"Read it again," Tim said.
Ethan, in the driver's seat, did not move his eyes from the windshield. They were at a four-way at Pico and Vermont, the kind of intersection that gave you four directions of stupid for the price of one. The light was red. The radio was quiet. Caleb's report was face-down on the center console because Tim had, two minutes ago, slid it there and said put that somewhere I don't have to see it.
"Tim."
"Read it again."
"I read it three times."
"Read it again. Out loud."
Ethan picked up the report. The light went green. He pulled through the intersection with one hand, holding the paper in the other against the wheel.
"At approximately fourteen hundred and zero hours —"
"Stop."
"—"
"That is not a time. That is a stutter."
"Tim —"
"That is what happens when you ask a microwave to tell you what hour it is. Keep going."
"— the subject vehicle, a blue, made an illegal U-turn —"
"A blue."
"Yes."
"A blue what."
"He didn't write what."
"He didn't write what."
"No."
"He pulled over a blue. He pulled over a color, Mercer, and he wrote a report about it."
Ethan kept his face exactly where it had been. The Board was already filing the Tim Bradford face on the other side of his peripheral vision — the one that was not a smile but had a smile inside it, the way some buildings had vaults inside the walls. Tim's particular brand of furious-on-behalf-of-the-job that only came out when he was, secretly, fond of the person he was being furious about.
"Keep going," Tim said.
"— made an illegal U-turn at the intersection of Pico and Vermont —"
"That's here."
"Yes."
"He's pulling over imaginary vehicles in our beat?"
"He was on our beat last Thursday solo, yes."
"This is a traffic stop report, Mercer. It is the form. It is the form that exists so people stop pulling guns out in court because some boot wrote a blue."
"Yes."
"What did the subject say."
Ethan turned to the back of the page. Read.
"The subject, quote, was uncooperative and stated several profanities, unquote."
Tim said nothing for a measured beat.
"Several profanities," Tim said.
"Yes."
"Which ones."
"He didn't —"
"He didn't list them."
"No."
"He wrote several profanities in a report."
"Yes."
"On a form."
"Yes."
"Mercer."
"Yes, sir."
"I want you to find Caleb Ward. I want you to take him to a quiet room. I want you to teach him the words. I do not care which words. I do not care if his mother hears about it. He is going to learn the words or he is going to write several profanities in the next traffic stop, which will be a felony stop, and a defense attorney is going to ask him in court to list them, and Caleb Ward is going to die on the stand."
"Yes, sir."
"Gently."
"Gently."
"Tell him gently. He has potential."
Ethan set the report back on the console. The Board logged Tim's last sentence verbatim, including the half-beat before potential, which was the Bradford tell for genuine affection. He did not point this out. Tim had not been pointing things out about Ethan for two years and this was the etiquette of it.
The radio crackled. 7-Adam-15, code-six on a welfare check, 1418 Hauser. Nolan and Lucy. Nothing for them.
"Lunch," Tim said.
"Lunch."
"Not the truck."
"Not the truck."
"The place on Olympic."
"The place on Olympic."
"Drive."
He drove.
The Net stayed quiet. The Board kept running, because the Board never stopped — patrol cars in their sector, the angle of the sun, the shift in foot traffic at Olympic and La Brea when the lunch crowd hit at five past noon. Twenty minutes from Webb. Two hours until end of shift. Grey would be reading the file by now in detail. Webb would be parking the Petersen problem. Petersen, somewhere in the records room, would be filing things he did not know would later matter. Armstrong, by now, would have called someone.
Two tracks. Patrol and the other thing. Ethan kept them in different pockets and did not let either pocket see the other. Tim was the patrol pocket. Webb was the other. They did not touch. He intended to keep it that way for as long as he could.
He glanced at the rearview without moving his head.
Three cars back. Mid-Wilshire patrol cruiser. The bar code on the rear quarter-panel — he had logged it twenty minutes ago at Pico and Western. It was not in their sector. It was not in Armstrong's sector either. Armstrong did not drive patrol. He drove a detective sedan.
The Net brushed gently. Not danger. Not threat. Attention.
Ethan made a left on La Brea, three blocks early.
Tim glanced at him.
"Detour," Ethan said.
"Mm."
The cruiser kept going straight on Olympic.
Tim watched the side mirror for two seconds and then looked back at the dashboard. He did not say anything. The Board logged that Tim had not said anything, and the way he had not said it, and the angle of his shoulders against the seat, which had moved by maybe a quarter-inch.
The place on Olympic had a counter and four tables and a sign for pupusas that had been hand-painted at some point in the previous decade. Tim ordered the same thing he always ordered. Ethan ordered for himself and added a horchata. He paid before Tim could reach for his wallet.
"You don't have to —"
"It's two dollars, Tim."
"Mm."
They sat. Tim ate. Ethan watched the door.
"You're somewhere else," Tim said, halfway through.
"I'm here."
"You're here and somewhere else."
The Hollow did not move because Tim was not asking a question; he was naming a thing. The naming was the Tim Bradford version of checking in, which involved no checking and no checking in.
"Long morning," Ethan said.
"Mm." Tim chewed. Swallowed. "You see Caleb's report?"
"I read it."
"What's your assessment."
"He's eager and he's careful and he's going to write a blue in court someday and Grey is going to retire."
"Mm."
"You want me to take him for an hour after shift?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
"Gently."
"Gently."
"Mercer."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't make him cry."
"I won't make him cry."
"He cried last week."
"He —"
"In the bathroom. Lopez told me."
"Tim."
"Don't make him cry."
"I won't make him cry."
Tim went back to his pupusa.
They drove back to the station the long way, which was the Bradford way of saying we are not in a hurry to be inside that building. Ethan did not push it. He kept the Board running — the Mid-Wilshire cruiser passed them once more, going the other direction on Olympic, slowing slightly at the intersection, accelerating away. Same bar code. Same officer behind the wheel. The Board filed the officer's face. Not Armstrong. One of his.
He did not say it to Tim.
At the station, in the parking lot, Ethan paused before getting out. From the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled a paper cup — second one he'd bought today, this one from the cart in front of the courthouse, where Tim had decided in February of 2019 the coffee was the only acceptable coffee in this city. Black. No sugar. No room for cream, the cream a thing Tim had once described as for people who do not believe in coffee. He set the cup in the center console where the report had been.
He did not say anything about the coffee.
Tim picked it up. Drank.
Did not say thank you. Did not say anything.
Drank.
Set the cup down.
"Find Caleb," Tim said.
"Yes, sir."
Ethan stepped out of the car. The afternoon sun was on the building's western face, gold on the brick, the angle that made the Mid-Wilshire station look briefly like a place people lived. Inside, somewhere, Caleb Ward was about to learn the words. Inside, on Grey's desk, the file was being read line by line. Inside, in the records room, Carl Petersen was filing.
Ethan walked toward the door.
The Board was running.