“Just let them ride,” Sellers grinned. “Don’t bother about them. You can walk all right if you just keep your hands in front of you and right close to your belt.”
“I could do a lot more good if you would take them off.”
“Good for whom?” he jibed.
“The trouble with you is you have the mind of a cop. Come on, let’s go.”
We piled into the lift, rattled down to the ground floor, and then all climbed into Frank Sellers’ police car.
“What’s the address?” Sellers asked.
“226 Korreander,” Claire Bushnell said.
Sellers pushed the car into speed.
I said, “You’ll do better if you don’t use the siren.”
Sellers gave me a withering glance, then devoted his attention to driving.