Bosch was counting on Banks not pulling off onto the freeway shoulder, and he was right. The first exit to Ripon was a half mile away. Banks slowed down and exited, then pulled to a stop in the gravel lot of a closed fruit stand. He killed the engine. It was dark and deserted. That made it perfect for Bosch.

Banks didn’t get out of his car, unlike many protesting drunks. He didn’t lower his window either. Bosch walked up, his large Mag-Lite held on his shoulder so that it would be too bright should Banks try to look up at his face. He rapped his knuckles on the window and Banks grudgingly lowered it.

“You had no cause to pull me over, man,” he said before Bosch could speak.

“Sir, you’ve been swerving the whole time I’ve been behind you. Have you been drinking?”

“Bullshit!”

“Sir, step out of the car.”

“Here.”

He handed his driver’s license out the window. Bosch took it and held it up into the light as if he were looking at it. But he never took his eyes off Banks.

“Call it in,” Banks said, a clear challenge in his voice. “Call it in to Sheriff Drummond and he’ll tell you to go back to your undercover car and get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t need to call Sheriff Drummond,” Bosch said.

“You better, buddy, ’cause your job’s on the line here. Take a hint from me. Make the fucking call.”

“No, you don’t understand, Mr. Banks. I don’t need to call Sheriff Drummond because this isn’t Stanislaus County. This is San Joaquin County, and our sheriff is named Bruce Ely. I could call him but I don’t want to piss him off over something as small as a suspected drunk driver.”

Bosch saw Banks drop his head down as he realized he had crossed the county line and gone from protected to unprotected territory.

“Step out of the car,” Bosch said. “I won’t ask you again.”

Banks shot his right hand to the ignition and tried to start the car. But Bosch was ready for it. He dropped the MagLite and quickly reached into the car, prying Banks’s hand off the ignition before he could get the car started. He then held Banks by the wrist with one hand while he used the other to open the door. He pulled Banks out of the car and spun him around, pushing his chest against the side of the car.

“You are under arrest, Mr. Banks. For resisting an officer and suspicion of drunk driving.”

Banks struggled as Bosch pulled his arms behind his back to cuff him. He managed to turn and look back. The driver’s door was open and the interior light was on. There was enough light for him to recognize Bosch.

“You?”

“That’s right.”

Bosch managed to finish cuffing Banks’s wrists together.