34.
Sanchez and I waited in Sanchez's unmarked police vehicle in a red zone across the street from the offices of Assemblyman Richard Peterson.
"His name has a nice ring to it," said Sanchez.
We were in the city of Brea, in a shopping zone that called itself Downtown Brea. The stores were all new, and there was not one but two movie theaters. The apartments above the stores were advertised as artists' lofts. Once, long ago, I wanted to be an artist, until I realized I wasn't good enough and didn't have enough patience.
"There are two ice cream shops," said Sanchez. "I wonder why."
"They are across the street from each other," I said. "Downtown Brea is all about convenience."
"If you say so."
"There's our man."
It was past 6:30 p.m. and Richard Peterson was just leaving the office. He was leaving with a rather pretty blond in a short red dress. She split one way, walking to a nearby restaurant bar, and blew him a little kiss.
"Maybe she's the secretary," I said.
"Bet she takes great dictation."
Peterson crossed the street purposefully, and headed to the parking structure to our right. We watched him ascend the stairs.
"Takes the stairs. Keeps in shape," said Sanchez. "You think you can handle him?"
"As long as he doesn't take them two at a time."
We waited at the mouth of the structure's exit, and sure enough a black Escalade with Peterson at the helm came tearing through the structure, heedless of babies or speed bumps.
"I could give him a ticket for reckless driving," said Sanchez.
"For now just follow him."
Sanchez did, pulling in behind him. Peterson drove like a man drunk or on drugs, weaving carelessly in and out of traffic.
"At least he uses his blinker," I said.
"Considerate. Where do you want this to go down?"
We were on a street called Brea Blvd. The street was wide and quiet.
"This is good," I said.
Sanchez, hidden behind his cop glasses, reached under his seat and pulled out a flashing light with a magnetized bottom. He put it on top of his vehicle. I saw Peterson jerk his head up and look in the rearview mirror a couple of times. Finally he yanked the Escalade off to the side of the road. Sanchez pulled in behind him.
I said, "You don't have to do this. He's my problem. You could get into a lot of trouble."
"Justice is justice, Knighthorse. Sometimes street justice can be more effective."
"And less paperwork."
"And less paperwork," said Sanchez. "Wait here."
35.
I watched from the passenger seat. Sanchez spoke with Peterson through the open window. A moment later I heard a lot of shouting, saw a lot of gesticulating, then the Escalade door burst open and Peterson came charging out. He waggled a finger in Sanchez's face. From here, his finger looked like a worm on a hook.
Sanchez said something and Peterson reluctantly turned and put both hands on the SUV's hood.
I watched intently.
Sanchez was an old pro. He kicked Peterson's feet apart and patted him down. Peterson said something over his shoulder and Sanchez pushed him hard against the fender. I heard the thump from here. Peterson's sunglasses fell from his face.
Sanchez removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt, twisted Peterson's arm back, then cuffed the assemblyman's wrist. The whole cuffing process took less than three seconds, faster than Peterson could react. Once he realized what had happened, he swung around violently. Sanchez stepped back, removed his gun and pointed it at Peterson's chest.
Peterson backed off, breathing hard. Sanchez walked him back to the vehicle.
And just like that we kidnapped Mr. Richard Peterson, Orange County Assemblyman, wife beater and child molester.
He shoved Peterson in the backseat. I took off my shades and turned around.
"Hi, Dick," I said. "Dick is an acceptable variant of Richard, am I correct?"
Recognition dawned on Peterson's red and sweaty face. His eyes narrowed and his pupils shrank. "It's you. The detective. What the fuck is going on?"
I turned to Sanchez. "Do you want me to quiet him up for the ride out?"
"Go ahead, I'm tired of hearing him already."
I stepped out of the front seat, opened the back door, and punched Peterson as hard as I could. Even from my awkward angle, the blow was still a good one and caught him sharply across the temple, snapping his head around.
Dazed, he didn't go unconscious, but it sure shut him up.
I turned and headed toward the Escalade.
"Follow me," I said to Sanchez.
I followed a street called Carbon Canyon through the city of Brea. Soon the new homes and the massive state park disappeared and we were on a winding road. The Escalade drove like a dream. Shame what was going to happen to it.
I found a dirt turn-off and hung a right. In my rearview mirror, Sanchez followed me closely, although he didn't use his turn blinker. Damn cops. Above the law. First kidnapping, and now this.
We were now following a small creek, and when we reached a point where the creek dropped off twenty feet below down a dirt embankment, I stopped the Cadillac.
Sanchez pulled up behind me with Peterson in the backseat. I put the Escalade in neutral, and stepped outside. With Sanchez's help, we pushed the Cadillac down the dirt embankment. It ricocheted nicely off two trees, careened off a pile of boulders, and then splashed down in the middle of the creek, hissing and steaming.
The vehicle was totaled.
"Damn shame," said Sanchez.
"Yep."
36.
"Let him go," I said to Sanchez.
Sanchez uncuffed Peterson. The assemblyman was still woozy from the blow to the head. His hair was ruffled and his face was red, and it looked like he might have been missing a button on his shirt. He looked from me to Sanchez, and then at his surroundings. Dawning seemed to come over him as he realized he was not in a good situation. When he spoke, there was real fear in his voice, along with much nastiness.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" he asked.
"You are Richard Peterson, county assemblyman and respected citizen. You are also a wife beater and a child abuser who rapes his own children. Is there anything I missed?"
He looked at me briefly, then lumbered over to the creek and looked down at his Escalade. "You can't prove any of it," he said, still looking down. He might have considered bolting if he wasn't still dazed.
"I'm not here to prove anything."
"So what's going on? You want money to keep everything quiet?"
Sanchez laughed and leaned a hip against the fender of his vehicle.
"No," I said. "You have been tried and found guilty, Mr. Peterson. Now comes the punishment phase. I will allow you to defend yourself."
"It's two against one, hardly fair."
"My compatriot is here for entertainment purposes only."
"Compatriot?" said Sanchez.
"Yeah."
Peterson sized me up, eyes darting quickly. Sweat was on his brow, and spreading quickly under his pits.
"You're bigger than me."
"I'm bigger than most."
"Not me," said Sanchez.
"We're even," I said to Sanchez. "Besides, we've already had this argument before, which is why I said most."
I turned back to Peterson. He backed up. If he bolted and was fast enough I could be in trouble with my gimp leg. Sanchez pulled out his gun and pointed it at Peterson again.
"No running," said Sanchez.
"You didn't give your children a chance to run, did you?" I asked. "When you beat them or forced yourself on them."
"What the fuck is going on?"
"I am here for two things: first, to convince you of the error of your ways, and second to convince you to, um, give up the error of your ways."
"Poetic," said Sanchez.
"Shut up, I'm making this up as I go."
"I can tell," said Sanchez.
I said to Peterson, "I am going to kick the royal shit out of you. You are going to have a beating unlike anything you've ever had in your life. You will tell the authorities you suffered your injuries in a car accident, resulting from your desire to go sightseeing. You will stick to this story or a letter written by your daughter Annette detailing your sexual tendencies toward your own children will be mailed instantly to all the local papers. Do you understand?"
He stared at me blankly, sweating. He looked like he needed a drink of water.
"And if you ever so much as lay a finger on your wife or children again, your next car accident will be your last. Are we clear?"
"Lesson learned, I swear. I mean, hell, you've scared the shit out of me. I'm practically peeing my pants here."
"Practically," I said to Sanchez. "Then I'm not doing my job."
"Losing your touch," said Sanchez.
"Put your gun away," I told Sanchez.
Sanchez did and continued grinning and watching us. A squirrel ran along a tree branch overhead. We were far from Carbon Canyon Road. The air was fresh and scented with moss and soil and pine.
"I will give you a chance to fight back, which is more than you deserve."
"Fuck you, asshole," he said.
"That's the spirit."
He looked from me to Sanchez, and them took his shot, his right hand lashing out. I maneuvered myself in time to take the majority of the blow off my shoulder. I countered with something like a jab, which broke his nose.
"Fuck," he said, holding the bleeding mess.
Next, I did what I do best. I tackled him low. It was a quick movement that combined my football and wrestling skills. He landed hard on his back, and his air whooshed from his lungs like an escaping devil.
I hauled Peterson up and walked him over to Sanchez's car and placed his left forearm on the fender.
"You broke Annette's arm. Twice."
"Fuck you," he said, holding his nose and gasping. "The bitches deserved everything they got. Fuck you and fuck them."
I broke his arm quickly, bringing my elbow down hard on his wrist. The snap reverberated throughout the woods. Birds erupted from nearby tree branches.
Sanchez looked away.
Peterson cried out, grabbed for his arm.
But I wasn't done with him.
No, not by a long shot.
I went to work on him, and when it was finally over, when Sanchez finally pulled me off him, my knuckles were split and bloodied and I was gasping for breath.