    Breda Burrows was feeling a lot better about things when, wearing her black Coolmax shirt and black Lycra pants, she bicycled out Ramon Road to Bob Hope Drive, then right, past Dinah Shore Drive to Frank Sinatra Drive, where she made another right and stopped at the oleander-encircled estate of publisher Walter Annenberg, who threw the biggest New Year’s bash in the desert, one that Ronald Reagan never missed.
    Two private guards were out front, and Breda, covered with a fine layer of sweat and feeling euphoric, yelled to them, “ Again he didn’t invite me on New Year’s Eve!”
    The guards grinned and waved, and with her earth-brown hair streaming from under the helmet, Breda sprinted past Tamarisk Country Club, the home of Old Blue Eyes himself. Then she was back on Highway 111 pumping toward Cathedral City, no longer feeling all nutted up from her encounter with Lynn Cutter.
    Breda overtook a sheriff’s unit cruising in the slow lane, and instantly felt a pang of camaraderie. The female deputy was pretty, and as young as Breda had been when she’d started on the job. Breda wondered how long it would be before they put an attractive kid like that into vice duty, the John Squad, make her go out there on the