Page 6 of Que Será, Syrah

“Pity,” she murmurs as her gaze slides over me, as her smile peeks out again, tempting me to play.

Right. Time to shut this down for real. “I’m gonna need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

I don’t miss the way her mouth tightens as she reaches for the glove box. “Okay so, here’s the story,” she says, and once again I feel my temper start to rise.

“There’s a story?” Of course, there fucking is. I am fresh off the “I Can Explain Everything, Officer” Oak Creek Canyon Winery Summer Tour, where nearly every day found someone with more money than morals coming at me with some tragic tale about how they were being maligned, or persecuted, or misunderstood. And no, it doesn’t help that a lot of the times they were right. Because, even when I did eventually side with them, they still acted like I was the one at fault for simply doing my job.

“Well, you see…”

“No paperwork?” I say, hazarding a guess.

“What?” She frowns. “Oh no, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I think it’s all here. It should be. But, as I’m trying to explain, I just bought this car. I mean, literally. I picked it up in Oakland less than half an hour ago. So, obviously I haven’t had a chance to register it yet. Also, I don’t have the insurance paperwork, but I have several days to get that, don’t I? That’s what they told me.”

“Mm,” reply, noncommittally. Technically, she’s right. But Oakland to Napa in under half an hour? Yeah, that means she’s been speeding the whole way here. “You do know that the speed limit on most of twenty-nine is fifty miles an hour, right?”

She winces in response. “Um…yeah, I guess I was forgetting that. Sorry. I’ve been living in Europe for the past few years. They don’t even have speed limits there.”

“Uh-huh,” I mutter without much interest. I don’t know if that’s true, and I don’t much care. I’m more concerned with sorting through the folder of paperwork she’s handed me. Bill of sale—dated today, as stated—check. Expired registration—already noted—check. Maintenance records—I don’t need those. And okay; I’m surprised to note that everything seems to be in order. I could cite her for the tags or leave it for the DMV to sort out (they will anyway). That just leaves the speeding charge, but the easiest thing would be to do us both a favor and let her off with a warning.

“I’ll still need to see your license,” I remind her, handing back the folder.

“Oh…right.” As she twists around to reach into the back seat, her shirt rides up baring several more inches of smooth, bare, suntanned skin. I try not stare as she spends a long moment digging around for something out of sight, but I can’t exactly take my eyes off her either, can I? Granted, it doesn’t seem likely, but she could be reaching for a gun. So…I end up staring, all the same. Which is not exactly a hardship. She’s beautiful, which I already knew. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to let her go with a warning and a favorable first impression of me in the event we ever do run into each other again. Spoiler alert: I’m hoping we do.

The late afternoon sun is warm and dry, the air is dusty; and in my full uniform, I’ve begun to sweat by the time she finally emerges with a backpack, which she then searches through for nearly a minute, before—finally! –handing me a booklet, about the size of a passport. “Here you go.”

I look at it blankly. “What the hell is this?”

“International Driver’s License,” she replies with a smile that I’m pretty certain is one-hundred-percent pure bluff. I’ve got one of my own, so I know it well. “It’s for driving internationally. And, like I said, I’ve been traveling, so…”

“Yeah well, unfortunately, the State of California does not recognize it for driving here.”

“What? Why not? I mean, I got it in California, right before I left. How can they not recognize it?”

“I don’t make the rules,” I tell her, which (given how often I’ve had to say that lately) I’m starting to think I ought to get tattooed on my forehead. “And anyway—” I take a quick glance inside to confirm my suspicions. Yep, just as I thought. “It’s expired. So, what else you got?”

“I uh…” She looks a little panicked, and that draws an exasperated sigh from my throat.

“You do have a valid license, don’t you?” Because if she doesn’t, we’re both screwed—and not in a good way.

“Of course! I mean, I would have had to, right?” She waves at the booklet in my hand and adds, “They wouldn’t have given me that without one.”

“Great. Then I’ll need to see it.”

She heaves a big sigh, causing her breasts to rise, pushing against the neckline of her blouse like twin waves surging against a jetty, which I do appreciate (inappropriate, I know, but unavoidable, all the same); then she looks at me entreatingly. “Look, Romeo…”

My thoughts stall out. What the fuck did she just call me? Romeo? That was unwarranted. I may be thinking inappropriate thoughts, but my actions have been one-hundred percent professional. Fuck if I know why she thinks baiting me like that is gonna help her case. And if that’s her idea of flirting? Well, all I can say is it’s missed the mark by several miles.

“…mentioned that I’ve been traveling, right? So, yes, I have a current one. At least I’m pretty sure I do. But obviously my family wouldn’t have been able to send it to me, since they didn’t know where I’d be.”

“Unfortunately, Napa County has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to driving without a license,” I inform her. “Now, I’m gonna ask you once again. Do you have a license on you, or not?”

She reaches into her bag once more and comes out with a familiar looking laminated card. “I have this,” she says in a small voice that contains an even smaller (and entirely baseless) amount of hope because…

“This is expired.”

“I know that. But like I just explained…”

Whatever else she says is lost on me, due to the rush of blood to my face. ¡Venga! I recognize the name on the license: Allegra Martinelli, youngest member of the family that’s helped to make my last few months a living hell—and me the laughingstock of the entire department. But that’s not the worst of it. Thanks to the several-years-old-now picture on her license, I now remember exactly where and when I know her from.

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