Derek shoved his gun back into its holster. “I’m done running in circles after these assholes. They’ve probably ditched the truck already. I’m going home.” As he opened the door of his patrol car, he cut a glance my way and paused. “Why are you wet and soapy? You didn’t do something dumb like go into the car wash on foot, did ya?” He issued a nasty cackle and had his phone out before it could register with me. Click.

Great. Derek was sure to share the embarrassing photo with everyone on the force. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how ridiculous and inept I felt.

“I do whatever it takes to get the job done,” I spat back at him. “I’m a dedicated cop.”

He snorted. “You’re an idiot is what you are.”

I looked down at Brigit. Her expression said, Sorry, partner. I’m with Derek on this one.

After Derek left, I turned back to the man who owned the truck. “The men who stole your car robbed a bank and a convenience store earlier today. Started a couple of fires, too.”

His brows shot up. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. Stole three cars, too, including yours.”

“My truck’s got OnStar,” he said. “Should I call them?”

Hell, yeah! “Right away,” I said. “See if they can g-get a location and slow it down.”

He nodded and pulled out his cell.

As he contacted OnStar, I radioed for a crime scene tech to come to the car wash and check the Accord for possible prints. Any on the outside had likely been eliminated by the brushes and bubble-gum spray, but it was possible one of the men had left a print inside.

Brigit and I returned to our cruiser. I moved it from where it blocked the entrance to the car wash and took a parking spot along the side of the building before placing a call to the pregnant woman and her husband. “We found your car,” I told them. “It’s intact. Baby seat’s still in it, too. Believe it or not, the car-jackers even washed it for you.” Of course the inside was a little wet, too, but it would dry out eventually.

“Thank goodness!” the husband said, his wife hoo-hoo-hah-hahing in the background. “I’ll send my in-laws over to pick it up.”

I told them I’d leave the keys with the attendant, whom I’d spotted returning with a bag from the taco place next door. “The crime scene tech will want to check the vehicle for prints before it’s released, but that shouldn’t take long.”

I went to the office, explained the situation to the car wash attendant, and handed him the keys. The stolen Accord dealt with and the truck owner still on his phone with OnStar, I used my radio to check in with the officer handling the accident the robbers had caused on their way to the car wash. “Any injuries?”

“Nothing serious,” he reported. “Only a few cuts and scrapes.”

“Good to hear.”

Again, the bad guys had gotten lucky. If anyone had been killed, they could have found themselves facing charges for criminally negligent homicide.

The loose ends now tied up, I logged onto my laptop to follow up on my theory that Christopher Vogel and Lewis Blakemore might somehow have a connection via trains. I typed in their names and the word train.

Bingo.

A site popped up for the Tarrant County Model Train Association. Vogel was noted on the site for his recent award, while Lewis Blakemore’s name appeared among current board members.

I whipped out my cell phone and dialed Detective Jackson.

She answered on the second ring. “Hello, Meg—”

“I figured out who robbed the bank and stole the bus!” Well, I’d figured out who two of the three men were, anyway. With a little more time and digging, I could probably discern the identity of the third member of their criminal enterprise.

After I’d told her what I’d found out and where I’d found the information, she pulled up the same website on her computer to take a look. “Good work, Megan. I’ll send teams to keep an eye on Vogel and Blakemore’s houses in case they return home.”

The wet man who owned the pickup stepped up to my cruiser and waved a hand.

“Hold on a second,” I told the detective. “The owner of the pickup may have some information from OnStar.”

I unrolled my window.

“The guy at OnStar says my truck is heading south on McCart. It’s just north of Berry Street right now.”

I relayed the info to Detective Jackson.

“Gotta love technology,” she said. “I’ll radio dispatch and get cars there pronto.”

With that, we ended the call.

I started my cruiser. “We’re going after them,” I told the truck’s owner. “Tell OnStar to slow the car. I’ll be back in touch.”

With tires squealing, siren wailing, and lights flashing, I pulled out of the car wash. Chances were another unit would reach the pickup before me, but if nothing else I wanted to witness the guys being cuffed and hauled away. I’d busted my butt on this case all day. I deserved some closure, the satisfaction of seeing my work pay off with a bust. If nothing else, I’d like to blow the men a big old in-your-face raspberry. Pfffft. Maybe I’d perform a little victory dance, too, force them to watch.

At the Collinsworth and University intersection, I cut my siren momentarily and eased past the evening shift officer directing traffic and a tow truck operator using his winch to pull the crushed Avenger up onto the truck’s platform.

As I turned onto University once again, my radio came to life. “Units in hot pursuit of bank robbery and car thief suspects,” the dispatcher said. “Pickup now heading north on University Drive.”

North on University?

The bad guys are coming back this way!

Blood racing through my veins, I turned my siren back on, drove halfway across the bridge, and pulled onto the median to await my quarry.

There they are!

The pickup raced toward me, two cruisers on its tail. Evidently OnStar hadn’t yet activated the slowdown feature. I floored my gas pedal and pulled into the oncoming lanes at an angle, blocking the way the best I could.

I performed my own version of Lamaze breathing as a surge of adrenaline caused my breath to come in quick, anxious bursts. Ha-uh-ha-uh.

The situation posed three possible outcomes.

One, the pickup would skid to a stop, and the men would realize they were blocked by cops at their front and rear and finally give themselves up. This was the best-case scenario.

Two, the pickup would skid to a stop, the men would bail from the vehicle and attempt to flee to the front or rear. Depending on whether any of them displayed a weapon, the men would be shot, tackled, Tasered, whacked with a baton, pepper-sprayed, or taken down by my furry, fleet-footed partner—assuming, of course, that the men didn’t take out us officers with gunfire first.

Or three, the driver of the stolen pickup could slam directly into my cruiser at a hundred miles an hour and we’d all perish in a horrific fireball, Seth left to find someone else with whom to drink margaritas. Gulp. I hoped the natural human instinct of self-preservation would lead the driver to swerve. I really wanted that margarita.

Just in case they were stupid enough to go with option three, I ordered Brigit to lay down in her enclosure, knowing the position would pose the least risk of injury to her. On instinct, I whipped out my baton and flicked my wrist to extend it. Snap!

Screeeeee!

The truck’s tires smoked as they grabbed the pavement on the bridge. The truck veered side to side as it careened toward my cruiser. Instinctively, I clenched my eyes closed, threw a hand up to cover my face, and held my breath. Ha-uh—!

The screeching stopped.

I opened my eyes to see the hood of the pickup millimeters from my passenger window. Thank God it had stopped in time.

“We’re up, girl!” I threw open my door, jumped from the vehicle, and let Brigit out of her enclosure.