"You guys been drinking tonight?"

"We don't drink."

"Nothing?"

"No sir. Nothing."

He thought about it for a minute. Nodded. "Okay, I can buy that. So what are you doing over here? You own this car?"

"No, I rented it."

"Good, good. So what's up?"

"I drove over to see a friend. We had dinner. I'm taking him home now."

"Looked to me like you were heading out of town. Where does your friend live?"

"It's not far."

"That's not what I asked, though. You weren't going to head out to Minneapolis in this, right? You'll get blown off the road."

Holm tapped on the passenger's window. He stiffened. Made eye contact. She motioned to roll the window down. He did, an inch, flinching at the snow.

"ID, please?"

He shrugged. "I left my wallet at home."

"Uh huh."

She finally got a better look at the driver. He was the one decked out in hip-hop, head to toe. A hoodie covering his head-in the car. The worst place to wear a hoodie, right? Couldn't see side to side. He turned to check what was going on with his passenger, and she saw the scars. Knife scar on one cheek up to his temple. The rest were acne. Eyes reminded her of a snake, the way he held them. Compared to him, the passenger was angelic, practically glowing.

Poulson said, "So, Mr. Quick, let's see a license and proof of insurance, to make it official."

"Please, no. Please don't arrest us."

"Hey, nobody said anything about arresting you. Still need to see a license, son."