Lights had come on in the alley, and only after a moment or two did I realize they were colored lights. Blue and red. A Detroit cop car nosed its way into the mouth of the alley.

Now I knew why Randy had taken off instead of staying around to finish the job. He’d been able to hear sirens. I hadn’t.

I couldn’t stand anymore. My legs kind of gave out, and I sat down on the pavement. Another Detroit cop car slid to a stop behind the first one. The driver’s door of the first squad car opened and a big guy got out. He held his gun up and pointed at me. Boy, that was the second gun pointed at me in a matter of minutes, and I sure didn’t like it.

He slowly walked up to me. Not worried, but not entirely casual either. I imagined he could see the bullet holes in the rear window.

He waited a long moment, almost studying me with a bemused expression. I figured he would tell me to put my hands up, or to get on my stomach on the ground while he frisked me or took a whack at me with a nightstick.

He did neither.

Instead, he spoke to me. And when he did, his voice sounded beyond casual. He sounded bored.

“License and registration,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“It wasn’t a bullet,” I said.

“Oh, don’t give me that shit,” Anna said. I’d gone through the expected ordeal: a statement at the police department in Detroit, several informational interrogations, paperwork up the yin yang, a stop at the emergency room for two stitches on my arm, and now, several hours later, I’d finally come home.

“I’d tell you if I’d been shot,” I said. “They taught us that in marriage class. Always tell your partner about gunshot wounds.”

“What is it then?” she said, ignoring me. Her tone was high, cynical, and severely pissed off.

“A chunk of metal from the car,” I said. The truth was the doctor hadn’t been entirely sure. It could have been a fragment from the bullet. A fragment from the windshield. Or, much less likely, a scrape from the car. In all likelihood, I had been shot. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to say it to my wife.

“Shrapnel from the bullet?”

“No, I think it was from the car crashing into the wall,” I said. “I always hated that Taurus.”

“Good, John, keep making jokes. This is all very funny,” Anna said. I was about to respond when the doorbell rang. Anna answered the door, and I heard Ellen’s voice. I groaned inwardly.

“Well, if it isn’t the Terminator,” Ellen said, waltzing into the kitchen. She went to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“What the fuck is going on here, Ellen?” Anna said. Ellen just shook her head, took a pull from her beer, and looked at me. Anna stopped looking at Ellen and turned to me. With both of them staring at me, I felt like a rotisserie chicken. Skewered and about to be thoroughly roasted.

My wife and my sister. Talk about the proverbial rock and a hard place.

“He was always a terrible driver,” Ellen finally said. “In Driver’s Ed in high school, I remember when he was out on a country road and the instructor told him to turn, he drove into the cornfield.” She started laughing. “And then the teacher, Mr. Darnell, said, ‘I meant turn at the intersection up ahead.’” Now Ellen really went off. The good thing was that she was obviously trying to lighten the situation for Anna, not for me. The worst part was that the stupid-ass story was true.

Anna looked like she still wanted to strangle both of us. My sister and I don’t have much in common, but dry sarcasm at inopportune times is about the only genetic strain we share.

“What were you thinking, chasing this guy around on your own?” Anna said.

“I couldn’t call Ellen. I didn’t know anything about the guy,” I said. “Hornsby had made an offhand comment about his worker, a guy named Randy, calling in sick. I thought I should follow up, even though I figured it was a waste of time. And if it was a waste of time for me, it sure as hell would have been for her.”

“Spoken like a true Grosse Pointe taxpayer,” Ellen said. “Very considerate of you, John.”

“How was I supposed to know that this Randy guy turned out to be such an asshole?”

“Had you even considered it?” Anna said.

“Well, I think everyone’s a potential asshole,” I said.

Ellen sort of laughed at that. Anna’s heat dial went up a notch.

“Well, it wasn’t a total waste of time,” Ellen said. “The guy is obviously bad news. Why do you suppose he took such exception with you, John? Other than the obvious.”

I looked at her then wondered why the hell I didn’t have a beer. Jeez, a guy gets in a gunfight and nobody offers him a beer. I puffed up my chest like a prized rooster and grabbed a beer from the fridge. Before I could twist off the top, Anna snatched the bottle from my hand.

“Doctor’s orders,” she said. Then she twisted off the cap and took a long drink. A regular Florence Nightingale.

“Why’d he try to kill you, John?” Ellen asked again. As tough as my wife was, when my sister got that tone in her voice, it seemed like even the air in the room started looking for a way out.

“Driving a piece of shit Nova would make me feel pretty murderous too,” I said.

Anna slammed her hand down on the counter. Some of her beer sloshed onto the table. “This is not funny!”

“Did you find out anything about Randy Watkins?” I asked Ellen. Right after the Detroit cop had called an ambulance and given me back my license and registration, I’d called her and told her what I knew.

“Ordinarily I wouldn’t share information with a loose cannon such as yourself,” she said. “But I suppose I can make an exception this time.”

“Don’t do him any favors,” Anna said.

“The Randy Watkins identity is entirely fictitious,” Ellen said. “He was renting that apartment month-to-month, and the information he’d provided to the landlord was all bogus. And he always paid his rent in cash.”

“The car?”

“We’re still checking.”

“You should be able to pull the slugs from my car,” I said. “Might get something useful.”

“Thanks for the tip, Perry Mason.” Ellen said. “It is, in fact, on its way to the crime lab.”

“So the car’s totaled,” Anna said.

I nodded.

“Does that mean you’ll have to use the minivan?” she said. This was good; we were back to practical matters. Much safer ground.

I shook my head. “As fine and sporty-looking a vehicle as it is, I’ll be renting a car. My insurance covers it.”

Ellen drained the rest of her beer and set it on the counter by the back door.

“Thanks for the beer,” she said. “Anna, when he gets sick or even the tiniest scratch, he turns into the world’s biggest baby.”

“I know,” my dear wife said.

“Just ignore him.”

“I will.”

Ellen walked by me and punched me on the arm. Yes, that arm.

I gave a little yelp.

“See what I mean?” Ellen said.

I glanced over at Anna who took a drink from her beer. I could have been wrong, but it looked like she was laughing.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” I said.

The Enterprise car rental customer representative, a Bill Gates look-alike circa seventeen years old, sort of smirked and looked out at the waiting room. It was totally empty.

“Sorry, man,” he said, a hint of camaraderie in his voice. “I feel for you.”

Just outside, another Enterprise employee had just pulled up my rental car.

A Pontiac Sunbird.

White.

And a two-door.