“When I started with all this,” she confides with a cynical sneer as close to a smile as I’ve ever seen on her, “it was all sweepstakes prizes and missing inheritances. You gotta hand it to Lieutenant Rick, he’s got a sense of humor. I mean, all this green hybrid rubbish? It’s priceless. So politically correct.”

I give her a vague nod, hoping she’ll go away.

“Just look at those suckers.”

The first guests now shuffle inside, their dreamy eyes glued to the revolving Prius. Imagining themselves behind the wheel, or maybe driving the hybrid over to the nearest chop shop and cashing out. Either way, they’re hooked.

“Something for nothing.” She rubs her hands together. I’ve heard sandpaper that was smoother. “Not in this lifetime, my friends. Greed goeth before a fall.”

I’m tempted to correct her quotation, but that sort of thing just encourages Sonia. Afraid of a five-minute digression on the precise wording of the King James Bible, I keep my mouth shut. Anyway, she may be wrong about the quote, but she’s right about greed. That’s the one lesson of my cars-for-criminals experience.

If they weren’t blinded by greed, at least some of these baggy pants playas and buttoned-up cholos would take a look around. They’d start asking when random selection started favoring the predominantly male and predominantly minority population. When did chance suddenly take a turn in their favor?

They might wonder why so many of the giveaway program’s green-shirted minions sport crew cuts and ex-military stares, why they look kind of familiar, a lot like the cops who busted them in the first place. They might even recognize a few of their fellow winners as former cellmates or street competitors. They might realize that what they have in common isn’t that they’re lucky but that they all have outstanding warrants.

But they don’t. All they see – all they ever see – is the car.

“So I hear you’re leaving us,” Sonia says, and now I know why we accidentally crossed paths. I guess I was blinded, too.

“This is my last day. I’m back on the job now, working a real case. You hear about that house off West Bellfort full of dead ltc bangers?”

“Big loss,” she sniffs. “That’s yours, huh?”

“I’m working it.”

She can’t help noticing the way I hedged, which draws a sound from her lungs that might be a cough, might be a laugh. Pats me on the shoulder blade, nodding her head in an exaggerated way. “All I can say is, I wish you the best.”

“Thanks,” I say to her departing back.

The room starts filling up, then the lights dim. Onstage, a projection screen comes to life. A silver convertible – not a hybrid, but who’s counting? – threads a series of alpine turns, then an artificially enhanced blonde in a sequined sheath prances around the parked vehicle, running her hands all over its curves.

Offstage to the right, a four-piece metal band lays down a thumping beat. They’re off-duty vice cops who jam together on weekends, only too happy to provide entertainment at one of Lieutenant Rick’s gigs. The crowd gets into it, clapping their hands, shouting encouragement to the on-screen blonde. Even in the dark room, a spotlight lingers on the Prius, a concrete image of the promise that brought them here.

As a testament to human gullibility, this show’s tops. Watching it long enough could turn the right sort of man into a philosopher. Not me, though. All I get is depressed. I’d rather pluck these guys off the street one by one. Fair and square, without any subterfuge. Out there, I wouldn’t pity them. I wouldn’t feel sorry for the family members they dragged along, either.

Once we’ve checked everyone through, the video stops and Rick jogs out onstage like a motivational speaker, cupping a hand to his ear for more applause. His speech changes every time, depending on what we’re supposedly giving away, but the essence is the same.

“It’s time for Houston to get moving again,” he says, “and you’re gonna be part of the solution. On behalf of all my colleagues, I want to thank you for coming out. It’s our pleasure to serve you in this way.”

From the back of the room, a group of burly, mustached men in green polos let out a cheer, clapping their hands above their heads.

“Our pleasure!” someone hoots. The crowd applauds once more.

Part of the game for Rick is to work as many ironic digs into the speech as possible. Afterward, the team will celebrate each one with a clink of beer bottles. The joke hasn’t been funny to me in a while.

It seems a couple of our guests feel the same way.

I spot their silhouettes against the stage lights, two men working their way toward the aisle, then navigating the darkness in search of an exit. A regular odd couple. One tall and broad, the other slight enough to pass for a kid. Maybe the impossibility of the giveaway suddenly dawned on them. More likely, they’re heading for the restroom. Planning to snort one moment-heightening substance or another.

As they pass me, I follow. Time for some troubleshooting.

The side exit sign is illuminated by code. Once they find it, a ray of light shines in back of the room. By the time my hand touches the door I can see other officers heading my way, alerted by the flash. But I’m first in line.

Out in the corridor, there are two options. They can turn left and head toward the escalator, or take a right to the restrooms. I emerge into the brightness, blink my eyes a few times, then spot them huddled halfway to the exit, deep in conversation. As I approach, it’s clear they’re arguing about something.

“I told you – I seen him,” the smaller one says. There’s a sharp, panicked entreaty in his voice. He’s in a black T-shirt and skinny black jeans, accentuating his diminutive stature. Olive-skinned. Unnaturally jet-black hair.

But it’s the other guy I fixate on, because there’s something familiar about him. A white tank clings to his lean, prison-built torso, hidden by the square overshirt hanging unbuttoned from his shoulders. Crisp denim and unlaced Timberlands. It’s the face, though, the way he nods in comprehension as the smaller guy talks, pushing out his bottom lip. The white of teeth and eyes against his dark skin.

I know this man.

He looks up as I approach. The smaller one sputters into silence.

“Anything I can do to help, gentlemen?” I ask in my best approximation of a customer-service voice. “You’re missing the best part.”

“We’re just about to leave,” the smaller one says, jabbing his thumb toward the exit. “There’s this dude I don’t wanna run into – and anyway, this ain’t my thing. I’m just here for the moral support.”

The big guy holds him back. “Come on, man. Don’t bail on me like this.”

“Sir, you don’t want to miss your turn. They’ll be handing out keys in a minute.”

He’s clearly torn between his buddy and the free car, looking one way, then the other, rubbing a hand over his prickly face. Then his eyes fix on me. His expression starts to change. He raises an index finger, trying to place me.

Coleman, that’s his name.

His eyes flare. “You’re – ”

A half-dozen officers suddenly file through the door, taking up positions all around us.

“Wait a second, here,” he says, edging toward his companion and the faraway exit. His eyes dart around, looking for an opening.

Over my shoulder, the door swings shut with a whoosh. That’s the signal. We converge on him all at once, the way we do, swarming a potential threat before it can develop. Coleman’s still at the verbal stage, protesting as the illusion crashes down. No free car. No run of luck. No going home after this. By the time he gets physical, we’ve already cranked him around and pushed his face against the wall, pinning his arms back, securing his wrists with zip ties.

“This ain’t right, now,” he keeps saying. “This ain’t right.”