As promised, they lunched at Blair's favorite vegetarian restaurant. After an appetizer of spicy humus dip and chips, Jim selected the lasagna while Blair stuck with his preferred salad.

The food was excellent, but Jim noticed his partner spent more time shifting the food around on his plate than actually eating it.

"You know, you're gonna have to eat something to get your energy level up."

Blair grimaced. "I know. I guess the chips and hummus filled me up."

As a statement, it was impossible to refute, but Jim sensed an underlying sadness that had nothing to do with being tired or working too hard. "If something's bothering you, I wish you'd tell me what it is." Actually no, I don't. If you confirm what I'm afraid of, then we'll have to discuss it, and the last thing I want to talk about is you not being happy as a cop.

Blair didn't try to hide his annoyance. "There's nothing bothering me, Jim, except you. If you'd just stop with the mother-hen routine, I'd be fine. What's it gonna take to convince you to back off?"

The flash of belligerence was not so unusual lately, but Jim didn't respond to it. Instead, he figured he'd done his best. If Blair didn't want to discuss the problem, that was fine. They had a case to solve. Maybe when it was finished, they could take some time off, grab a little downtime at their favorite fishing hole.

"Okay. If you're finished, let's pay up and take a walk. It's too nice a day to spend indoors."

Blair sighed, as if reluctant to get back on his feet, but he cooperated without protest. Outside, the air was clear and warm with the promise of spring. Just a tiny bite remained to remind everyone that winter hadn't entirely surrendered its hold on the city.

They left the truck at the restaurant and strolled to a nearby park filled with people taking advantage of the weather. A hot dog vendor was enjoying a brisk business with the lunch crowd.

Jim wore only his shirtsleeves, but Blair kept his parka on for part of the walk before shedding it as the sun worked its magic. He didn't remove his flannel shirt, however, and Jim wondered how he could possibly be comfortable. Here in the bright noonday sunlight it was almost unseasonably warm. But he kept the question to himself.

"Did you get the report from Burglary?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah, I entered it into the database. With only the two samples-- the robbery yesterday and then today-- it's gonna be tough finding a meaningful clue. Both houses are in the same approximate locale, the families are very similar from a demographic standpoint, and they both use the same bank, the same supermarket, the same gardening service, and their kids go to the same school."

"Everett Carrington said something about school. He was pissed that the thieves got his computer. Apparently, his homework was on the hard drive."

Blair actually laughed. "What am I always saying about backups?"

Jim grinned. "Yeah, but I don't think Everett planned on maniacal hockey players stealing his PC."

"Maybe someone needs to put that in the user's manual, right after power outages and hardware failures." Blair suddenly stopped, breathing rapidly as if he'd suddenly run out of oxygen. "Sorry, man, do you mind if we stop for a minute? All this walking and talking on top of lunch has really worn me out."

"Sure." Jim felt his chest clench at the sight of his partner's pale features, glistening now with a fine sheen of sweat. What lunch? His partner hadn't eaten anything. "Here's a bench. Let's sit down."

Blair sank gratefully onto the wooden seat and draped his parka around him. At Jim's concerned look, he said, "I know, I know. You keep telling me how warm it is, and the thermometer in front of the bank keeps telling me how warm it is, but my body just isn't listening."

Jim placed his palm against his partner's forehead. "You don't have a fever. Still, this is weird, even for you. You're gonna make an appointment with the doctor and get yourself checked out, okay? No argument this time."

With a grimace, Blair nodded. "Maybe you're right."

Jim's cell phone rang then, and he answered it impatiently. "Ellison... what's up, Captain?" He listened for a minute, his expression tightening grimly, then disconnected the call. "Come on, Chief, there's been another one."

"Two in one day?" Blair stood up and put on his jacket. "Man, that's unbelievable. Same area?"

Jim nodded before setting off with long strides. "Just two blocks from the Carrington house."

Blair cursed and tried to keep up. "We probably still have cops at the other scene, dammit. Are these guys crazy or just nervy as hell?"

"Probably both," Jim answered.

"I want those people caught, and I want them caught now," yelled Mr. Sebastian Willard.

Willard was six-foot-three, built like a line backer, with a stern countenance that showed no humor, but Blair still found it difficult to take the man seriously. Under normal circumstances, the bank president was probably quite imposing and used to getting his way, but these weren't normal circumstances. Forced by the gang to dress up in a set of Osh Kosh Bigosh overalls, red undershirt, and a straw hat, the man looked simply ridiculous.

Blair cleared his throat to cover up the laugh that almost escaped and nodded. "Yes, sir. We're doing our best. Now, you have two sons who were not at home at the time?"

"No, of course not. They were in school."

"But your daughter was home. Why wasn't she at school?" Blair glanced through the archway into the expansive dining room where Officer Kline was interviewing a sobbing teenage girl. The girl was dressed in a short blue and gold knit skirt, white sweater, and saddle shoes, an outfit that reminded him of something...

"Are you even listening to me, young man?" Willard's voice had risen a notch and his face had turned an unhealthy shade of red. Kline turned at the sound and met Blair's eyes briefly, her scowl unmistakable.

"Yes, sir, I'm listening." Blair returned his eyes to his notebook-- scrawled almost illegibly at the top of the page he saw the answer to his own question. "Cheerleading. She was leaving this afternoon with the cheerleading squad to attend the State Cheerleading Championships." He barely remembered talking about it just a few minutes earlier. Damn, his concentration was shot all to hell. At least that explained the outfit. "But why was she home?" Ha! Way to cover up, Sandburg.

"They sent the girls home to change and get their luggage. We covered this before as well." Willard eyed Blair with derision and leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, going for a stance of controlled authority. Unfortunately, the back of the hat he'd apparently forgotten he was wearing hit the couch first and forced the floppy brim down over his face.

Blair snorted.

Willard yanked the hat from his face and flung it across the room. "I want your name and badge number, Detective!"

"Uh, I'm really sorry, man. It's--" Blair stopped, wondering now what he had just thought was so funny. Not bothering with obfuscations, excuses, or even profound apologies, he calmly gave Willard his name and badge number.

"Hey, Sandburg? A moment please?"

Saved by the Sentinel.

Jim motioned to him from the front hallway. Blair tossed Willard a hasty, insincere thank you and followed his partner outside.

"Sorry, man, I don't know what got into me. I just--"

Jim waved him off. "It's okay. These punks know what they're doing with this humiliation shit. The guy's over the edge."

"No kidding." He recalled the odd presence of a pitchfork in the corner of the living room. The bank president and his wife had been forced to pose a la American Gothic for the hockey player with the video camera. Not a picture Willard would be likely to hang in his bank. "You come up with anything?"

Jim had walked through the house and yard, using his senses to try to pick up any useful clues. From the frustrated clench of his jaw, Blair guessed it had been entirely unproductive. His partner shook his head. "No. Nothing useful, anyway. They broke in through the back door, like the others. I saw an oil spot on the driveway, and none of the Willard vehicles has a leak, but there wasn't enough of it to follow a trail. You talk to the wife?"

"No, Kline's partner-- uh, don't remember his name-- interviewed her. Lisa Kline was talking to the daughter who was like, way upset. I got Farmer Jones... sorry. Not professional."

Officer Kline chose that moment to join them on the front porch. She barely nodded to Blair but flashed a big smile at Jim. "Roberts is almost done, Detective Ellison. I know you'll be talking to them yourself, but do you want a brief rundown of the girl's statement?"

"Yes, that would be helpful." Jim nodded and smiled. Blair fought the urge to roll his eyes and sighed instead. Lisa had gone through the academy with him, and while they hadn't had a whole lot of interaction, what little he'd had was enough to tell him that she was smart, but rigid in her thinking. He had hoped that six months as a police officer would have forced some of that ego aside, but from the scathing looks she'd been tossing his way at this scene and the one that morning, she had a long way to go. Then again, he imagined a lot of his Academy colleagues were piqued-- okay, downright resentful-- that he'd gone straight from graduation to gold shield.

Jim's cell phone rang. Instead of interrupting Kline's summary, Jim simply dug into his pocket and handed the phone to Blair. This time Blair did roll his eyes.

"Sandburg."

"Sandburg? What are you... oh, never mind." Simon sounded thoroughly frustrated. "Are you and Ellison still at the Willard's home?"

"Yup, still here."

"Well, I just wanted to give you two a heads up. Ellen Willard is the sister of Brian Scott, the state senator. I've already had a call."

Blair huffed impatiently. "And...?"

"And?" Simon's voice was incredulous. "And Sandburg, I've got a state senator breathing down my neck. I want you and Ellison to put your blood and guts into solving this case."

"Well that's just great, sir." For God's sake! "Don't you think Jim and I are already putting our 'blood and guts' into this case? Do you honestly think we'll work harder just because the family's related to a senator?"

Agitated, Blair began pacing. The conversation between Kline and his partner had come to an abrupt halt.

"Sandburg, put Ellison on the phone, now."

"Simon, dammit, we're-- hey!"

Jim grabbed the cell phone with a look that brooked no argument. "Captain? Sorry, sir, we were just... yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, I know of Scott. We'll do our best." Jim snapped the phone shut and glared.

Before his partner could even say anything, Blair threw up his hands. "Great, Jim. Just great. Play their little political games. Obviously we're only supposed to work hard when important people are involved. Screw the everyday, ordinary people." He stalked off without another word and got in the truck, making sure he slammed the door good and hard.

Momentarily taken aback, Jim watched his partner's retreat with a faint scowl on his face. Kline, on the other hand, was gaping in open astonishment.

"What's up with your partner?"

Jim shrugged it off. I wish I knew. Out loud he said: "I don't know. He hasn't really been himself lately, but we've both been under a lot of stress."

"Really." Kline looked over at the figure slumped in the passenger seat of the truck with renewed interest. "Does he always call your captain by his first name?"

Jim side-stepped the question. "Look, could you and Roberts type up your witness statements ASAP and leave them on my desk this afternoon? You know where I sit?"

"Sure, Detective. And yes, I think everyone knows where you sit. But aren't you going to talk to them?"

"Maybe later. Right now I want to follow up on a few other things."

Kline's smile turned thoughtful when she glanced over at the truck again. "Of course you do."

Or maybe Jim just imagined it.

"Hockey players?" Henri's interest was definitely piqued. "I mean, I heard about the home invasions, but I thought the guys just wore hockey masks. You know, like Jason from the Friday the 13th movies?"

"No, full gear and uniform. Well, except for the skates, of course." Blair sat on the corner of Brown's desk and let his foot dangle.

"Each of the perps had a specific uniform and name. Since you're the big hockey buff around here, we thought we'd run the names by you. Maybe they mean something. We also need the stores where pro hockey jerseys can be purchased-- there can't be that many of them."

"Locally no," Henri agreed. "But they could've ordered them from anywhere off the internet, maybe from the team's very own sports shop."

"Damn." Blair kicked the desk in frustration.

Jim looked at the wall and sighed. "The hockey jerseys and maybe the gardening service are our only real leads right now."

Henri's interest hadn't diminished any. He leaned back in his chair and entwined his fingers behind his head. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Lay the names on me, babe. You're in my area of expertise."

"Right." Jim fished out his notebook. "Okay, the leader of our little gang used the name Hunter. Washington Capitals jersey."

"Dale Hunter. One of the better-known tough guys of the NHL. And yeah, he played for the Capitals up until last year. Went to Colorado mid-season, then retired."

Jim made a notation. Blair was absently fiddling with the pens and pencils in the mug on H's desk. "Samuels or Samuelsson, depending on which victim you talk to. But definitely a Penguin jersey."

Henri sat up for that one. "Must be Samuelsson. Could be Kjell or Ulf. Kjell isn't playing now, but Ulf still does. He's with... um, the Flyers now, I think. Red Wings before that and Rangers for a few years. He did play with Pittsburgh in the early 90s, and so did Kjell. But if they're going for tough guys, it's gotta be Ulf. Don't know why they chose the Pittsburgh colors for him, though, unless it's because that's when he picked up a couple of Stanley Cup Championships."

"Did Hunter play on a Championship team?" Blair asked, spinning a red pen between his fingers. Good, thought Jim. He is listening.

Thinking a moment, Henri finally shook his head. "Nah. Don't even think he came close. Third guy?"

"McSorley."

Henri nodded his head knowingly. "They're definitely going for the tough guys. McSorley just got the longest suspension ever in the NHL for whacking a guy in the head with his stick. Boston Bruins, right?"

Jim shook his head. "Kings. Definitely silver and black uniform."

"Yeah, okay, he played for the Kings most of his career. Again, late 80s, early 90s. Then a lot of teams since then, and a couple before then."

Jim scribbled a few more notes. "The last guy was the one running the video camera, and for obvious reasons, the victims didn't look at him much so we aren't certain of his name. But the gang did call each other by their hockey names-- Hunter, Mac, and Sam. If they're consistent, then the video operator's name was Ray."

"Team?"

"Oh." Jim shuffled through a few pages. "Again, we're not sure, but we got from a couple of victims that his jersey was medium blue and orange.

Henri rested his elbows on the desk and mouthed names to himself.

"Ha! Stumped, Brown. You owe me $10 Ellison," Rafe crowed from his desk.

But H didn't disappoint. "Rob! Rob Ray. Buffalo Sabres." He turned to the desk behind him. "You owe me lunch, Soccer Boy."

"Another tough guy?" Jim asked, steering back to the topic.

Henri turned back to Jim with a smug expression and nodded. "Big time. And he's been with Buffalo his entire career. Don't know why it took me so long to think of him."

"Sandburg!"

Blair stiffened at Simon's yell. Jim had wondered how long it was going to take before Simon realized they were back.

"Yeah, Si--, um, Captain?"

"My office. Now!" Simon's face and stony expression disappeared back inside. Blair's heart started pounding as he slid off the desk and stood up. Without even a backwards glance at Jim, he shuffled off to the lion's den.

Simon carefully observed his youngest detective as he entered the office, walking like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. He thought back to the conversation he and Jim had had earlier. The kid definitely didn't look happy.

"Sandburg, what the hell was that all about on the phone?"

Blair ran his fingers through his hair and didn't quite meet Simon's eyes. "I don't know, Captain. I just... I guess I didn't like the implication that some senator thought we'd work harder knowing he was a victim. His sister, anyway."

"That's not an excuse. You know how politics works." Simon looked faintly disappointed. "And you know how I work."

Numbly, Blair nodded, his hair obscuring most of his face.

"When you're on duty, I expect my detectives to behave professionally and I expect them to treat victims, however unreasonable their attitudes, with the utmost courtesy."

"Willard called you?" The young man didn't even look surprised. More like resigned.

Damn, could he be trying to get himself fired? Simon shook the thought away. His conversation with Jim had him looking for things that weren't there.

"Yes, Willard called me. You were only part of his list of complaints, so I don't think he's going to lodge anything official; he just needed to blow off steam."

Again, Blair nodded almost automatically.

"Am I clear, Detective? Professionalism. And I expect to be referred to as 'Captain' while you are on the job."

"Yes, Captain."

Thinking the following silence was permission to leave, Blair stood up and walked to the door. Simon couldn't stand it any longer.

"Sandburg... Blair..." he said, his voice doing a 180. The wide blue eyes turned to him, confused. "If there's anything you want to talk about, son, my door is always open."

Blair managed a small smile. "Yeah. But I'm fine, Simon, uh, Captain. Really." He left the office.

For the first time, Simon actually began to think that maybe Jim was right.

Jim rolled over one more time and sighed. The soft rustle of paper, barely audible to normal ears, sounded like a thousand paper bags being crumpled up by enthusiastic school children. That and the fact that his partner was up-- again-- at 3:30 a.m. kept Jim from sleeping himself.

When are you going to talk to me, Chief? he asked silently. You don't want to be a cop, we'll figure out something else.

A muffled expletive and the thwack of a thrown pen against the wall convinced Jim he would not get back to sleep tonight. He reached for his bathrobe and headed down the stairs.

Blair was sitting on the couch, head down, elbows on his knees, hands grabbing fistfuls of hair in frustration. Papers and files and notes were strewn about the coffee table, and several lay crumpled or ripped on the floor.

"Chief?"

"Sorry for waking you, man." Blair didn't even lift his head.

Jim slid past his legs and sat down next to him on the couch. "What are you doing?"

Blair unclenched his fists and lifted his head, sighing. "I was making a chart of the commonalties between each of the three crimes, based on the witness interviews and the research we did. There isn't enough to specifically define a pattern, but I thought something might, you know, pop out at me."

A legal-sized pad with a grid and tiny lettering meticulously placed in the squares sat on the coffee table. Jim picked it up. Across the top of the pad, Blair had listed each of the families. Down the right-hand side he had written items such as Bank, Home Security, Businesses, Hairstylists, Barbers, Grocers, School, Employment, Clubs, Landscapers, Domestic Service, Relatives, Friends, Items Taken, Items Destroyed, Victims, Victims Injured... and so on.

"Geez, Blair, this is great and all, but couldn't you have done it on your computer a lot more easily?"

A flicker of anger crossed the younger man's face but just as quickly went away. "Sometimes it helps to do things the old-fashioned way. And besides, I couldn't sleep. Needed to do something."

Jim decided not to follow up on that line of questioning again, so he continued to look through the list.

An hour later, both men had showered, eaten, and returned to the couch. Jim had made a pot of coffee and poured it into a large thermal carafe to sustain them through the early hours. So far they'd determined that the same gardening services were used at each home, the kids went to the same private school, they lived in the same general area of Redwood Estates, and the men all golfed at the same country club, though not together. Nothing else was consistent.

"Nothing!" Blair kicked the coffee table in disgust.

Jim frowned. "Not 'nothing'. We can follow up on the gardening service, the school, and the country club tomorrow, though the gardening service seems more likely than the others. I'm interested in that grey van Mrs. Carrington saw."

"Whatever."

"This is kind of odd, too." Jim pointed to the row of 'Items Destroyed.'

Blair read through the items listed and shrugged. "What?"

"Here, Louis Forsythe's research paper for his Biology Class on the 'Intelligence of Dolphins: Fact or Fiction' was thrown into the fire. Everett Carrington's mid-term paper was stored on his stolen PC."

Blair shook his head impatiently. "So?"

Jim blinked. "C'mon, Sandburg. How many home invasions have you heard of where the bad guys bother to destroy a kid's homework? And Marianne Willard was supposed to attend those Cheerleading Championships. Her mother said she'd been really looking forward to it."

A sudden, unpleasant laugh burst from Blair. "You think these home invasions are a... a cover-up by some kids to destroy homework? What, some bell-curve gang worried about their own grades? The 'cheerleader mom' thing all over again? That's hysterical, Jim."

"I agree." Jim pointed to Blair's own grid. "But there you have it. We should check to see if these kids are top in their class or not, and if they have rivals at the school. I admit it's a long shot, but it's worth checking out along with the landscape service and the country club."

"Okay, okay. I admit it is kind of a strange coincidence. Hey, this is Friday morning, right? As a former teacher, I can tell you that most papers are due Fridays and Mondays. Why don't we go cruise the 'Estates' and see if we can spot that grey van? Maybe the gang is out trashing some poor kid's American History paper."

Looking at his watch, Jim realized there was no way either of them would be going back to bed. They'd already dressed and eaten, and there were still about four hours to kill before work. "All right, couldn't hurt I suppose. But we're stopping at the all night grocery store for donuts."

Blair didn't argue. "Your arteries, man. I'm going to get a sweater."

Jim twisted his neck and stretched, feeling overtired and stiff. As he stood up, he automatically collected the rejected pages of Blair's earlier efforts scattered around the floor, along with the thrown pen over behind the television.

My God... The crumpled page in his hand was in Blair's neat, steady handwriting until about halfway down, then the penmanship turned into a heavy, childish scrawl. The pen had been held so hard that the point had ripped through the paper in several places. Shifting that page to the bottom of the stack, he saw that the next one was similar, and the next. Each started out neatly, and ended up a scrawled mess. If Jim had been a religious man, he would have thought his partner was possessed by demons.

"You ready?"

Jim jumped. He hadn't even heard Blair return. "Yeah." He dropped the pen on the coffee table, and folded the pages tightly together, sticking them in his jacket pocket as he put it on. "Let's go."

When they reached Redwood Estates, Jim turned his lights off and used his enhanced vision to watch for oncoming traffic. A bright half-moon in the clear night sky offered enough light for even Sandburg to observe the neighborhood, and they both diligently scanned their respective sides of the street for a grey van.

"Any ideas for a starting point?" Jim asked as he swung the Ford up a side street.

Blair shrugged, his forehead pressed wearily against the window.

Jim shook his head slightly and pulled onto another street. The other three invasions were within a ten block radius of each other, so he kept to that general area, starting with Cedar Avenue.

Thirty minutes later, Blair sat up and squinted. Jim followed his line of sight and saw a grey van sitting in the driveway of a dark blue cape-style house with an expensively manicured lawn. The van had no windows in the back, like a delivery van, and the license plates were conveniently covered. A soft light shone in the large picture window on the first floor, but the drapes were drawn tightly closed. Another light flickered in an upstairs window.

"That a grey van?" Blair asked, his eyes showing some of the excitement that had been lacking in recent weeks.

Jim nodded. The street was a cul-de-sac with a high privacy fence bordering the homes from behind. The blue house was third from the end on the right, and Jim crept the truck closer, parking in front of the house next door. By the time he'd stopped, the light in the upstairs window had disappeared. He turned off the ignition and listened. Whimpering, the crackling of a fire, movement, crying, a man saying softly "For God's sake", doors closing, "Shut up!" followed by the sound of something striking flesh, more crying--

"Come on." Jim's eyes narrowed as he removed his gun and exited the truck, softly shutting the door. Blair was right beside him. A few seconds later, the front door opened and three shadowy, bulky figures spilled out, laughing and carrying plastic-handled grocery bags.

"Shit," Jim mumbled with no small amount of frustration. Crouching, he aimed toward the oblivious group, noting his partner doing the same. "Stop, Cascade Police!" he called out.

The group froze for a moment, then broke into a run, heading straight toward the van.

"Shit!" Jim said it much less quietly this time. He holstered his gun and ran back toward the truck. He'd never had any intention of firing on heavily padded perps armed only with hockey sticks and grocery bags, but he'd hoped the gun would prompt them to surrender without a fight. One of the perps at the Carrington house had a gun shoved in the waistband of his pants, but it had yet to be used or aimed at someone. In spite of the absence of obvious long-range weapons, he was pleased that Blair kept his gun trained on the group, watching Jim's back while he got the Ford.

"Sam! Come on!" someone called out as the van doors opened and the men scrambled inside. The fourth, straggling member ran down the steps, only to twist his ankle against a brick on the walkway. Jim started the truck, flicked on the lights, and gunned the engine. One of the men in the van tried to get out to help his fallen comrade. Jim tried to take advantage of the delay, but the man was jerked back inside by his more practical comrades.

The van took off. The abandoned perp got to his feet and ran off on foot, limping, in the opposite direction. He disappeared around the back of the house. Waving his hand for Jim to go on, Blair took off after the lone suspect. Jim spun a 180 in the tight cul-de-sac and took off in pursuit of the van. Calling for backup was almost an afterthought.

By the time Blair reached the back of the dark blue house, he was gasping almost to the point of hyperventilation. Pausing a moment to look around, he leaned over, hands on his knees, and took deep breaths.

There.

The injured man was on the far side of the yard, nearer to the next house, trying to climb over the privacy fence by hoisting himself up a well-developed maple tree with branches that overhung the yard on the next street over. It couldn't have been easy with the mask and padded uniform and an injured foot. Easy collar. Might as well have the guy wrapped up with a red ribbon.

Blair's breathing became slightly more controlled, and he ran toward the same tree. The suspect must have heard him coming because he snapped his head around and promptly lost his balance, falling hard to the ground.

"Cascade Police," Blair gasped out.

The guy seemed to be in full panic mode. Instead of surrendering, he scrambled to his feet and took off toward the end of the cul-de-sac, Blair right behind him. They rounded the back, the man cutting through the yard between the next two houses and lengthening his lead.

God, Sandburg. Turn thirty and you can't even keep up with an over-clothed suspect running on a bum leg. Blair's chest heaved with the effort and the muscles in his thighs and stomach started trembling. Pausing another moment to try and get his body under control, he suddenly realized he'd completely lost sight of the guy.

"Great. Just great," he said out loud. Sucking in a lungful of air, he collapsed wearily to his shaking knees and tried to figure out what the hell he was going to tell Jim.

The van in front took a left on two wheels, and Jim followed in perfect imitation. The day had become perceptively brighter as the sun made its way toward the horizon, and he began to worry about early morning joggers, bikers, and the paper delivery kids.

They had left Redwood Estates and were zipping their way toward the business district of upper Cascade. Jim was trying to figure out the streets ahead, wondering if he could cut through somewhere and head off the van, when suddenly he went into a vicious skid, spinning sideways and turning almost completely around before slamming into the curb. He spun the wheel in frustration and tried to back up, but the protesting shriek of metal against pavement told him that he'd popped a tire. Slamming his palms hard against the steering wheel, he looked up in time to see the grey van disappear around the corner. He listened to the distinctive motor until it had traveled beyond Sentinel hearing.

Damn.

Well, at least by now Sandburg had one of the suspects in custody.