“There’s a dead woman two feet behind me,” Lassiter said. “I hardly think the question of which law enforcement agency catches her killer is of primary importance.”

“Funny, that’s not what your people said when my hot pursuit crossed your precious city limits,” Rasmussen said. “That time, jurisdiction was important enough to throw me in jail overnight.”

Lassiter stared at him in astonished recognition. “You were the idiot who went screaming down State Street at ninety miles an hour?”

“It’s called hot pursuit for a reason,” Rasmussen said.

“You weren’t even in a police car,” Lassiter said. “Just some crummy old Mustang.”

“We’re the Isla Vista Foot Patrol,” Rasmussen said. “It would look bad if we had official vehicles, so when need arises we volunteer our private cars.”

“As I recall, the ‘need’ in this case was some punk spray-painting a street sign,” Lassiter said. “And that was your excuse for jeopardizing countless innocent lives.”

“We take our laws seriously here,” Rasmussen said. “Which is why I’m taking over the investigation of this apparent homicide.”

“This is my case,” Lassiter said.

“This is my jurisdiction,” Rasmussen said.

“I’m not leaving,” Lassiter said.

Rasmussen raised his gun. With his free hand, he pulled his cuffs off his Sam Brown belt.

“In that case,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”

Chapter Eleven

“Put your hands on your head,” Rasmussen barked at Lassiter.

Lassiter stared at him coldly and didn’t budge. Rasmussen stared back. Each man was frozen, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“Shawn!” Gus hissed. “We’ve got to do something.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Shawn said. “I’m getting hungry again.”

“We can’t leave Lassie,” Gus said. “He’s only here as a favor to us.”