“Put your hands on the roof of the car! Stay there, don’t move!”
This was like some overwrought scene out of her comic book. Tracker, undercover, meeting with a double agent, getting in trouble at some volatile border . . . she’d have to file that away for a plot twist.
She and Alex put their hands on the roof of the car. He glanced at her. His expression was stony.
This was about him. The police wanted him. What had he done? Besides stalk her family.
Four of the cops ran out to them. Three of them went to Alex, patted him down, pulled him away from the car, and wrenched his arms back.
Johnny Brewster came to her and gripped her arm. “Evie! Are you okay?”
She straightened. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“We got a call that some guy matching his description jumped in your car and held a gun on you.”
She stared. “No, there must be a mistake. He—he’s a friend. Nobody pulled a gun.”
One of the other cops called, “Johnny, he doesn’t have a gun.”
“Check the car.” The guy climbed in and looked under the seat, opened the glove box. Johnny looked back at her. “Carlos Alvarez called from the Schooner. He said that you were just there, and that one of his guests saw you get carjacked.”
Several points of confusion collided in her mind in a moment of understanding. The question was, how much would she have to tell Johnny to explain the situation? Alex wasn’t the one trying to kidnap her. That other guy, he must have fed Carlos the story. But how did she explain that? And how did she explain Alex? On the other hand, if she wanted Johnny to haul him away, now was her chance.
“Johnny, this has been a misunderstanding. He’s a friend—I’m giving him a ride.” If it wasn’t the truth, it wasn’t exactly a lie, either. She didn’t know what he was. “How likely does a carjacking sound? Does that sort of thing happen in Hopes Fort? Has anything like that ever happened in Hopes Fort?”
Johnny frowned, knowing she was right. He lowered his voice. “What about that stranger you called me about? Is this him?”
She’d given Johnny a description of him, hadn’t she? “No. I mean, that was a mistake. I’m sorry. It’s okay, Johnny, really.”
He turned to the others. “He have ID on him?”
“We didn’t find anything on him,” the same cop said. “Well, a couple of twigs in his pocket.”
Johnny left her to stroll over to Alex. He’d learned his swagger straight off a prime-time police drama.
“You know it’s illegal to travel without proper identification?” Johnny said.
Alex looked at him. He had the cold, still look of someone about to start a fight. Johnny must have seen it, too. He held his right hand on his hip, next to his gun, daring him. The men by the cars still had their guns drawn. If Alex threw a punch, as he seemed to want to do, somebody would shoot. Please don’t. . . .
“Here it is,” Alex said at last. He pulled a wallet from an inside coat pocket and handed it to Johnny.
Johnny glared at the cop who’d searched him. “I thought you said he didn’t have anything on him.”
The guy held up his hands. “I didn’t find anything, I swear!”
Johnny grumbled, mostly to himself, “Figures. Never patted down a guy in his life.” He opened the wallet, studied it, looked back at Alex. “I’m going to check this. Don’t move.”
He returned to his car and began some arcane background-checking process. Alex put his hands in his coat pockets, settling in to wait. Evie watched him. He didn’t seem at all concerned that he might be shot if he so much as flinched wrong. She’d lived in L.A. for ten years; you didn’t mess with the cops.
Alex had this tilt to his chin, this light in his eyes, a confidence that said he could take them all on by himself. Or he believed he could. And why not? He believed he was immortal.
Finally Johnny returned and handed the wallet back to Alex. “There’s nothing on you. If Evie says you’re okay, I’ve got no reason to hold you.”
“Thank you, Officer.” Alex tucked the wallet away.
They both looked at Evie.
“Can we go now?” she said, more bitingly than she had intended. She felt like she’d been holding her breath.