He stares at me again and I look out the windshield and sigh. He’s got wheels turning behind those eyes. Someday someone is going to look at me and in their mind they’ll put a black wig over my brown hair and a black mask with a crystal on it over my face and I’ll be history, like Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Joaquin.

“I support Sheriff Whatshisname,” I say.

“Warm night for gloves, isn’t it, Ms. Jones?” he asks.

“They’re for driving.”

“Remain in the vehicle.”

Great.

A red Porsche 911 turbo goes by eastbound. Beautiful animal. The engine sound alone is enough to get me blushing and bothered. I can lay it off for fifty grand to the right people. Would end up in Mexico City or Caracas or Cartagena, altered and practically untraceable. Then a Mitsubishi Lancer rolls by the other way. It’s the second most often boosted car in America, right behind the Caddy Escalade. It’s worth only three grand, but they’re twice as easy to steal and ten times easier to sell. Bread-and-butter stuff.

The deputy is back five minutes later, handing me the CDL and registration slip.

“What are you doing out here this time of night, Ms. Jones?”

“I was visiting relatives. Now I’d like to get home.”

“ Valley Center. That’s way down in San Diego County, isn’t it?”

“It’s an hour and forty minutes this time of night, without traffic.”

He nods. Hood. Handsome Hood. Thirty years old, maybe not even that.

“Drive safely. You were doing sixty in a forty-five when I pulled you over.”

“I promise I’ll drive more slowly.”

“Good night.”

Hood turns for his car but stops when the old black Lincoln comes past. I flip off the Corvette’s interior light, cursing silently for leaving myself momentarily illuminated.