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but he could find out most of what he needed to know just by looking at the report. It showed she’d been stopped, and tested .26 blood alcohol level; .08 was enough to get a conviction. You had to be a heavy drinker to score a .26. Light drinkers, especially women, would usually pass out before swallowing enough booze to get that high.
    Babbage then went to the traffic court on Hill Street and pulled the case file. As he knew it would be, her rap sheet was in the file. He found out that Erin would be in deep shit if she were arrested again. She had two prior DUI convictions. And the 647(b) arrest for prostitution (but no conviction) that had first brought her to his attention. She was a fucking whore, just like her mother. The present open case was for a third DUI, where she’d jumped bail and, as a result, had an active bench warrant for her arrest.
    Now, sitting in the bar and watching, everything had fallen into place. She was facing a mandatory 120 days on her outstanding warrant. A fourth DUI would be charged as a felony and, with her record, would probably mean eighteen months in state prison. He looked at his watch, drained the bottle of Heineken he’d been nursing all evening, left the change in front of him for a tip, and exited. It was a clear summer night, the air outside hot and dry. Babbage took a deep breath to clear his lungs of the sweat, smoke, and sawdust.
    Three hours later, at 2:30 a.m., Babbage was parked in his patrol vehicle on the street in front of Parker Center, just across from the Traffic Stop. His lights were out. Because so many other black-and-whites were parked on this street, he knew his wouldn’t be noticed.
    Since Babbage was a sergeant, he had no partner. As he sat there, he monitored the video terminal in his patrol vehicle, reading the cop-to-cop communications for the people he supervised. His incompetent lieutenant gave him free rein. So as long as there were no fuck-ups, Babbage could do as he pleased while on duty. In the small of his back, in a leather sheath, was his Marine combat knife with a tempered steel blade, buffalo-horn handle, and solid brass fittings.
    There she was.
    Two obviously drunk assholes walked her out to her car, a white, 1990 Honda Accord. She stood there chatting with them for a while. Babbage grew impatient, but he controlled himself. It’ll just make it better , he thought.
    Finally, she got into her car and drove away, heading north on Los Angeles Street toward the Hollywood Freeway on-ramp. The two assholes watched her disappear, and then got into their own cars and left. Babbage waited for a few moments so he wouldn’t attract attention, then made a U-turn and drove off after Erin.
    When he was midway between First and Temple, he switched on his headlights and accelerated. He saw Erin’s Accord up ahead, moving slowly. She was driving straight as an arrow, giving no objective indication that she was DUI. Normally, before stopping any suspect, an officer would have to have some justification for the detention, and then, according to LAPD policy, would be required to immediately notify dispatch. But Babbage didn’t bother and neither did he give a shit whether or not he had probable cause to pull her over. He knew the bitch was drunk. That was good enough.
    She turned right, just after Aliso Street, and entered the Santa Ana Freeway, going east. Babbage guessed that she intended to merge into the left lane, heading down the San Bernardino Freeway, toward her home in Monterey Park. He followed, knowing that she couldn’t tell by looking in her mirror that a patrol car was behind her. Besides, as drunk as she was, there was no way she would take her eyes off her straight-ahead path to look in the rearview mirror.
    While they were still on the transition road to the San Bernardino Freeway, Babbage switched on his overheads. As he would have predicted, she did nothing. He gave her a three-second blast with his siren. That got her attention. He got on