Leader of the Pack (Andy Carpenter) by David Rosenfelt Page B

the driver’s seat.
    I have no idea how far we travel like this; it’s hard for me to simultaneously estimate distance and prepare for death. But finally we start to slow down, and we wind up along the side of the road, scraping against a railing.
    “Holy shit” is all I can manage, when we are stopped and all is quiet. My heart is beating so loudly that it seems like we’re listening to a drum solo on the radio.
    “Yunh,” Marcus says.
    You can say that again.

 
    My first call when we come to a stop is to Pete Stanton. There are going to be a lot of uncomfortable questions asked when officers on the scene realize that Marcus fired at the other car, and I want Pete here to intervene. He knows us, and he knows we don’t go around randomly taking potshots at other drivers.
    He promises to get here right away. I’m feeling shaky, and my voice must reflect it, because he goes the entire call without insulting me.
    My second call is to Laurie. When she hears about this, I want it to be from me, so she’ll know that I’m OK. She gets upset, which makes me even more upset, but we manage to calm each other down.
    “I think Marcus coming along might have been a good idea,” I say, and she refrains from responding with an “I told you so.” Instead she says, “I love you, Andy,” which is definitely preferable.
    My third call is to Vince Sanders. Vince hasn’t run the story yet; he hasn’t even agreed to run it at all. This makes that story a hell of a lot more interesting. Vince also says that he’s on the way.
    I don’t bother calling 911, because I’m sure that other motorists and witnesses must have already done that. Something about a car crashing and exploding attracts attention.
    I tell Marcus to let me do the talking when the police arrive, which is sort of comical on its face. It has to be the first time in his life that Marcus has been asked not to talk. He doesn’t bother to answer me, a sure sign that he’s down with the “not talking” approach.
    We are not anywhere near the burning car, since after it crashed we went through the small tunnel and wound up much farther up the highway. I feel no need to drive back there; the arriving cops will eventually make their way to us. It will give Pete more time to get here, so that we can deal with him first.
    I can see flashing lights through the tunnel as the cops reach the scene, and they start to close off the highway in both directions. Pete shows up maybe three minutes later, and comes straight to where I told him we’d be.
    He takes one look at the car, which has been damaged from hitting a railing a few times. “Any injuries? You guys need medical treatment?”
    Weirdly, I haven’t even thought much about that. “Nothing hurts. Marcus?”
    “Nunh.”
    “We’re OK. Can we give you our statement?”
    “Not yet. But you can tell me what happened.”
    I detail all that happened, and his eyebrows raise when I get to the part about Marcus shooting at the tires.
    He turns to Marcus. “Did you hit the tires?”
    Marcus just gives him a look which silently says, “I’m Marcus Clark; if I shot at the tires, I hit the damn tires.”
    “Did either of you recognize the driver?” Pete asks.
    “I didn’t see his face,” I say, and Marcus just shrugs.
    Pete asks a few more questions, and then says, “Let’s get you out of here and down to the precinct, so you can sign your statement.”
    “You have jurisdiction?” I ask, since we’re not in Paterson right now.
    He nods. “I told them it’s part of a case we’re already working on, which is technically true, if you count Solarno. They were happy to hand it over. So let’s go.”
    “We’ve got a flight to catch.”
    Pete laughs. “No chance.”
    My cell phone rings; it’s an annoyed Vince calling. “They won’t let me through; Stanton has the road blocked off.”
    “He’s here now,” I say.
    “Tell the son of a bitch to let me through. I’ve got a story to cover.”
    “Hold