The Murderer's Daughter

Chapter 37

The cop car was an aggressive little supercharged Mustang, the cop it discharged, a highway patrolman no older than Grace and probably younger. Medium height, solidly built, approaching with the usual swagger.

The suspicious cop-squint that verged on paranoia.

As he reached her driver’s window, she compiled more visual data: Hispanic, dark hair gelled, nice golden complexion but for a diagonal scar across the bridge of his nose. A badge that read M. Lopez.

By the time he arrived, Grace had fine-tuned the optimal smile: minimal, slightly intimidated but not antsy.

M. Lopez’s eyes were blocked by mirrored shades. His mouth was small, almost prissy. “License, registration, insurance.”

Grace obliged. “This is a rental, would you like my personal insurance?”

Instead of answering, he inspected the license. “Malibu. You’re a ways from home.”

“Road trip,” she said.

“All by yourself, ma’am?”

“Meeting friends in Carmel.”

“Nice place.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hmm... you know why I stopped you.”

“Sorry, I don’t.”

“I spotted you talking on a cellphone. Followed you and watched you continue the conversation for a prolonged period of time.”

Not prolonged enough to spot me hauling at eighty per. And swerving. He’d watched her for only a few moments — the tail end of her conversation — but that was enough.

Grace said, “Oh. Yes, I was, Officer. Darn. I asked the rental agency for hands-off, they didn’t have it.”

“That doesn’t excuse you, ma’am. What you did was extremely dangerous,” said M. Lopez. He leaned in closer. “Driver distraction is one of the most frequent causes of fatal accidents.”

“I know, I feel like a total idiot. My only excuse was that it was a patient emergency.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Psychologist.”

He studied her. “You can prove that.”

Grace showed him her state license.

M. Lopez said, “Well... it’s still dangerous, Doctor. Don’t imagine your patient would appreciate having her therapist smashed to bits.”

Her. Assuming women talked to women.

Grace allowed her smile to widen. “No, that wouldn’t be helpful for her.”

Her attempt at wit fell flat; M. Lopez just stared at her. Grace pretended his eyes were warming up behind the shades and that helped her maintain her cool.

She said, “Collision therapy, that would be a first.”

His lips twitched. Fighting not to smile back. He lost the battle, permitted himself a partial grin.

They always lost.

As he began to feel more friendly, the rest of his body agreed, posture relaxing. Removing his shades, he revealed big, soft brown eyes. “Patient emergency, huh? Like what?”

“I can’t tell you that, Officer. Strict confidentiality.”

That seemed to please him. With cops, you were always passing tests. With anyone.

M. Lopez said, “You won’t say even if it means you get a citation?”

“Even so,” said Grace. “Guilty as charged, I’ll take my medicine.”

M. Lopez’s little mouth screwed up like a pig’s tail. The radio on his belt squawked. He picked up and listened and barked, “Ten-four.” To Grace: “Gotta run, Doctor. Big crash back a few miles. Ambulances and all. Maybe due to driver distraction. Someone else’s disaster is your lucky day.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

M. Lopez waved her papers before returning them. “But let’s not count on any more luck, okay? No more cellphone, even with a patient emergency. You exit in a safe place and commence, okay, ma’am?”

“I promise.”

“Good.” Needing the last word; Grace let him have it.

Returning to his hot rod, he revved and swooped onto the highway at an outrageously excessive speed, lights rotating, siren on full-alarm.

Completing the fifteen-second drag race to the nearest exit before vanishing in a Doppler cloud of noise.

Grace let out breath slowly, said, “You’ve still got it working, girl,” and drove off.

Or maybe her charm had nothing to do with it and M. Lopez had it right: Someone else’s misfortune was her lucky break.

If she didn’t think it amoral and futile she’d have prayed for more of the same.