Chapter Forty-one

Wolper caught up with Brand a few yards outside the arcade. He grabbed the sergeant by the shoulder and spun him around.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Wolper shouted. "Why'd you cut and run when we saw you?"

"Guess I wasn't in the mood for company."

Wolper flung Brand backward onto the hood of somebody's Chevy. Brand put up an instinctive effort at resistance. Wolper slammed him down harder, denting the hood.

On the sidewalk a few people stopped to stare. Wolper threw open his jacket, revealing his 9mm. "Police business," he snapped.

That scattered the onlookers. Nobody wanted to get mixed up in any police action.

When he was satisfied that his audience was gone, Wolper opened the folds of Brand's windbreaker and withdrew the man's gun from its armpit holster.

"This your off-duty piece?" he asked.

"You know it is."

Wolper glanced at the gun in the ambient glow of street lamps and neon signs. Standard Berettathe registration number had not been filed off or erased with acid. The piece was street legal and traceable.

"Stand up," he ordered.

"Come on, Roy, what the fuck is this?"

"Just stand up, God damn it."

Brand dismounted the hood of the Chevy with whatever dignity he could summon. Wolper turned him around to face the side of the car.

"Spread 'em."

"You're patting me down, for Christ's sake?"

Without answering, Wolper shoved Brand up against the car and proceeded to do a body search.

There was no other weapon. Brand would have had to strap it to his leg in an ankle holster or tuck it into his belt, or conceal it in one of the windbreaker's pockets, possibly a secret pocket sewn into the lining. Nothing was there.

"You're clean," Wolper said finally, giving the Beretta back to Brand.

"I'm a good little boy," Brand mumbled as he reholstered the gun.

Wolper looked him over with a wary, skeptical eye. "I don't know about that, Al. I really don't. Now I'll tell you what. You and myself are going to have a talk, and when we're done, we're going inside so you can explain yourself to Robin Cameron."

"I've got nothing to say to her," Brand muttered with the stubborn, sullen frown of a disgruntled child.

"You'll have plenty to say to her and to me. As far as you're concerned, the doctor is in." Wolper leaned close, watching Brand's eyes and trying to catch any scent of alcohol on his breath. "Whatever you're up to, Al, I don't like it. We're already dealing with one pain-in-the-ass SOB who likes to play games. We don't need another one. You get what I'm saying?"

Brand faced Wolper's gaze for a long moment without blinking. "No games," he said in a beaten voice. "I get it."

"I hope you do," Wolper told him. "For your sake, I hope you do."