John Stern pointed with one hand while the other hand touched the sergeant's neck. "My car," Stern said distinctly, "was stolen down there."
But, the instant his fingers had touched the police officer's neck, that officer had become a slave of his own nervous system.
"Okay; climb in," said Sergeant Riley.
Stern went around to the other side of the car, and Patrolman Garetti said: "Hey! Where are we supposed...."
But he was too late: Stern's hand had already touched his neck. Patrolman Garetti didn't argue in the least when the Sergeant said: "Okay, Garetti; let's get to Manhattan as fast as possible. Use the siren."
John Stern leaned back and relaxed while the police car headed toward Manhattan with its siren wide open. The cars ahead of them pulled over to the side as the State Police roared down the road toward Manhattan.
The road was fairly empty, that late at night. They sped toward the city at eighty miles an hour, roared down the open stretches of flat roadway into the city.
The highway crowded up in Queens, but they hit the Triboro, crossed over into Manhattan, and moved on down Fifth Avenue toward 582.
"Okay," Stern said, as they reached Fiftieth Street. "Cut the siren and pull up outside 582. I'll take care of it from here."
The officers did as ordered. When Stern got out, he said, "Forget all about what has happened. Go back to your beat."