This time I drove.

“She’s wacko,” Rocky said. “But she makes a mean cookie. You shoulda let her give us more for the road.”

“And cheat you out of a possible arrest stat? Not a chance.”

Rocky called in our arrival. I shut off the headlights as we rolled to a stop.

“Should be right up the street,” he said.

“Let’s get out here. Move in on foot.”

The coastal fog was patchy, and there was a faint smell of brine in the air. We exited our vehicle, quietly shutting the doors. At the corner we sidled up to a townhouse and peeked through the hedge to the street beyond. I saw a slight movement, a dim light coming from the interior of the fourth car parked on an incline to our left.

“There,” I whispered as I pointed. “Inside the white Toyota.”

We drew our weapons, kept close to the houses, made our way to the vehicle. Rocky’s chest heaved from the exertion of running low up the hill. Nevertheless, flashlight in hand, he moved around to the driver’s side, while I took the passenger side, noting the door was slightly ajar. Whoever was inside ducked.

“Police,” Rocky called out, aiming the beam of his Streamlight as well as his weapon into the window.

The figure inside shot up, bumped his head on the dash and stumbled from the door, landing in the gutter.

“Hands up,” I shouted.

“Hey man, it ain’t what you think,” the burglar said in a high-pitched whine that I recognized instantly. Squeaky Kincaid, a snitch I’d used for information in the past and unfortunately, like gum on the bottom of my shoe, hadn’t been able to shake since. He sat up, his sunken cheeks and sallow complexion contrasting sharply against his black clothes. “I was just trying to get warm.”

“Really,” Rocky said, moving around to my side. “Thought maybe you were wearing them gloves because you didn’t want to leave prints. Now get your hands behind your back like a good little dope addict, and we won’t rough you up too much.”

“I didn’t steal nothing. The car was unlocked.”

That I didn’t doubt, about the car being unlocked. Squeaky usually went after easy prey. I holstered my weapon, then took out my cuffs. Rocky covered him. “You got any needles on you, Squeaky?” I asked. “Or do you want to know what’ll happen to you if I get stuck?”

“Got one in my right sock.”

“Good boy.”

I patted him down, found a pocket full of quarters, the needle in his sock, but nothing else. My guess was the change in his pocket came from the car. Parking being at a premium in the city, there was no guarantee that the victim’s car was parked in front of the victim’s house. “Run the twenty-eight, Markowski.”

He radioed in the license plate. The registered owner, a Marsha Welch, lived three houses up, and was adamant that she always left her car unlocked -— so no one would be tempted to break in. Although she thought the loose change from her car’s ashtray was missing, she wasn’t willing to sign a complaint.

We kept that bit of information from Squeaky. Better to let him think he was being taken in -— the proverbial ace in the hole, I thought, watching him shivering against the front fender of the victim’s car. He was still handcuffed and no doubt contemplating how he was going to get his next fix from jail.

“What’dya think?” Rocky asked loud enough for Squeaky to hear.

“I think his PO will be mighty interested to know what he stores in his sock.” I secured the syringe into a plastic biohazard tube. “What’re you looking at, Squeaky. Six months? A year?”

“Lemme work it off.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading like a puppy’s. “Tomorrow or the next day. I’m working on something big. Soon as my sister gets here with her car. Got it all scoped out.”

“I’ll be holding my breath,” I said. I fished out my handcuff key and unlocked his cuffs. “If the temptation to take the chill off in anyone else’s car strikes you tonight, stifle it with the thought of how much fun it is to swallow methadone instead of fixing a nice shot of heroin. You catch my meaning?”

“I’m outta here. I swear I’ll call you.”

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