“Let me guess. You get that switchblade off Bullock, plant it on some punk who tries to resist arrest, or maybe some kid who dies of an arranged overdose, you plant the knife on him, they test the blood, figure out he did it. Something like that?”

“Sure, why not. Maybe I could even find it on you, or in your car.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That would make sense. Feature writer stabs detective. What possible motive could I have? Who’d believe that?”

Trimble appeared to be giving it some serious thought. “How about this? You two were having an affair. Getting it on. You’d been in the closet for years, decided to come out with him. Then Lawrence threatened to tell others, tell your wife, and you didn’t want her to find out you’re gay. That might work.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Only problem is, Lawrence didn’t die. I don’t think he’ll corroborate that story.”

Trimble smirked. “I’ll try to come up with something better. In the meantime, why don’t you stop being such a smartass and be a bit more cooperative so I’m not pressed to think of scenarios that end up with you being dead.”

I glanced at the clock on the dash. A couple of minutes past one. I found myself looking at it every few seconds. I didn’t want Trimble failing to check in with Bullock on time.

I couldn’t see down by the gas pedal, but I had the feeling the barrel of the gun I’d taken from Lawrence’s car was poking out below the hem of my Gap khakis. Even if I could get hold of my gun, was this the time to use it? Let’s say I could somehow stop Trimble, would that get me any closer to rescuing Angie? Especially if it meant he couldn’t make his check-in call? For all I cared, Trimble and Bullock and Blondie and Pockmark could all walk away free and clear, with their drugs or without, so long as I was able to take Angie home with me.