Читаем Do No Harm полностью

"What'd I do, man?" The driver, a heavyset man with wide, doughy cheeks and heavily gelled curls of hair, raised an arm to the flashlight's glare.

"License, registration, proof of insurance," Bronner said. Behind him, a broken sprinkler spurted a thick two-inch fountain that turned the lawn sleek like pelt. The runoff had left the sidewalk wet and spotted with snails. "Keep your left hand on the dash or steering wheel and reach with your right hand to your glove box."

"What are you-?"

"Don't make me ask again."

The driver leaned toward the glove compartment, his thin polyester snap-up pulling up out of his jeans. He did not seem to be concealing any weapons on his body. His sleeve rode up on his right shoulder, revealing a tattoo of Mickey Mouse. Perhaps through her panic haze, Nancy had mistaken Mickey Mouse for a skull. "Slowly," Bronner added.

The driver handed him the documents, then dug in his pocket for his wallet. Bronner held the flashlight to the registration but kept his eyes on the driver's hand until it emerged from his pocket. He glanced at the license. Frederick Russay.

Bronner clipped the license and registration to his shirt pocket, sliding it beneath the protruding pen cap.

"Is there some problem, officer?" A little more polite this time.

"Are you aware that you have a cracked windshield?" Bronner asked.

"Yeah, I guess. Is that like some big deal or something?"

"Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle please?"

"Why?"

"For our safety."

When Russay hunched forward, his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.

"Get out of the vehicle," Bronner said, a bit more firmly.

"For a cracked-?"

"Get out of the vehicle immediately."

Russay scrambled quickly out onto the curb, leaving his door open. "Look, man, I don't know what's going on here, but I didn't-"

Bronner spun him and pushed him forcefully up against the side of the van. He patted him down, even checking his crotch for a piece dangling from a belly band. He found nothing. "Is there anyone else in the vehicle?"

"No."

"Mind if we take a look?" Bronner kept his forearm across Russay's back, pressing him forward into the side of the van.

"No. I guess not."

Bronner caught Jenkins's eye through the open passenger window and signaled him with a jerk of his head. Jenkins walked back to the rear of the van, snapping and unsnapping his holster. The street grew suddenly quiet. He threw open one door, and light fell into the van's dark interior from a nearby streetlight. The van smelled of Clorox, coffee, and wet rags. The flashlight's beam picked over the mounds of gear. Mops in dirty buckets, several coiled drain snakes, piles of dirty overalls. In the back, half hidden by an open toolbox, was a container of Red Devil Drain Cleaner.

The muscles stood out on Jenkins's jaw like walnuts.

He walked around and stood beside Bronner. "He's got lye back there."

"Could be legit if he is a cleaning guy," Bronner muttered.

"Could be," Jenkins said. "If."

Bronner nodded. "We'll know soon enough."

Russay moved his head, trying to turn around. "What are you guys-?"

A burst of static came through Bronner's portable, then it squawked, "Eight Adam Fourteen Los Angeles." Bronner walked a few yards up the curb. Jenkins kept Russay up against the side of the van, hands and legs spread.

"Eight Adam Thirty-two, LA," Bronner said. "Go ahead."

"Vehicle has no wants, no warrants. Vehicle comes back to Frederick Russay's Industrial Cleaning Corporation, one-two-two-five Armacost number two-ten, LA."

"Roger that. Can I get a twenty-eight also on a Frederick Russay?" Bronner unclipped the license from his shirt pocket and alternated his eyes between it and Russay as he read off Russay's social security number, date of birth, and license number.

Forearm resting lightly across Russay's shoulders, Jenkins waited for Bronner to give him a sign one way or the other. A Cabriolet with three brunettes slowed as it passed. Laughter and pop music. One girl waved, her arm undulating in the darkness like a snake in water. Russay's breathing was harshly audible.

Bronner tilted his head back and exhaled hard. "Be advised," his portable finally said. "There are no wants, no warrants. Subject has a total of six points. Two previous excess of speed, one in '94, one in '97. Everything else clear."

"Roger that." He released the portable button with a flare of his thumb.

Jenkins watched the slight slump of Bronner's shoulders and stepped away from Russay. Russay remained leaning forward against the van. "Get up," Jenkins said.

Russay stood up and tucked in his shirt as Bronner walked over and offered him back his documents. His hand closed over them brusquely, and his driver's license fluttered to the ground. He kept his eyes on Jenkins as he crouched to pick it up.

"That's all, Mr. Russay," Bronner said.