hissed through her teeth.
"What?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Nothing," she said. "I'm just a little nervous."
"If he did get in, you probably just loused up his fingerprints," she thought. But she didn't say it because she didn't want to embarrass him.
Stevens ducked low and slid a hand under the drivers seat. He straightened up slowly, shook his head, and turned to Joyce. "Nothing there," he said. "I'm afraid he got the camera and binoculars. He probably got in using a coat hanger to flip up the lock button. But don't worry. I'd bet a month's pay that Rick has the guy safely behind bars by now."
"I sure hope so," Joyce said.
"My van's just over there." He nodded toward a row of cars parked across the lane. "I'll take you over to the station. If we're in luck, your dad's equipment will be there and you can fill out a complaint against the suspect."
"If the suspect is there," Joyce said, feeling discouraged.
"Don't worry, he will be."
Joyce followed him as he stepped between a nice, shiny car and a beat-up green van. The van had a broken tail light, a Nevada license plate, and a crumpled side panel.
Stevens opened the van's passenger door.
Joyce stopped. "This is yours?"
He gave her a sheepish smile. "Kind of a mess, isn't it? We use it for undercover work."
"If this is your van," she asked, "how did Rick take the thief to the station?"
"In his car. We meet here sometimes because this mall is a lot closer to Rick's apartment than the station." Stevens's smile turned bright. "What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?"
Joyce took a deep breath. She was getting very nervous. She didn't want to seem rude, but something about all this wasn't quite right. Rubbing her sweaty hands on her skirt, she said, "Would you mind showing me some identification?"
"I don't mind at all," he said. But it was plain from the look in his eyes that he felt insulted by Joyce's request. As he reached toward a back pocket of his trousers, his hand swept his jacket open and Joyce saw his gun. It was holstered at his left hip, its handle forward for a cross-draw. It had the flat grips of a semiautomatic, and she spotted the base of its ammo magazine before his jacket fell back to cover it.
Swinging his hand toward Joyce, he opened his wallet. She caught a glimpse of a gold star before he flipped the wallet shut. "OK?" he asked.
"Fine," Joyce said. She managed a shaky smile. "For a minute there, I was starting to wonder."
"Well, I can't blame you for being careful. You've probably been warned, all your life, about talking to strangers."
"Policemen don't count as strangers," Joyce said. She climbed into the van and sat down on the torn passenger seat.
Stevens shut the door for her. He walked around to the other side, opened his door, and got in behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition key, and the engine started right away.
"This sure messes up my day," she said as they pulled away. "I was planning to hit about a dozen more bookstores."
"Oh?" he said, steering slowly down the lane of the parking lot.
"Yes," Joyce told him. "I have a mystery story in a magazine that just came out."
"You're a writer?" he asked.
"That's right. I've sold two stories, so far. Are you sure you haven't heard of me? Joyce Walther?"
"I don't read much," he admitted.
"Well, I helped the department a few months ago. They even gave me a special award. I helped catch a couple of guys." Stevens glanced at Joyce and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, sure I remember. Joyce Walther. You were the talk of the department.''
She nodded. "One guy held my mom and me hostage while his partner forced my dad to take him to the coin shop. He was after Dad's rare coins, you know."
"Sure, I remember now."
"I'm kind of an amateur detective. I'm really fascinated by police work."
Stevens gave her a stern look. "You should leave police work to the professionals. It can get dangerous, you know."
"I can take care of myself," Joyce told him. She
"What?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Nothing," she said. "I'm just a little nervous."
"If he did get in, you probably just loused up his fingerprints," she thought. But she didn't say it because she didn't want to embarrass him.
Stevens ducked low and slid a hand under the drivers seat. He straightened up slowly, shook his head, and turned to Joyce. "Nothing there," he said. "I'm afraid he got the camera and binoculars. He probably got in using a coat hanger to flip up the lock button. But don't worry. I'd bet a month's pay that Rick has the guy safely behind bars by now."
"I sure hope so," Joyce said.
"My van's just over there." He nodded toward a row of cars parked across the lane. "I'll take you over to the station. If we're in luck, your dad's equipment will be there and you can fill out a complaint against the suspect."
"If the suspect is there," Joyce said, feeling discouraged.
"Don't worry, he will be."
Joyce followed him as he stepped between a nice, shiny car and a beat-up green van. The van had a broken tail light, a Nevada license plate, and a crumpled side panel.
Stevens opened the van's passenger door.
Joyce stopped. "This is yours?"
He gave her a sheepish smile. "Kind of a mess, isn't it? We use it for undercover work."
"If this is your van," she asked, "how did Rick take the thief to the station?"
"In his car. We meet here sometimes because this mall is a lot closer to Rick's apartment than the station." Stevens's smile turned bright. "What's going on inside that pretty little head of yours?"
Joyce took a deep breath. She was getting very nervous. She didn't want to seem rude, but something about all this wasn't quite right. Rubbing her sweaty hands on her skirt, she said, "Would you mind showing me some identification?"
"I don't mind at all," he said. But it was plain from the look in his eyes that he felt insulted by Joyce's request. As he reached toward a back pocket of his trousers, his hand swept his jacket open and Joyce saw his gun. It was holstered at his left hip, its handle forward for a cross-draw. It had the flat grips of a semiautomatic, and she spotted the base of its ammo magazine before his jacket fell back to cover it.
Swinging his hand toward Joyce, he opened his wallet. She caught a glimpse of a gold star before he flipped the wallet shut. "OK?" he asked.
"Fine," Joyce said. She managed a shaky smile. "For a minute there, I was starting to wonder."
"Well, I can't blame you for being careful. You've probably been warned, all your life, about talking to strangers."
"Policemen don't count as strangers," Joyce said. She climbed into the van and sat down on the torn passenger seat.
Stevens shut the door for her. He walked around to the other side, opened his door, and got in behind the steering wheel. He turned the ignition key, and the engine started right away.
"This sure messes up my day," she said as they pulled away. "I was planning to hit about a dozen more bookstores."
"Oh?" he said, steering slowly down the lane of the parking lot.
"Yes," Joyce told him. "I have a mystery story in a magazine that just came out."
"You're a writer?" he asked.
"That's right. I've sold two stories, so far. Are you sure you haven't heard of me? Joyce Walther?"
"I don't read much," he admitted.
"Well, I helped the department a few months ago. They even gave me a special award. I helped catch a couple of guys." Stevens glanced at Joyce and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, sure I remember. Joyce Walther. You were the talk of the department.''
She nodded. "One guy held my mom and me hostage while his partner forced my dad to take him to the coin shop. He was after Dad's rare coins, you know."
"Sure, I remember now."
"I'm kind of an amateur detective. I'm really fascinated by police work."
Stevens gave her a stern look. "You should leave police work to the professionals. It can get dangerous, you know."
"I can take care of myself," Joyce told him. She
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