The Ride-Along

“I should tell you,” he said, opening the right lapel of his jacket to reveal a gold badge, “I’m undercover.”

“Oh,” I stammered. “You’re a...cop?”

“Detective,” he said. I glanced around the bar in slight confusion. What kind of detective would schedule a first date while he’s on duty?

He’d seemed like a bit of a straightedge from my first impression of him (stood up when I arrived, pulled out my chair for me, put his napkin in his lap), but I didn’t mind—I was eager to break the bad-boy streak I’d left behind in Los Angeles. Sure, there had rarely been a dull moment with the bedframe-less death metal bassist or the “pharmaceutical” dealer with a suspicious number of foreign sports cars, but it was time for a change. So, here I was, in a new town, ready to see what it had to offer. If that meant only sweet, vanilla country boys, so be it.

This, however, I did not expect. “It’s sort of an ongoing thing,” he explained, “we’ve been tryin’ to track this guy down for months, so we’ve got everyone on alert at all times. A real piece of work. Basically—”

The bartender interrupted to take our order. “Could we get a bottle of your 2017 Merlot?” he asked. I noticed his jaw as he spoke: chiseled and perfectly smooth. Not many clean-shaven guys in my past—they always struck me as adult-sized infants. Too innocent. But this babyface seemed so earnest. Dignified.

He reeled me in with the details as our wine was being opened. “Mostly high-level fraud. Bunch of stolen identities, money missing everywhere. A Frank Abagnale Jr. wannabe.” I nodded, thankful he didn’t ask if I knew who Frank Abagnale Jr. was. The cork popped. “Would you like to taste?” the bartender asked.

He nodded politely and turned back to me. His baby blue eyes glinted with intrigue as he continued. “We even—” he picked up the glass, swirled it cavalierly, breathed in a whiff, and took a discerning sip. Another nod. The bartender poured as he leaned in to me and half-whispered, “we think he may be capable of kidnapping.”

At this point, I was feeling more like a Bond Girl than a blind date. I was surprised at how openly he spilled case details, but I certainly didn’t object. I arched my back slightly, lifting my wine glass as sultrily as possible, trying to maintain poise as I took a sip. The wine was delicious.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” I said, rising from my stool. He offered a hand to help me down. “Thank you,” I gushed. “Just need to powder my nose.” A phrase I’d never used in my life. His gentility was causing me to embrace some kind of debutante demeanor, but I figured I’d lean into it—make him more at ease.

Once I made it to the bathroom, I called Jennifer. “How’s it going?” she asked instantly.

“You and Jackson were right,” I said, beaming.

“I knew it. Jackson!” she called out behind her, “we nailed it!”

“Get this—he’s a wine connoisseur.”

“No way,” she laughed.

“I think he could definitely be,” I nearly whispered, “ya know, it.”

“Oh my God,” she said. She may have been even more excited than I was. “Well, get back out there!”

When I arrived back at the bar, he stood and pulled out my seat. It really was the best I’d ever been treated on a first date.

“Anyway, I’m sure none of this stuff interests you,” he sighed smilingly as he lifted his glass. “Tell me about—”

Suddenly, I heard staticky beeps coming from his suit belt. He nearly slammed his glass down, seized a radio from his belt and held it to his ear. My heart sank.

“We got a tip. They have a read on his location,” he said with a rugged sense of duty. He shoved the radio back onto his belt, stood up, and reached into his pocket.

“Wanna come on a ride-along?”

Stunned, I gawked for a moment. Then I muttered, “uh...sure.”

He fished a fan of bills from his wallet, placed them on the counter, and helped me out of my chair. Still chivalrous in a time of crisis.

He briskly ushered me toward the door with a gentle hand at the small of my back, when I realized I was still holding my wine. I began to turn around. “Oh, wait, I—”

“Just bring it,” he said. I found it odd that a high-level law enforcement official would allow an open container into his passenger’s seat, but I didn’t bother objecting. It was $22 a glass, after all.

He was jogging once we were in the parking lot. I tried to match his pace as gracefully as I could while wearing 6-inch heels and trying to hold my glass level. He still managed to get my door for me, flinging it open in a frenzy then bounding to the driver’s side. I was barely buckled before he peeled out of the lot.

He drove maniacally, swerving between cars and running red lights. “Don’t you have a siren?” I pointed out.

“Uh, well—” he grunted uncomfortably, checking his blind spot again. “We gotta see how long we can stay undercover.” I could sense that I was distracting him, so I quickly bit my tongue. He must not do this with a lot of women, I thought.

I kept my glass to my lips, sipping continuously to stay calm (and because it was the only way I could ensure I wouldn’t spill—it felt especially criminal to stain cop car upholstery).

Indistinct police jargon murmured through static from his radio. With every blurb, he seemed to unravel a little more. I began to notice beads of sweat on his temple. He had driven us into a suburban neighborhood just outside the city, barreling down a road that crossed the railroad tracks to the neighboring county in about a mile.

“Are you okay?” I asked meekly. “You can just let me out if you want—”

“No,” he barked. The gentility had suddenly disappeared. All that was left was desperation. “We’re—we’re almost there. Almost, uh, got ‘im. He’s just on the other side of the—”

More and more saticky murmuring. He was driving so fast, the houses we passed had become blurs. I managed to make out a phrase out of the radio noise: “located suspect.” I began looking around outside. “Did you hear that?” I said, steadying my hand so as not to spill my wine, “Slow down! He must be close!”

Moments later, tiny, faint blue lights appeared behind us. “Backup?!” I guessed. But he sped up even more.

“He’s—he’s getting away. They’ll never catch up. Someone’s gotta get there,” he said.

But as the lights behind us grew brighter and brighter, I could see new ones speckling the tracks in front of us. And growing quickly. We were being surrounded.

“Shit,” he hissed. The lights behind us were now fully visible police vehicles—tailing him. We were heading straight for the barricade of cop cars ahead, seconds from the tracks. In an instant, he yanked the steering wheel to the left with full force. My right side slammed against the side of the car as it skidded wildly in a circle, and with the smash of the back left wheel directly against the raised tracks—came to a screeching halt.

We were engulfed in blue lights. Wine everywhere. He sat limp in the driver’s seat, panting, defeated.

“So it’s you,” I said.

He was silent.

“Wow. What would Frank Abagnale Jr. say?”

Out of his window, I could see the faint silhouette of an officer in full gear approaching the car. Then there was a knock. He weakly rolled down his window, and there, leaning down, was Jennifer—Officer Jennifer Meadows. “First dates are the worst, aren’t they?” she sighed.

He looked back at me, puzzled. Lieutenant Bill Jackson then came to my side. I rolled down my window. “I’m going to need both of you to step out of the vehicle,” Jackson said.

Jennifer held him as I walked around the car as quickly as I could—stupid six-inch heels—retrieving a pair of handcuffs from my purse.

“James Olson,” I began, “you are under arrest...”

As soon as he was in a car headed back to the station, I leaned on Jennifer to take off my ridiculous shoes. She craned her neck to look at the wine stain on my dress, raising an eyebrow.

"He told me to bring it with me!" I insisted. "It was part of the rouse."

“You’re a welcome addition to the precinct,” she said.

“Who knew undercover work could be this interesting way out here?” I said, sighing with relief as I finally unfastened the last buckle and shrank six inches.

“Must be pretty good. Sounds like he was trying to get into it,” she laughed.

“Still,” I said, “I’ve been doing this for so long now, and got so sick of it in LA. I just hope it wasn’t my last ‘first date.’”

She helped me up, and we made our way to our car. “Don’t worry. Plenty more slimy bottomfeeders in the sea.”

I was exhausted, my feet ached miserably, and I was fighting off a little nausea from his lunatic driving. My dress was ruined, and I suddenly realized I was starving. All in all, I realized, not so different from the end of a normal first date. How women do it without the salary, though, I’d never know.

“And so,” I said, starting the engine, “the search for Mr. Wrong continues.”