While Derek drove around to the exit, I parked my cruiser sideways across the entrance to prevent anyone else from entering the bay. I opened the back door to let Brigit out. If the men attempted to flee on foot once the car emerged at the exit, her services could come in handy. “Come on, girl.”

She hopped down, her tail wagging as if she were looking forward to a chase.

As Brigit and I stood there, I began to fume. When Derek and I had been partners, he’d always made me do the grunt work, forced me frisk suspected drug dealers and risk the needle prick, ordered me to get out in the rain to write traffic tickets, left me to wrangle the drunk and disorderly suspects while he stood by laughing when one of them threw a fist at me or puked on my shoes. Once again, I would do the bulk of the work and Derek would get the credit.

Or would he?

Maybe I could get a worker to stop the machines so that Brigit and I could enter from the front and nab the suspects as they sat in the car.

Next to the bay was a door marked OFFICE set in the cinder block wall. I hurried over, Brigit trotting along with me. I peered through the narrow glass panel at the top of the door but saw nobody inside. I knocked anyway, but saw no movement inside. Is the attendant outside somewhere? I hurriedly glanced around but saw no one.

Surely there was an emergency shutoff switch somewhere. I led Brigit back to the entrance. I found a box mounted on the left wall that looked promising. Unfortunately, a key was required to open it. I toyed briefly with the idea of smashing it with my baton, but decided against it, realizing the property damage would be difficult to justify.

Undeterred, I decided to head into the bay on foot. The brushes and pads should be easy enough to avoid if I stuck to the side wall. All I risked was getting a little bit wet. Right?

I wrapped Brigit’s leash tight around my hand. “Come on, girl. We’re going in.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

This Ain’t No Dog Wash

Brigit

Oh, hell no. If Megan thought Brigit would voluntarily go into a car wash she must be smoking catnip.

Brigit sat on her haunches, dug in her heels, and pulled back on the leash with all the force she could muster.

“Come on!” her partner demanded.

Still Brigit resisted. She realized doing so would mean her partner would be stingy with the liver treats for a while and that she might renege on that spoonful of peanut butter, but the dog would deal with it.

“All right,” Megan spat. “Have it your way.” She quickly tied Brigit’s leash to the door handle of the cruiser, turned, and ran into the car wash.

Yep, definitely on the catnip.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A Clean Getaway

The Switchman

As the soapy water rained down and the big blue brushes rolled over the car, the Switchman’s gut puckered with guilt and disgrace, shame and self-loathing, terror and regret. He’d wanted to see where this new bold course would take him, but if they got caught it would take him to jail—the last place he wanted to go.

Last week when Grant had looked him in the eye, flashed that arrogant grin, and asked whether he, too, thought Serena’s appendix scar was oddly sexy, something inside him had snapped. That bastard had defiled the woman he loved. The woman he thought loved him back. For that he must suffer.

Only Grant hadn’t suffered. Instead, he’d jerked his head back before the Switchman could land a single punch. The Switchman had never felt so furious, so betrayed, so frustrated and powerless.

Sure, he’d wanted to prove to himself that he wasn’t the pushover everyone thought him to be, that he could be wild and reckless and tough and dangerous. But as he sat trapped in the stolen foam-covered car, listening to the sound of the sirens as the cops pulled into the parking lot, he wished he could go back in time and undo everything he’d done today.

It had all been a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake.

And now all three of them would have to face the music.

Or would they?

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Brush with Death

Megan

The blue brush swung down from the ceiling, the bristles whipping against me, threatening to rip my skin from my body. I’d thought I’d be able to sneak along the wall, but the margin was much smaller than I’d anticipated, only six inches or so. There’d been no way to avoid the deluge of bubble-gum scented foam that nearly blinded me, the long hanging cloths that bitch-slapped me from both the left and right, and the high-pressure undercarriage spray that blasted me from below, going right up my nose.

Dear God, this was a stupid idea! Brigit had been right to refuse to come into the car wash.

What did it say that my K-9 partner was smarter than me?

Kadunk. Thirty feet into the bay the twirling sprayers dropped down in front of me, spinning like the blades of an airplane propeller. No way could I make it safely past them. I had to turn around or risk a concussion.

Arghhhh!

I emerged, drenched and humiliated, but still undeterred. I untied Brigit, ordered her to stay by my side, and stepped to the corner of the building where I could keep an eye on the entrance yet watch for action at the exit, also. A hundred and twenty feet away, Derek crouched next to the building, his gun held at his shoulder.

As I watched, a freshly cleaned forest green pickup pulled out of the exit, gleaming in the sun, leaving a wet trail as the remaining water dripped from it. The black man at the wheel cast a glance my way as he drove past. He had no idea how close he’d come to Fort Worth’s three most wanted.

Derek stood and gestured frantically. “Get down here, Luz!” he shouted. “The Accord’s coming out!”

I ran as fast as I could to the exit, leaving my own wet trail, Brigit galloping along beside me. I reached the exit to find Derek staring slack-jawed at an empty white Accord that had rolled off the conveyer. The car remained in neutral and the engine was still running, the keys in the ignition.

“What the hell?” Derek growled. “Where are they?”

“Help! Help me!” came a voice from the car’s closed trunk, the desperate cry followed by a bang-bang-bang as the hostage pounded on the inside.

I ordered Brigit to stay where she was. Running around to the driver’s side, I hopped inside and steered the car to a stop where it wouldn’t be hit by the Cadillac now emerging from the bay. I turned off the engine, yanked the keys from the ignition, and leapt from the car, running around to the back and pushing the trunk release button on the key chain.

Pop!

The trunk flew open to reveal a middle-age man as wet and soapy as me.

“Three men came at me in the car wash!” he bellowed, his eyes wide. “They had a rifle and forced me out of my truck!”

Truck?

Holy hell! The guy who’d just driven the pickup past us must have been one of the robbers. The other two had probably hunkered down on the seat and floorboards or laid low in the bed, out of sight. I mentally chastised myself for not having the foresight to check the truck before allowing it to depart the premises.

You screwed up, Megan.

The guys we were after were either incredibly clever or incredibly lucky. I wasn’t sure which. But either way it looked like I wouldn’t be taking them in, after all. Everything in me told me go home, clean up, and meet Seth for that margarita. But, no. My dogged determination refused to let me turn the case over to the evening shift. Besides, I had some leads to follow up on.

We obtained the truck’s license plate from the man and I had dispatch issue an all-points bulletin.