Page 20 of Clay

Dev answered, and Clay could tell he was in the car already. “Hold a second.”

He looked at the cop again. “Where are you taking her? I want to make sure her lawyer is on site when you get there.”

That brought Larson’s head up, when he’d been merely going through the motions before.

He looked at Jordan and the decidedly cop-like way she stood. Then he squinted harder. He recognized her, even though she was plainclothes now. He took a second look at Clay and saw the military in his stance. In the still-short cut of his hair. Sighed.

“Listen man, I’m just doing my job. We’re heading to Central.”

“Ask him who the Assistant Sheriff on duty is,” Dev ordered in his ear, and Clay repeated the request.

Larson’s eyes narrowed even further, but he supplied the answer.

“Tell him we’ll be waiting for them in booking,” Dev said, and disconnected.

Clay slowly put away his phone, making sure his hands were visible. There was no reason on earth for them and LVMPD to be at odds. “The warrant is bogus,” he said. “Your Assistant Sheriff and Miss Foster’s lawyer will be waiting for you in booking. We all understand you’re doing your job, I just want to let you know the lay of the land before you get there.”

Larson closed the car door, locking Ivy in, and turned back to them. At his nod the second officer peeled off.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I do appreciate the heads up." He nodded at Jordan. "Moonlighting, Gonzales?"

It made sense that he’d recognized her, since LVMPD wasn't a huge department, and especially not when she was likely one of the few Hispanic females wearing plain clothes or going undercover.

Jordan shot him a tight smile. "Good to see you out here saving the world from artists who drive like they're ninety."

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Clay. "Assuming you’re going to be following me?” His tone had gone neutral, purely professional.

Clay nodded. “We’ll meet you there.”

He climbed gingerly into the still-running Gremlin. His knees caged the steering wheel, but he didn’t want to move Ivy’s seat setting. He followed Jordan, and one thing was for sure. He drove faster than Ivy.

~

Ivy had never been so scared in her life.

The back of the squad car was clean but still smelled faintly of weed and vomit. Par for the course in Vegas, she thought a little manically.

She had absolutely no idea what the cops were talking about. While she’d dabbled with recreational drugs when she was younger, she hadn’t been to South Carolina in years, long before Katie moved west. And she certainly hadn’t been dealing anything.

She was so very confused. But at the back of her mind there was a bit of calm. Clay was right behind them, driving her trusty Gremlin. And the white SUV she’d seen pull in was right behind him. She was pretty sure it was someone else from SMS behind the wheel, and she was so very glad they were there.

Then the squad car pulled through a gated enclosure and her two protectors were forced to park on the street.

The officer parked and opened the door, gesturing for her to exit the car. She did, her movements ungainly with her hands cuffed behind her.

He was gentle with her, and she knew part of that was the fact Clay had made him cautious with his questions. With the fact he and his friend were following, ensuring her safety.

So she straightened her back and donned as much dignity as she could as they walked through the exterior door and into Booking. The door closed behind them with an unmistakably final thunk.

The man awaiting them was imposing in his uniform with its three stars on the collar. Tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that appeared to be chiseled from granite. He was a recruiting poster for cops.

“Larson,” he acknowledged the patrol officer. “A word.” He jerked his head off to the side, and Ivy stood there, uncertain as to what to do.

Behind the bulletproof glass of the booking desk, the intake sergeant watched curiously.

Ivy shuffled her feet a bit, looked at one of the benches adorned with handcuffs and decided she was just fine with standing. Everything had that haze of filth that couldn’t quite be scrubbed away no matter how much disinfectant you used.

In the corner, the uniformed supervisor stepped away from Larson and approached her. “Miss Foster, I’m Undersheriff Abel Jones. I’m afraid we’re going to have to detain you a bit longer, but we’ll move to someplace a bit more comfortable,” he said, and then Larson was behind her, unhooking the cuffs.

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