Beginner's Luck

She had first started to wonder about him when he opened her car door. He hadn't made any attempt to preserve any fingerprints that the suspect might have left on the handle. It could have been carelessness, though. From her vast reading of true crime books, she knew that police officers sometimes botch up evidence.

The battered green van, however, with its broken tail light and Nevada license plate, had set off an alarm in her mind.

At that point, she had wanted to see his identification and get a look at his handgun. She knew that regulation issue for the department was a .38-caliber revolver.

This guy was carrying a semiautomatic. But plainclothes officers might be allowed to carry the weapon of their choice. She just wasn't sure about that.

She was sure about his badge. It looked like a Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office star, not the shield of the Santa Monica Police Department. Stevens had claimed to be with the police department. His quick flash of the wrong badge had changed Joyce's suspicions into a dark certainty.

For a final test, she had led him into the story of her capturing the thieves. "Sure," he'd said, "now I remember." If he truly remembered the case, however, he would have known that the two men had not been after rare coins. Her father owned a jewelry store, not a coin shop. The evidence was all against him.

He wasn't a cop. More than likely, he'd been inside his van when Joyce drove into her parking place. And he'd seen her climb out. That's how he matched her up with her car. He hadn't seen any prowler. He didn't have a partner. "In fact," Joyce thought with some relief, "the camera and binoculars are probably still under the seat." She had only his word that they'd been stolen. And he was lying about everything else. That, she supposed, was the cloud's silver lining.

Not a lot to cheer about.

Not when you're riding through downtown Santa Monica with a kidnapper---or worse.

Joyce felt herself start to panic. "Calm down," she thought. "If you fall to pieces, he'll know you're onto him. So far, you've got him fooled."

"I might become a policewoman," she said, breaking the silence. "I've been taking some police science courses in college. They're research for my writing, you know, but I should probably have some kind of job in case I can't make a living as an author." She was pleased that her voice sounded steady.

"Good idea," Stevens said. He turned right.

"Could I have a look at your side arm?" she asked.

He looked at Joyce as if he thought she had lost her mind.

"I'll be careful," she said.

"It's against regulations," he said.

"You're good," Joyce thought. "But not good enough."

She hadn't really expected Stevens to hand the gun to her. But it had been worth a try.

After stopping at a traffic light, he picked up speed crossing the intersection. Joyce guessed he was doing 20 miles an hour in the curb lane when she swung up her right hand. The bag in her grip, loaded with the five magazines, whapped him solidly on the nose. Stevens yelped with surprise. Twisting in her seat, Joyce used her other hand to tug the steering wheel. The van lurched to the right and bounded over the curb. She threw herself against the door, jerked its handle, and tumbled out.

She seemed to fall for a long time. Her shoulder hit the sidewalk. She cried out in pain and clutched her head as she tumbled over the concrete. She was still rolling when she heard the loud crash of the van.

She staggered to her feet. The van had smashed right into the wall of a bank.

A security guard came running out of the bank door, a hand on his holstered pistol.

"Draw it!" Joyce yelled to the guard. "He's got a gun! He kidnapped me!" Scowling, the bank guard drew his revolver and ran toward the van.

Joyce followed, staying some distance behind him.

She watched the guard shove his weapon into the driver's window. Then, stepping back, he pulled open the door. Stevens fell to the sidewalk and didn't move.