Foreign Influence_ A Thriller - Brad Thor [37]
“It’s his,” answered Jamal.
“Am I talking to you?” asked Davidson.
“No.”
“Then be quiet.”
Davidson asked the question again.
“Is this your handwriting?”
The man on the couch nodded.
Davidson stopped when he got to the entries for July 9, the date of Alison Taylor’s hit-and-run. “Do you recall a cab coming in here on or around the ninth of July with damage from a hit-and-run?”
The man shook his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Ali Masud.”
“Mr. Masud, do you recall anyone talking about a hit-and-run accident recently?”
“No, sir,” replied Masud. “I do not.”
Davidson studied all of the entries for July 9 and wrote down the cab numbers and then did the same for the next seven days. “Can you make a copy of this for me?” he asked Jamal.
“I would be happy to, sir,” said Jamal as he gathered up the book and walked over to a small Xerox machine.
Davidson turned his attention back to Masud. “Have you ever had a customer who needed repairs due to hitting a pedestrian?”
The Pakistani shrugged. “I would have to look back through the files.”
“I can’t expect you to remember something like that,” Davidson cracked.
Ali Masud didn’t respond.
Jamal returned with the copies and handed them to Davidson. “I’m sorry we couldn’t be more helpful.”
“Me too,” said Davidson as he removed a pair of handcuffs.
While he was sure all three of the men were lying, Vaughan had not witnessed anything that constituted an arrestable offense. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into a false-arrest claim with Davidson. Leaning in, he said quietly, “What are you doing?”
“Time for plan B,” answered Davidson as he walked out of the office and onto the garage floor.
Vaughan followed him and was just in time to see him point to the mechanic from earlier and, holding the handcuffs at his side, say, “You. Put your tools down and come over here. You are under arrest.”
“Me?” said the mechanic.
“You.”
Davidson had only taken two steps toward him when the mechanic dropped his tools and bolted for the door.
Looking at Vaughan he yelled, “Get him! I’ll get the car.”
Vaughan made it out the door just in time to see the mechanic turn right at the corner. Chasing suspects was one of his least favorite parts about the job, but he took off after him.
Turning right at the corner, he saw the mechanic cross the street and turn into the alley. If there was one place you didn’t want to chase someone, it was into an alley. The problem was that these guys seldom ran across open, flower-strewn meadows.
The mechanic cut in between two buildings, leapt up onto a Dumpster, and flipped over a chain-link fence into a vacant lot. Vaughan was fifty yards behind him and closing.
At the far side of the lot, the mechanic hit the pavement and turned left. Vaughan had not chased a lot of Pakistanis, but if this was what he could expect the next time, he made a mental note to just take out his gun and shoot the guy.
“Stop running!” he yelled, but the Pakistani man wasn’t interested in following orders. Instead, he picked up his pace even further. This guy was running like his life was on the line.
Vaughan was pissed. Where the hell was Davidson?
They came to the next intersection and the mechanic didn’t even slow down. He ran right through traffic and almost got nailed. Horns were still blaring as Vaughan, who was tightening the gap, raced across the street after him.
Up ahead, the Pakistani began to slow down. Whatever reserves he had, he must have burned through them.
Nearing the middle of the block, he stopped and risked a glance backward.
“That’s right,” Vaughan yelled. “You fucking stop right there.”
The mechanic must have judged the distance and figured he had enough energy left to outrun the police officer, because something flickered over his face ever so briefly. It looked like a smile. He wasn’t stopping. He was just catching his breath.
That did it. Now Vaughan was really pissed. Not only