No Such Thing as a Lost Cause Read Free Page A

the cruiser.
    Okay! Now we’re cookin’. We’re gonna bust us some serious traffic scofflaws!
    Dave hung a quick u-ie and followed the Chrysler. The driver caught sight of the patrol
     car in his rear view mirror, and Wolinski signaled for him to pull over. The guy slowed
     down, faked right and turned left, cutting off a couple of lanes of traffic, and sped
     away.
    “So that’s how you want to play it. Well, you’re on, buddy.” Dave glanced over at
     me. “Hang on tight,” he yelled and tromped on the gas.
    I started to get nervous. “Maybe you should just let me off at the Acme on the corner.
     I need to pick up a few things.”
    Dave grinned. “I thought you wanted the full cop experience.” He radioed for backup
     and switched on the siren, while I clung to the door like a kid on a thrill ride,
     sure I was going to die. I hoped I’d remembered to put on clean underwear in case
     I got carted off to the morgue. I didn’t want to embarrass my parents unduly.
    We followed the guy for about eight blocks, and then he veered off onto a side street
     and zipped down the alley.
    “Bad move,” Dave said. “He just turned into a box canyon. We got him.”
    The driver sped up. He made it halfway down the narrow alley when he lost control
     of his vehicle and slammed into a dumpster.
    Wolinski slowed to a stop and turned the patrol car sideways to block the exit.
    We waited a beat, but there was no movement from inside the Chrylser.
    “Stay put, and keep your head down,” Dave ordered. He didn’t have to tell me twice.
    I scrunched down as he exited the car, gun drawn. Almost instantly, the crackling
     sound of gunshot pierced the air. Without thinking, I popped my head up over the dashboard
     and spotted Officer Wolinski laid out in front of the cruiser, blood oozing from his
     chest. The shooter hopped over the dumpster and fled down the alley.
    Oh, shit.
    I bolted out of the car and knelt beside Dave, pressing my hand to his chest to try
     and stem the flow of blood. He was out cold but still breathing. Blood seeped between
     my fingers. Frantically, I looked around for something to put pressure on the wound.
     I couldn’t find anything suitable, so I yanked off my tee shirt, and shoved it against
     his chest, which left me sitting in the middle of the alley in my push-up bra.
    Dave stirred and briefly opened his eyes, and I swear I saw a smile on his ashen lips.
    While I waited for backup to arrive, a thought began to nag at me. Wolinski said the
     shooter had turned into a box canyon. Where had I heard that phrase before? And then
     it hit me. When I was a kid I used to watch old westerns with my dad. The bad guys
     always seemed to get trapped in box canyons—
places with an entrance but no exit.
    Oh, double shit!
    Wolinski’s gun lay inches away from me. I tried to grab it, but my hands were trembling
     so much it was tough to get a grip. Just as I was about to wrap my fingers around
     the handle, a shadow crossed my line of vision. In the next moment an enormous tennis
     shoe-covered foot stomped hard on my wrist, grinding it into the pavement.
    Pain shot up my arm. I raised my eyes and saw the barrel of a .38 aimed directly at
     my head. The shooter stretched out a tattooed arm and pressed the gun against my temple.
     The only thought in my mind was that I was going to die, and everybody would know
     I wasn’t really a 34C.
    “Um, could I persuade you to rethink this?” I was beyond reason and figured there
     was no harm in asking.
    The sound of sirens drew closer, only he didn’t seem to notice. The man exuded arrogance.
     He pulled the gun away from my head and leered at me, his mouth forming a word so
     disgusting I wanted to wash my ears out with soap. Then he reached down and grabbed
     my boob.
Eeeww!
    “Party’s over, asshole.” I yanked my hand out from under his shoe, catching him off-balance.
     He stumbled backwards and I pounced on Dave’s gun, aimed low and fired.
    The bullet