The man shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Ali Masud.”

“Mr. Masud, do you recall anyone talking about a hit-and-run accident recently?”

“No, sir,” replied Masud. “I do not.”

Davidson studied all of the entries for July 9 and wrote down the cab numbers and then did the same for the next seven days. “Can you make a copy of this for me?” he asked Jamal.

“I would be happy to, sir,” said Jamal as he gathered up the book and walked over to a small Xerox machine.

Davidson turned his attention back to Masud. “Have you ever had a customer who needed repairs due to hitting a pedestrian?”

The Pakistani shrugged. “I would have to look back through the files.”

“I can’t expect you to remember something like that,” Davidson cracked.

Ali Masud didn’t respond.

Jamal returned with the copies and handed them to Davidson. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be more helpful.”

“Me too,” said Davidson as he removed a pair of handcuffs.

While he was sure all three of the men were lying, Vaughan had not witnessed anything that constituted an arrestable offense. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a false-arrest claim with Davidson. Leaning in, he said quietly, “What are you doing?”

“Time for plan B,” answered Davidson as he walked out of the office and onto the garage floor.

Vaughan followed him and was just in time to see him point to the mechanic from earlier and, holding the handcuffs at his side, say, “You. Put your tools down and come over here. You are under arrest.”

“Me?” said the mechanic.

“You.”

Davidson had only taken two steps toward him when the mechanic dropped his tools and bolted for the door.

Looking at Vaughan he yelled, “Get him! I’ll get the car.”

Vaughan made it out the door just in time to see the mechanic turn right at the corner. Chasing suspects was one of his least favorite parts about the job, but he took off after him.

Turning right at the corner, he saw the mechanic cross the street and turn into the alley. If there was one place you didn’t want to chase someone, it was into an alley. The problem was that these guys seldom ran across open, flower-strewn meadows.

The mechanic cut in between two buildings, leapt up onto a Dumpster, and flipped over a chain-link fence into a vacant lot. Vaughan was fifty yards behind him and closing.

At the far side of the lot, the mechanic hit the pavement and turned left. Vaughan had not chased a lot of Pakistanis, but if this was what he could expect the next time, he made a mental note to just take out his gun and shoot the guy.

“Stop running!” he yelled, but the Pakistani man wasn’t interested in following orders. Instead, he picked up his pace even further. This guy was running like his life was on the line.

Vaughan was pissed. Where the hell was Davidson?

They came to the next intersection and the mechanic didn’t even slow down. He ran right through traffic and almost got nailed. Horns were still blaring as Vaughan, who was tightening the gap, raced across the street after him.

Up ahead, the Pakistani began to slow down. Whatever reserves he had, he must have burned through them.

Nearing the middle of the block, he stopped and risked a glance backward.

“That’s right,” Vaughan yelled. “You fucking stop right there.”

The mechanic must have judged the distance and figured he had enough energy left to outrun the police officer, because something flickered over his face ever so briefly. It looked like a smile. He wasn’t stopping. He was just catching his breath.

That did it. Now Vaughan was really pissed. Not only was he going to catch this dirtbag, he was going to beat him full of courtesy with either an Emily Post guide or the Chicago phone book, whichever was thicker. Go ahead. Start running again, asshole, he thought to himself.

It was almost as if the Pakistani man could read his mind. With his eyes still glued to Vaughan, he sucked in a huge breath of air and took off once again.

He had only made it three steps when he stepped off the curb into the area where the alley met the street and Paul Davidson hit him with his Bronco.

The mechanic tumbled across the ground like a human lint roller, picking up shards of glass and loose gravel as he went. It wasn’t the worst road rash ever suffered by man, but for a guy that hadn’t been pitched off a bike or a motorcycle, it was pretty impressive.

By the time Vaughan reached them, Davidson had already leapt out of his truck and had the suspect’s arms pinned behind his back.

“They teach you that move in Public Vehicles?” asked Vaughan as he leaned against the building at the mouth of the alley and tried to catch his breath.

“My doctor says I shouldn’t exert myself,” replied Davidson as he snapped a pair of cuffs on the mechanic and yanked him to his feet.

“I am in pain,” complained the Pakistani.

“The party is just starting, my friend,” said Davidson as he led him into the alley and propped him up behind his truck.

His breathing slowly coming back under control, Vaughan walked back and joined them.

“I told you not to run.”

“I am sorry, sir,” replied the mechanic.

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Please, sir, I cannot go to the jail.”

Davidson laughed. “Oh, yes you can, my friend. And it is not a happy place.”

The Pakistani looked away from him and for some reason seemed to decide that Vaughan was the more rational and reasonable of the pair and focused on him. “Sir, please, no jail.”

“You should have thought of that before you started running.”

“Actually,” injected Davidson, “you should have thought of that before you started playing with cab medallions like they were refrigerator magnets.”

“I can pay you,” said the man. “I have money. Please.”

“Don’t do that,” said Vaughan. “Bribing a police officer is a very serious offense, and you are already in enough trouble as it is. What’s your name?”

“Javed Miraj.”

Davidson removed his notebook and wrote the man’s name down.

“Where do you live?”

The man answered and, after a few more questions about his background, Vaughan asked, “Why did you run?”

“I told you, sir,” said Miraj, “I do not wish to go to the jail.”

“I got that part. What I want to know is why you ran?”

The mechanic was quiet for several moments before responding. “If I go to the jail, I will be sent back to Pakistan.”

“You’re illegal.”

Javed Miraj hung his head and nodded.

Vaughan whistled. “Not good, Javed. Not good at all, my friend.”

“Unless you can convince a judge you’re from Mexico, you’re definitely going to be on the next plane out of here. Can you habla Español?”

Miraj looked up at Davidson and then turned his tearful eyes to Vaughan. “Please, sir. There are no jobs in my village in Pakistan. I send money to my family so they can buy food. If you send me home, we will all starve.”

“But look at it this way,” replied Davidson, placing an arm around his shoulder and steering him toward the passenger door. “At least you’ll all be together.”

“No,” implored the mechanic. “Please, sir, no. Do not send me back.”

“There’s nothing we can do. We have to follow the law. Besides, you should see what you did to the hood of my Bronco.”

“I can fix your Bronco, sir.”

“Wait a second,” said Vaughan, who had figured out Davidson’s plan B the moment he stepped out of the Crescent office waving a pair of handcuffs at the mechanic. “Maybe there is something we can do. Maybe, if Mr. Miraj can help us, we can help him.”

“Javed can’t help us. He’s going back to Pakistan.”

Vaughan looked at the man and shrugged. “Sorry, Javed.”

Miraj hung his head as Davidson opened the passenger door of his Bronco. Just as Davidson was about to place him inside, he took a deep breath and asked, “If I help you, you will help me?”