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Since the backseat of her unit had been removed to make room for Rambo, she’d had to call another officer to transport her prisoner. With George Williams keeping an eye on Cruise, she and Rambo had conducted a thorough search of that rattletrap Honda.
    Now she swung the rear door open so she could glare down at the man. “All that for three flipping crack rocks? Are you nuts? The way you were carrying on, I thought you had a kilo of coke or a body in the trunk.”
    He hunched his shoulders, pale and miserable. There were red scratches on the side of his face from Rambo’s claws, and she’d given him a black eye. Faith didn’t feel sorry for the little weasel though, because her own eye was swelling, and her uniform was ripped and bloody. Assorted scrapes and bruises had already begun to sting.
    â€œI just don’t wanna go to the city jail,” he whined. “People go to that jail, they come out with their soul sucked out. Some of ’em get eaten by the monster.”
    â€œMonster? Oh, give me a break.” She’d thought she’d at least get a decent bust out of this. Instead she’d ripped the knee out of her brand-new uniform pants. “You’ll be out on bond before I finish writing the police report. You’ve got one simple possession prior. You wouldn’t even get time, except I’m going to add assaulting a police officer to the charges. Public defender’ll have a hell of a time getting you out of that.”
    Cruise moaned like a condemned man. “I’m gonna die. I just know it! I don’t deserve to die for no crack rocks!”
    Faith looked up at her fellow officer. “Do you know what this idiot is talking about?”
    Williams shrugged his broad bull shoulders. “Bet you ten bucks he huffs on top of the crack. His brain probably has more holes than a chunk of deli Swiss.” Huffers—people who inhaled paint—were notorious for brain damage.
    â€œI don’t huff!” Cruise looked offended. “Everybody knows you go to that jail, the witch gets you. And I don’t wanna die!”
    â€œWitch?” Faith straightened, disgusted. “Ah, shit. Yeah, he’s high. I sure didn’t hit him that hard.”
    â€œTold you. A huffer. I can always spot ’em.” Williams rolled his eyes and closed the door on his prisoner. “I’ll take him in.”
    â€œDo that. I’ll start the paperwork.” Disgusted, she stomped back to her own unit, where Rambo waited patiently in the back. “Witches. The gene pool in this town is in serious need of a dose of Clorox.”
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    Biting back a groan of pain as her sore muscles protested, Faith peeled off her uniform shirt. She dropped it and sat gingerly on the edge of the bed to work on her slacks. The pants knee that wasn’t ripped stuck to her skin. She cursed drug addicted weasels everywhere, knowing she must have skinned it.
    The wound stung enthusiastically as Faith pulled the fabric free. Tossing the bloodied pants on top of her shirt, she got up and hobbled to the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door.
    With a groan of effort as stiff muscles protested, Faith pulled her sore body upright and assessed the damages. A constellation of scrapes and darkening bruises marked her skin, half of which she couldn’t remember getting.
    God, she hated wrestling idiots on pavement. Depending on the idiot, asphalt could do more damage than swinging fists.
    In this case, though, Cruise had definitely gotten the worst of the encounter. She grinned, remembering the way he’d looked with Rambo standing on his face. Where the hell had the dog learned that trick?
    But then, Faith had realized weeks ago that Rambo was not your average pooch, even among K-9s. He was the most intelligent dog she’d ever worked with, including her beloved Sherlock. She never had to give him a command twice, and when she talked to him, he acted as if