“Police!” the man called, waving his arm. “Three men just stole our car!”

The woman paused, putting one hand on the trunk of a shiny black Chrysler and the other on her belly, grimacing.

Derek and I hurried down to them.

“What happened?” I asked.

Hoo-hoo-hah-hah.

The man put a supportive hand on his wife’s back and turned to me, his eyes wide. “We were getting out and three men ran up and demanded my keys. Then they jumped in and drove off!”

“What kind of car was it?” I asked.

The woman straightened as the contraction evidently eased. “A 2008 Honda Accord. It’s white.” She looked up at her husband. “Our brand-new baby seat was in the back.”

“We’ll do our best to get it back,” I told them. “Baby seat and all.”

I contacted the chopper again. “The men bailed on the Fiat and stole a white Honda Accord. Have you seen one leave the garage?”

Brief chatter ensued as the pilot and the other officer in the chopper compared mental notes.

“We think it may have exited a minute or so ago. We’ll go higher and see if we can spot it.”

Without conferring with me, Mackey backed toward his cruiser. “This is your case, Luz. I’ll let you wrap things up here.”

My chest tightened in anger. I knew why Derek was suddenly deferring to me. So he could get back out on the streets and try to find the bank robbers. Call me spiteful, but I’d be really pissed off if Mackey caught these guys when I’d been the one working the investigation all day, interviewing witnesses, chasing these jerks all over town. But what could I do? One of us needed to finish up here, and Mackey was already climbing into his cruiser.

Hoo-hoo-hah-hah.

While Derek drove past us and headed off down the ramp, I whipped out my notepad and quickly jotted down the couple’s contact information. “I’ll let you know as soon as your car is located. Good luck with the birth. And congratulations!”

“Thanks.” The woman offered me a smile that morphed into a cringe as another contraction hit. Hoo-hoo-hah-hah.

I returned to my cruiser. Seemed I’d been in and out of my car a thousand times today.

As my butt hit the seat, my phone pinged with a text from Seth. Just say when on the margaritas.

I sent him a quick reply. Wrapping things up. Will be back in touch with an ETA ASAP.

It was now a few minutes after five o’clock and my shift was officially over, but protocol—and my work ethic—dictated that I continue my pursuit, at least until the evening shift officers could be caught up on the details. I also wanted to pursue the theory I had about the yellow R on the note. If the letter had, in fact, been cut from a depiction of a railroad crossing sign, it could implicate Christopher Vogel, couldn’t it? Or could it be mere coincidence?

As I pulled out of the parking garage, I forced myself to try to think like a criminal. If I’d robbed a bank, stolen a city bus, torched a convenience store, and performed a series of car-jackings, which way would I go to ditch the vehicle?

Hmm …

If I’d been heading north when encountering the police not long before, maybe I’d turn south when I exited the garage, to keep the cops guessing. I might also ditch the car near the Texas Christian University campus, which sat not far to the west. There were always hordes of people walking around the university area. No one would think twice about three men on foot.

It was worth a shot, right? If I found them, hooray for me—assuming, of course, they didn’t shoot me dead. If I didn’t find them, well, I had a frozen margarita and a hot guy to look forward to.

As I headed south down the divided part of University Drive, I rolled to a stop at a red traffic light. As I sat there, waiting for the light to turn green, I glanced around at the people making their way down the sidewalks and through the crosswalk in front of me. Many of the college boys and some of the girls wore baseball caps. For some it was a show of support for one sports team or another. For others, it was a way of hiding the fact that they’d rolled out of bed late and hadn’t had time to shower or wash their hair before going to class.

Seeing the caps brought my mind back to the photo of Lewis Blakemore in which he’d been wearing the striped hat. Unlike a regular ball cap, his hat had appeared slightly looser and taller on top.

Just like the type worn by a train conductor.

Holy wow! Had I just found a possible connection between him and Vogel? A train fetish?

Before I could process the thought, a white sedan with a twentyish Caucasian guy at the wheel pulled to a stop at the light in the northbound lane. A black man sat in the passenger seat, a second Caucasian man in the back. My eyes went to the license plate. Sure enough, it was the number the pregnant woman had given me. My prediction that the men would head to the university area had proven correct. Yay for me.

“Here we go, girl!” I called to Brigit. I flipped on my lights and siren and eased into the crosswalk. Vehicles were not technically supposed to cross over on the pedestrian lane, but as a cop I was exempt, of course. The only problem was all of the college students who were in the way.

The young man driving the Accord floored the gas pedal and ran the red light, forcing students to dash out of the way or be run over. The college kids scurried to the curbed median to let me through, and I took off in hot pursuit of the Accord.

Grabbing my mic from the dash, I cried, “Backup needed! In pursuit of armed robbery suspects heading north on University Drive at Princeton Street.”

That all-too-familiar male voice came back. “Officer Mackey responding.”

Damn!

I pursued the car north past the cross streets of Cantey, McPherson, and Park Hill. My eyes spotted Derek’s patrol car sitting up ahead at the Colonial Parkway intersection. He pulled into the lane as the Accord approached. Mackey attempted to force the Accord over, but the driver pulled an evasive maneuver, braking and circling around the back of his cruiser.

The three of us rocketed over the bridge spanning the Trinity River. Just after the bridge, the Accord made a sudden left onto Collinsworth—screeeeee!—the excessive speed temporarily taking the car up on two wheels. An oncoming Suburban swerved to keep from hitting the Accord. Unfortunately, the driver overcompensated when trying to correct and ended up spinning out in the middle of the intersection—a three-ton metal whirligig, slamming into a silver Dodge Avenger and sending it careening across the road.

With the intersection blocked and potential injuries suffered, I feared we’d have to abort our pursuit. Fortunately, however, one of the evening-shift officers approached from the north and contacted us via radio. “I’ll take care of this mess. You two go get those bastards.”

Derek wove his way through the glass and metal debris, and I followed along on his bumper, continuing westbound on Collinsworth.

My eyes scanned the area, looking for the car on the road or abandoned in a parking lot, the men fleeing on foot. I saw nothing until we approached an automated, conveyer-driven car wash. The back end of the Accord disappeared behind a veil of soapy water as it proceeded into the bay.

Nice try, guys. You can run, but you can’t hide. Your crime spree is over now.

I grabbed my mic again. “Mackey! They pulled into the car wash.”

Ahead of me, Derek whipped into the lot. “I’ll take the exit,” he said over the radio. “You made sure they don’t try to back out the front.”

Dammit, again! Obviously, the officer at the exit would be the one to nail the suspects. A Cadillac coupe had followed the Accord into the car wash. There was no way they’d be able to back up. Still, as frustrated as I was, my duty had to come before my pride.