Dalton and his associates climbed in. Good old Herb had slashed the tires of Dalton’s Caddy and the Benz, based on my not-so-subtle suggestion, in an effort to keep them on the scene and buy some time while I called Libby Hellmann, the state’s attorney.Our efforts had bought us five minutes, and they were for naught. Hellmann had agreed with my original assessment; we had absolutely no evidence, and no probable cause, which meant we couldn’t get paper on Dalton. No search warrant. No arrest.Deep down, I knew Dalton had a child in a storage locker somewhere. A child who was running out of time. And there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I’d tried the loose-wire/vigilante-cop route and attempted to beat a confession out of Dalton, his lawyers showing up had squelched that plan. Not that it was ever a plan to begin with. I was pragmatic about following rules when confronted by a greater good, but unlike Mr. K I had no stomach for hurting people.The only minor victory we scored was the look on the lawyer’s face when he saw the flat tires.
