by Bob McElwain
He pushed off the ground and the wall behind him. Feeling was returning to his right arm. He scooped up the fallen pistol and ran to the alley entrance. He turned left, colliding solidly with a hard-faced angular young man. He jumped clear and climbed a fire hydrant, holding onto a bus stop sign for support.
Anxiously he scanned the street. There were at least a hundred people in sight; none of them running and Lt. Stratford was not among them. Disgustedly, he climbed back down. The angular man he’d knocked down, grabbed him by the shoulder and whirled him around. Whatever he had planned to say or do was left undone; his eyes held steady on the pistol clutched in Brad’s fist.
“Sorry, buddy. My fault,” Brad said politely, tucking the .357 behind his waistband. Ignoring the gaping mouths of onlookers, he strode quickly back into the alley.
Hank, his feet scrambling in air, was rummaging around in the trash bin. With a final surge, he eased back out with Stratford’s .44 in one hand and a powerful pickup transmitter in the other. When he saw Brad, he grinned and tossed the pistol and transmitter into the back seat of the car alongside the briefcase and an expensive-looking portable tape recorder. “You blew that, didn’t you?”
“Can we get out of here?” Brad growled.
“Sure,” replied Hank, still grinning. He moved quickly to the other side of the car and got behind the wheel. Brad got in, dragging the briefcase to his lap from the back seat. As Hank started the car, he snapped the case open and lifted the lid. Both men were stunned. “Oh, sweet Lord Jesus,” Hank murmured with a sigh.
They’d expected money, but not this. Brad thumbed a couple of stacks of hundreds as he estimated the number of stacks. “There’s near two-hundred thou in cash here,” Brad said softly. “And look at this stack of cashier’s checks!” With reverence, he latched the briefcase and set it gently on the floor in the back seat. Brad shook his head. “Wonder what he has stashed in other banks.”
Hank, shaking his head, drove slowly out of the alley.
* * *
Hank had parked in the red zone in front of Sallatti’s and had chosen a table from which they had a good view of Hank’s car. Neither man was paying much attention to his beer.
“You believe Stratford?” Brad asked.
Hank, with a look close to sadness in his eyes said, “He didn’t kill Lydia.”
The silence between them lasted several moments. “Will that fella you called get it done?” Brad asked.
“Kraboski?”
Brad nodded.
“For sure. By now he’s tearin’ hell out of Stratford’s place.”
“Will he find that key to your lab?”
“If it’s there, but we don’t really need it. You’re clear on Gerald’s murder. Stratford said enough. And we got it on tape. That and Lydia’s diary will turn the trick.
“Gerald found out what they were doin’, likely got greedy, then dead. Or Lydia wanted to keep him from sellin’ to Tuckman. Whatever, Captain Haywood can get it squared away.
“If nothing else does, that briefcase will make it work. That kind of bucks doesn’t come from playin’ bingo. Everybody hates a dirty cop, Haywood most of all. And he’ll get Judge Tofler off your neck, too.”
“Will Stratford run?”
Hank nodded. “Even if we can’t prove a thing, he’d face too many questions he doesn’t have answers for. He’ll run, alright.”
“How’re you going to handle those bodies at The Pink Lady?” Brad asked.
“Gangland slaying,” Hank replied with a grin.
“What do you mean?”
“Our guys got to Rinolli’s before they had a chance to clean up. Bullet holes and blood all over hell. For someone not into pistols, you did good. Beats me how you got outa there alive.” He eyed Brad speculatively, as if seeing him in a new light.
“You used my rounds which were super hot loads. And you took the casings with you. So ballistics won’t help much. And you don’t have a motive. I like it. ‘Gangland slaying.’ It’ll be in the headlines by tonight.”
“People saw me.”
“Sure. And we got descriptions. But folks got pretty excited and did some ducking. You’d laugh if I showed you what we got. Nobody came close. If we keep you out of a lineup, who’ll know? I’m not gonna lose any sleep.”
“Guess I’ve got to believe you, but my name’s coming up too often.”
Hank grinned. “True. There’s Georgio Lampino.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s different. You left your fingerprints on the shotgun, but he shot Josie. It won’t be a problem, but you’ll have to make the inquest. Again, it was a couple of hoods. Who really gives a damn? Besides, a knife against a pistol and a shotgun? Hell. You oughta get a medal.”
“Which brings us back to Lydia.”
“I don’t see a problem. I finally got that witness nailed. The address in Glendale’s a phony and so’s she. There’s just no case.”
“Expect you’re right, but that was true with Gerald. I’d feel a bunch better if we knew who did kill her. I was so damn sure it was Stratford.”
“It wasn’t,” Hank said.
“Then who?”
The silence dragged on. When they’d finished their beer, Hank glanced at the car again, then shrugged and waved for another round.
“I’ve got it,” exclaimed Brad. “Josie told me after reading the diaries that Lydia seemed keen on the idea of killing.”
“Yeah, I saw that. So?”
“The last thing she wrote was something about shooting their balls off, if they ever came back.”
“So who the hell are ‘they’?”
“Feldersen and Cogswell. It was Lydia who put them onto me. They didn’t like the way things went; I had the feeling they were going back to see her. Cogswell hasn’t been seen since.”
“You’re outa your cage. You’re sayin’ Lydia wasted Cogswell and Feldersen wasted her?”
“Where’s her nickel-plated .38?” Brad asked.
“On the bottom of the Pacific Ocean for all we know.”
“The pool guy said he saw a green car at Lydia’s place, backed up to the front door. Feldersen and Cogswell were driving a green Ford that day. If Feldersen moved a body, he’d back the car up that way for cover.”
“You’re full of crap. Why would those guys want to cover a righteous shooting?”
“I’ve no idea,” Brad said, shaking his head. “But you’ve often said feds do weird things.”
“That’s so,” Hank murmured.
“Who planted that bug in my hotel room? Nobody was inside except those two feds. Cogswell was sitting at the end of the couch where he could easily have tucked one up under the coffee table.”
Hank frowned and took a long sip of beer. “I think you’re certifiable.” He sighed, then took another sip. “But if you’re right, the DEA has a surveillance tape that will prove you were asleep when Lydia was killed.”
Brad leaned out on the table. “Get with it, Hank. Come up with something.”
“Like?” he asked softly.
“Can Captain Haywood help?”
“Warrants from a federal judge might do.”
“Go for it. Ask for a copy of the surveillance tapes, the ballistics report on Lydia’s .38 and where Cogswell is.”
“Yeah. And for clout there’s that briefcase in the back of my car.” He nodded, then stood abruptly. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Josie’s Trans Am was parked besides Hank’s car near the back of the parking lot at the Federal Building. Never into waiting, Brad paced restlessly near the block wall bounding the lot. Hank and five other LAPD officers had entered the building over an hour ago.
He’d been over and over it in his mind. And once again a rerun began.
Lydia’s .38 didn’t matter. Who had shot whom didn’t matter. Even the reason for the cover-up meant little to him. He had bet it all on Cogswell having planted the bug and Hank finding a surveillance tape. If the tape showed him asleep in his room when Lydia was killed
, he was free. And that was all that mattered to him.
While he’d been watching for it, Brad didn’t notice Hank leaving the building. But he saw him now, making his way between parked cars. His grin was impossibly broad. Brad’s reaction was to slump tiredly against Josie’s car. He hadn’t felt so relieved since he’d come back to LA.
As Hank hurried up, Brad asked anxiously, “You got the tape?”
Hank nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “Seems you were snoring real good when Lydia went away.”
Brad shook his head, almost as if not believing. “Sounds like we got lucky.”
“Yeah. And there’s more,” Hank said. “You guessed right. Cogswell is dead, buried at Forest Lawn. And it was Lydia’s .38 that did him.”
“Why hide any of this?” Brad asked, clearly puzzled.
“Nobody’s sayin’ much. They didn’t admit Lydia shot Cogswell, only that her .38 was used. And they didn’t have a comment when it became clear that Feldersen took out Lydia. But to tell it true, I don’t give a damn. You’re out of this mess.”
“It’ll take time to get used to the idea.”
“Take all you need,” Hank said, grabbing him around his shoulders and leading him to the back of the squad car. He opened the trunk and said, “I’ll need that .357. Unload it and keep the rounds; likely your prints are on them. Then wipe it down good. Your shirt will do.”
“What about Stratford?”
“I want this piece to go into ballistics as coming from Josie. Then it’s linked to the shooting at Lydia’s place. And nobody’s going to connect it to Rinolli.”
Brad sighed, wiped the pistol down, and reluctantly dropped it into the plastic bag Hank was holding. When he looked up, Hank was holding another bag open.
“I’ll need the knife, too,” he said.
As Brad started to reach for it, he hesitated.
“Got to have it, buddy,” Hank said evenly.
Brad shrugged, freed the knife, then tucked it into the bag butt first.
“I want to see Josie,” Brad said.
“Wait ’til I find somebody to go with you. Stratford may still be around.”
“I’ve waited long enough.”
“Be cool. Give me thirty minutes, and I can get somebody to keep you company.”
“Have them hunt me up at the hospital. Can you kill the warrants on me?”
“With a call on this radio.”
“That’ll be enough,” Brad said. “I’ll take my chances.”
Brad stood motionless as Hank climbed behind the wheel of the cruiser and drove off. When he pulled out of the parking lot, Brad turned back to Josie’s car. He found the knife he’d driven into concrete on the floor in the back seat where he’d tossed it, then tucked it into the sheath. True, it needed sharpening. And a bit of the tip was missing. Still, it was a weapon he could count on.
* * *
When he killed the engine in the parking lot in front of Holy Cross Hospital, he couldn’t bring himself to get out of the car. The lot was crowded. How many were here to visit a doctor? Was the owner of the gray Lincoln he had parked beside visiting his wife? His sweetheart? How about the owner of the black Buick to his right?
It was after three, a beautiful cloud-free day, the kind southern California was known for. Even the smog had taken the day off as the beginnings of a Santanna drifted down from the San Gabriel Mountains.
He knew he couldn’t know more sitting here, but he wasn’t up to answers he didn’t want to hear. He tried to remember when he’d felt this tired and failed. Several minutes passed before he reached for the door and unlatched it.
He heard the last footstep, but it was too late. He felt the gun barrel at the back of his left shoulder. “I knew you’d want to see the girl.”
Brad turned his head slowly, just enough to see the eyes and the silencer on the .38 held firmly in Stratford’s right fist. “Is that the piece you used on the others?”
“It is. But it’s not worn out. There’s enough left for you, unless you’ve still got the money.”
“And if I have?” The tiredness had fled; every sense was doubly alerted.
“You might live a little longer.”
“But not much, right?”
“Who can say?” But Brad could see it in the pale blue eyes. He was a dead man who just happened to still be breathing. What could he say? More importantly, what could he do? Death was less than a half-ounce pull away.
“Well?” Stratford moved forward slightly, sunlight reflecting off his balding head, pale eyes gleaming.
“I can come up with the briefcase easy enough,” Brad said. “But I’d need a reason.”
Stratford had moved further forward, turning to face the car. If he fired now, the bullet would angle downward into his heart. Could he take a round and still make it, assuming it was only a torn-up shoulder? He braced his right foot more solidly against the hump in the floor of the car.
Stratford was not a big man; Brad had eighty pounds on him. And the man was near fifty. Would his natural quickness be enough? He knew he couldn’t know, but he also knew he had no other option.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, he whirled, ducked, and slammed into the car door. Even expecting it, the soft thud of the pistol was awesome. The shock was more than he remembered; his left shoulder and arm had suddenly become molten lava. But the door had opened, flinging Stratford back against the gray Lincoln parked beside him. Whatever he was going to do, it had to be quick. He couldn’t last long.
Brad drove his right arm around Stratford’s neck and dove to the ground, dragging the man with him. When he slammed the man’s head into the asphalt, he was momentarily dazed. Brad dropped both knees on Stratford’s right arm at the wrist.
Even hurt, Stratford would be able to free the arm quickly, to bring the .38 back into action. Brad tried to ignore the pounding of Stratford’s left fist on his crippled shoulder as he lifted his pant leg to get at the knife. It slid easily from its sheath. The broken tip slowed penetration through the man’s coat. But it slipped between the ribs easily enough. With his remaining strength, he drove it upward as consciousness fled.
* * *
Slowly Brad became aware of bright lights overhead. He knew he was lying on a hospital gurney. He tried, but he couldn’t move his left arm. “You’ll be fine, buddy,” said the doctor. Brad opened his eyes, glimpsed the man in white, then closed them quickly against the brightness. “You lost some blood; we replaced that. We had to do some sewing; some muscle tissue was torn up pretty good. But there are no bones broken.” He worked as he talked, wrapping more gauze around the shoulder, using the armpit to secure the wrap. Brad heard him say something he didn’t understand, then leave. He didn’t really care. He only wanted to be left alone.
He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed about an hour later when the doctor returned. “Can you sit up?” he asked.
His first effort was a total flop. Finally he remembered how to use his right hand. He pushed himself slowly to a sitting position with the doctor’s help. A nurse moved up to support him. She’d never know how grateful he was for her help.
It was then he saw them, two uniformed cops eyeing him with hungry suspicion. “What happened to the other fella?” Brad asked.
“Dead. They’ll want to talk to you about that.”
Expertly, the doctor fashioned a sling and gently lifted the forearm across Brad’s chest and tied it off behind his neck. He walked over to a small table against the wall and scribbled hastily on a tablet. He returned and handed it to Brad. “If those people let you, have this prescription filled. That’s going to be quite painful for a week or more. Exercise a little when you can. By the scars on your hide, I suspect you know the rules.”
Brad nodded.
“Good.” He walked to the door. “Guess he’s all yours, officers.” Then he was gone, leaving two advancing cops, a touch of eagerness in their step. The nurse still held his good shoulder firmly, bracing him.
The shorter man took out a small note pad. “Your name, sir.” His voice was academy polite; he was too young to have been on the streets long.
Brad took a deep breath, hoping Hank Walters’ plan had worked. “Brad Ashton.” It felt good to say his name aloud.
The young cop’s hand dropped to his holstered pistol. The older cop asked, “The Brad Ashton?”
“The same.”
“That was a cop you killed out there.”
“He wasn’t one of the good guys.” He started to swing his legs off the gurney, but a look from those street-wise eyes stopped him.
“Maybe you could make a call?” Brad asked mildly.
“A lawyer?”
Brad shook his head. “Sgt. Hank Walters or Captain Haywood.”
“Why would I want to bother a captain?”
“Maybe I’m not in any kind of trouble.”
The big cop didn’t believe it, but the names were right. “May I use the phone?” he asked the nurse.
“Dial 9, then the number you need.” Ignoring the young officer, she helped ease Brad’s legs to the floor.
“You’re a first-class angel,” he said.
“Want to try to walk?” she asked with a smile.
“Why not?” But it seemed a long way to the floor. He hoped she wouldn’t let go. He made it to the wall, then back to the gurney with her help. The pain in his shoulder blinded him only when he moved it; otherwise it was only a pulsing, throbbing ache enveloping his entire left side. He set out for the chair in the corner, waving off the nurse with a slight smile.
Seated, he asked her, “Know where I can find Josie Botsworth?”
“Third floor, room 307.”
He didn’t know how to ask. “How’s she doing?”
“Your girl?”
He nodded.
“I don’t really know. You’ll have to check with the doctor. But she’s out of intensive care, and that’s a good sign.”
He felt he could fly; he felt just fine. The nurse returned his smile. Then the older cop was in front of him. The hard look in his eyes had been replaced by puzzlement.
“Seems they don’t want you downtown, but we’re supposed to keep you covered, and there’s two other men on the way.” Clearly surprised by this turn of events, he turned to the nurse. “Where do we wait?”
“Ask him.”
“Third floor, room 307.”
