Several people turned to look at us, including the beat officer, who began to walk in our direction. She put a hand on her left hip, touching her nightstick like a talisman. As she approached, I checked the name on her tag. Officer D. Janofsky. Probably Diane or Deborah. She didn't look like a Dorothy. Up close, I could see that she was in her late twenties, probably new to the department. I knew most of the officers who worked in this area, but she was not one I'd met. Her manner was cautious, her expression alert. Like many cops, she'd learned to disconnect her emotions. "Everything okay here?"

She scarcely had the words out when a third patrol car skidded around the corner. All three of us turned as the car came to a halt some distance away. Tuesday night in Santa Teresa is usually very quiet, so aside from the obvious desire to assist a fellow officer, the officer responding must have been thrilled to see some action. This was better than rousting the homeless down at the railroad tracks. Janofsky turned her attention to Bibianna, whose face had darkened. I was keeping tabs on Tate out of the corner of my eye, and I realized, as had Bibianna, that he had been taken into custody.

"Keep her away from me," Bibianna said.

"We're fine," I said, hoping to defuse the situation.

Janofsky ignored me, fixing Bibianna with a testy look. "I'd like to see your driver's license." She reached for her flashlight as if she meant to examine the license once Bibianna had produced it. I knew from experience a flashlight that size could serve as a powerful protective weapon. I watched apprehensively.

"What for?" Bibianna asked.

"Ma'am, could you show me some identification?"

"Fuck you," Bibianna said. She managed to infuse the two words with maximum boredom and maximum contempt. Why was she being so belligerent? I could feel my own temper climb and I knew the policewoman was close to blowing. This was no time to fool around. For all Janofsky knew, Bibianna had shot the man herself.

"Her name is Diaz," I interjected. "She's upset about the shooting. Can I answer any questions for you? My name's Hannah Moore." I was babbling like an idiot, trying to offset some of the tension in the air. The patrol car with Tate in it pulled away from the curb, easing through the crowd of curiosity seekers that was milling about.

Bibianna turned on me. "Keep out of this. Where are they taking Tate?"

"Probably to the station. He'll be fine. Don't worry about it. Just cool it. You've already got enough trouble on your hands."

"Could you get out of the car, please?" the officer said. She backed up half a step and planted her feet.

I said, "Goddamn it, Bibianna. Would you just do what the lady says? You've got your tit in a wringer. Don't you get that?"