Mendez stood on the street and spoke at length over his radio mike before he and his partner returned to the car in which the boy sat. Mendez got behind the wheel but turned to look back at the boy before turning the ignition. 'We got him, kid. Good job.'
'What did he say?'
'He didn't say anything but we don't need him to say anything. With your ID we've got him. The detectives are heading over here to search the joint for the gun. They find that and it's bye-bye dirtbag. You did good.'
'What about the robbery? The victim. You need him to say he did it.'
'Actually, there are two victims. But we're not very likely to get that from either one.'
'They're afraid?'
'No, both got shot. During the robbery. One's dead and last we heard, the other wasn't going to make it either.'
The boy felt the air go out of his lungs. Not because of what Mendez said, though that certainly put a different inflection on things. But because he had suddenly realised what the running man had said before being put into the patrol car.
'He said, "You're dead." When he saw me. He said, "You're dead," didn't he?'
'Don't worry, it's bullshit. He was trying to intimidate you but he was too late. He's going to be in lock-up until you're an old man. He can't get to you.'
'What about his friends? Is he in a motorcycle gang or something?'
'Not hardly. He doesn't even have a bike. Why do you think he was running when you saw him?'
Mendez turned round and started the car.
'Let's go downtown now and see the detectives.'
He put it in drive and the car lurched forward. He reached over and punched his partner on the shoulder. 'We got it, McHugh. We got the arrest.'
McHugh didn't answer.
'What about my car?' the boy asked.
'What about it?' Mendez replied. 'It's in a safe place. Someone will take you back to it when you're finished with the detectives.'
' I need to call my dad.'
'We can do that at the station. First thing.'
Fifteen minutes later the boy was sitting at a desk in the detective bureau. Mendez handed him the phone and told him to dial nine first to get an outside line. Mendez said the boy could tell his father to come to the station if he wanted.
The boy dialed his home number but after ten rings the old man didn't pick up. He hung up. He thought it was strange that there was no answer. His father had not said anything about going out. If he had gone out for cigarettes or beer it seemed as though he would have done so earlier. The boy dialed the number a second time but once again got no answer. He hung up the phone.
'Pop's not there, huh?' Mendez said.
'No answer.'
'Okay, well, the lead detective on this case wants to talk to you so we're going to move you into one of the interview rooms and then he'll be in to see you as soon as he's free. We've got to get our paperwork done and then get back out on the street.'
He followed Mendez and McHugh to a small room with a table and two chairs. There was also a mirrored window that the boy figured led to a viewing room. He'd seen it on Kojak before.
They left him there and an hour drifted slowly by while the boy thought about what the running man had said before they shoved him into the patrol car. Then the door opened and a man wearing a suit stepped in. He had fiery red hair and a grim smile. He said his name was Sonntag and offered his hand. The boy said his own name as they shook and the detective, for just a moment, stopped shaking then started again. He then pulled out the chair and sat across from the boy.
'Where do you live, kid?'
He gave his address and watched the detectives face turn grimmer.
'What? What's wrong?'
'I need to ask some questions first. Who lives there with you? Your mom and dad?'
'Just my dad.'
'Where's your mom?'
'I don't know. She's been gone a long time. What does this have to do with anything? I saw a guy running. What does it matter where my mother is?'
'It doesn't. I'm just asking questions. Tell me about the man you saw running.'
The boy repeated the story he had told the first two cops. He added no new details, believing the less said with Sonntag the better. The detective asked no questions until the story was finished.
'And you are sure the man they took into custody was the man you saw running?'
'I don't know. I guess so.'
'You guess so?'
'Well, so far, I haven't gotten to look at him, except from the car.'
'We'll take care of that in a minute. Now you said you saw this running man coming from the direction of the drawbridge, right?'
'Yes.'
'Did you see him on the bridge?'
The boy didn't know what to do. The one lie he had told had cascaded. Now he had to keep lying to stay clear. He wished he could talk to his father.
'You either saw him on the bridge or you didn't,' Sonntag said.
'I didn't. Can I use the phone again? I want to call my father.'
Sonntag stared at him a moment before speaking. 'Not yet. Let's get the story down first. So you didn't see him on the bridge but you're pretty sure he was coming from that direction.'
'Yes.'
'We're having trouble locating the weapon, Is it possible that he threw it into the river when he was coming over the bridge?'
'Yeah, I guess so. It's possible.'
'Did you see him do that?'
'No, I told you, I didn't see him on the bridge.'
The boy knew that Sonntag was trying to trick him, or get him to agree to seeing something he didn't see. The boy sat frozen. He knew that now was the time to tell. Tell about the gun and try to explain it. But he couldn't.
'I want to talk to my father.'
Sonntag nodded like he understood and would arrange for the request right away. But that's not what he said when he opened his mouth. 'Your father's name is Edison Chambers, correct?'
'Yes, that's right,' the boy answered, his voice rising with suspicion. 'Is he here?'
'No, I'm afraid not. I feel awful about this, kid, but I have to tell you. It looks like your father was one of the people this dirtbag shot.'
The boy's mouth shot open. He felt the room and the bright lights crashing in on him. He heard Sonntag still talking.
'Edison Chambers. We got the ID from his wallet. He was in the store, getting a six-pack from one of the coolers in the back. He bent down to get it from the bottom and we guess the shooter didn't see him in there. He came in and went to the register. The woman there, he probably shot her first. That was when your father stood up. The shooter saw him then . . .'
Sonntag didn't have to finish. The boy leaned forward and put his face into his hands. In the blackness he heard the detective ask him if he had any other family living in the area.
'My aunt and uncle,' he said.
'We need to call them when we're finished here.'
'I want to go to my house.'
'We'll release you to your aunt and uncle and the three of you can decide.'
The boy didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say or to think. He suddenly flashed on the gun in the glove box. He wanted to get back to his car.
'We're setting up a line-up,' Sonntag said.
The boy straightened up. Tear trails marked both sides of his face. 'What do you mean?'
'We're putting the suspect in a line-up of men and we'll see if you can pick him out. Don't worry, he won't see you. You'll be behind a mirror.'
But he already did see me, the boy thought but didn't say. He just nodded his head. A plan was formulating. He concentrated on it instead of thinking about his father.
'You ready, then?' Sonntag asked.
'I guess so.'
'Okay, then. Let's do it and then we'll get your aunt and uncle on the phone. Let's go do this thing for your dad.'
The boy stood up and followed Sonntag through the door. He was taken to a dark room where a window looked into a well-ligh
ted room. The far wall was white and spotless, except for the hash marks that marked feet and inches so an observer could gauge height. After a few minutes six men were led into the well-lit room in a cue and they stood facing the boy against the wall.
'They can't see me?' he asked.
'No,' said Sonntag. 'It's one-way glass.'
The boy looked at the men in the line-up. Only two had beards. And one was the running man. He could tell. He was looking at the man who had killed his father. Thoughts blasted through him with sounds like waves crashing on the beach. He felt weak in the knees but strong in the heart. He felt a tear slide down his soft, whiskerless cheek. He wiped it away and heard the waves replaced by his father's voice. Time to be a man.
'Well,' Sonntag said, bending down close to the boy's ear to whisper. 'Which one?'
The boy didn't answer. He was working a plan out in his head.
'Pick him out, son,' said the detective.
The boy shook his head. 'No,' he said slowly. 'You don't have him. He's not there.'
The boy could literally feel the detective tense.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean the guy I saw isn't there.'
'Kid, come on. We're talking about your father.'
'I know. I want to get the right man and he's not there.'
Sonntag bent closer to him again to whisper, 'Don't be afraid. He can't hurt you. Just pick him out.'
'I'm not afraid. He just isn't there.'
'But one of those men over there is the one you picked out at the bar.'
'It was dark and I was sitting in a patrol car. I saw the beard and thought . . .'
'Thought what?'
'I thought it was him but it's not. You have the wrong guy.'
Sonntag exhaled loudly angrily. His voice returned to normal volume. 'Let me tell you something, besides you we've got nothing. No weapon, no witness, no camera in the store. The guy you say you picked by mistake does have one thing, though. Gunshot residue on his hands. We know he fired a gun in the last few hours. But if we don't get an ID or recover that weapon and connect him to it, then guess what, he walks out of here like nothing ever happened. He'll have his beer waiting on the bar for him at The Pirate. So do me a favor and look again and pick him out.'
The boy shook his head. 'I can't. He's not there.'
'Well, kid, then I hope you can face your father's ghost. Let's go.'
Sonntag roughly clapped the boy on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.
Twenty minutes later the boy sat on a bench in the front lobby. His uncle was on the way. Sonntag had told him he had twenty-four hours to change his mind about the identification. That was how long they could hold the running man. After that they had to charge him or let him go. That was fine with the boy. Twenty-four hours was plenty of time to do what he needed to do.
His uncle wasn't happy to see him. He had been told by Sonntag about the failure to make an identification of the running man. 'He was your father but he was my brother,' the uncle said. 'If he was the guy you should've said it was the guy.'
'I would've, but they don't have him. They just wanted to arrest somebody, doesn't matter who.'
'That detective told me on the phone that they had the right guy. That it was you who messed it up.'
'He's wrong. Can you take me to my car?'
'You are supposed to come home with me. The police said you --'
'I am coming to your place but I can't leave my car in the middle of a gas station all night. I also need to go by the house to get some clothes. So drop me off at my car and I'll come by later.'
'Don't make it late.'
'It already is late.'
They said very little the rest of the way. They drove by the Kwik Mart where the shooting had taken place. There were still police cars and a white van in the parking lot. There was yellow tape all around.
'Is that where . . .?' the uncle asked.
'Yeah.'
The boy looked away. In a few minutes they pulled into the closed gas station and the lights of his uncle's car washed across the boy's Volkswagen.
'Still there,' the uncle said.
'Yeah. Thanks for the ride.'
'We'll see you in a little while?'
'Yes.'
'Look, Bobby, I'm sorry. About your dad. My brother. You know. He wasn't the nicest guy to you, I know. But something like this . . . It shouldn't have happened, you know?'
'Yes, I know.'
He said goodbye and dosed the door. After his uncle pulled away the boy looked around. The streets were dark and empty. The police were gone. He looked up toward the bridge and the hedge that ran alongside the sidewalk. No police, only darkness.
He thought about the plan and decided it was a good plan, a plan that would work. He went to his car and opened the passenger door. He punched the button on the glove box and the lid dropped open to reveal the red plaid shirt containing the gun was still in place. He pulled it out and held the bundle close to his chest. With his other hand the boy reached into the glove box for the Swiss Army knife he kept in there, mostly for emergencies, or if he needed to turn the fuel feed screw on the car's carburetor.
The boy closed the car door and headed on foot toward the bridge. He chose to stay off the sidewalk, walking instead in the dark shadows along the hedge line.
Three days later the boy found the story on the second page of the metro section. It wasn't a long story but he didn't care about its placement or importance in the newspaper. He cared about its contents.
DOUBLE-MURDER SUSPECT FATALLY WOUNDS SELF
A man the police said was the primary suspect in a convenience store robbery that left two dead was killed himself yesterday when he attempted to retrieve the hidden gun used in the crime.
Police said that Edward Togue, thirty-nine, was shot once in the upper body when he reached into a hedge lining the ramp of the Sunrise Boulevard drawbridge and attempted to withdraw a gun he had apparently hid there three days earlier. The gun's trigger apparently was snagged on a branch inside the hedge and was engaged when Togue pulled on the gun.
The weapon discharged once and the bullet struck Togue. He was fatally wounded and died at the scene.
Police termed the shooting accidental and said it also will serve to conclude the investigation into the Saturday night shooting at the Kwik Mart just three blocks from where Togue killed himself.
Police said the gun Togue was retrieving has been matched by ballistics analysis to the shooting in which a cashier and customer were killed during a robbery. Togue had been arrested shortly after that shooting and questioned by police but later released when no evidence could be found linking him to the shooting.
The boy stopped reading. The rest he knew. He folded the paper closed and put it aside. He went back to packing his clothing and other belongings into boxes. He didn't know if he would be able to fit everything into the bug but he was going to try. He was then going to get in the car and start driving. Not to his aunt's and uncle's home. He was just going to drive.
As he put some photos into a box he thought about what Sonntag had said about his father's ghost. The boy smiled. He knew the only spirit he needed to worry about now was the ghost of Edward Togue.
SHORTCUT
The shortcut took me down into the wooded valley on the other side of the railroad tracks. It was dark down here, because the tall trees created a canopy the sun could not penetrate. It had not been raining, but now water dripped down on me from above. The air was damp, and the plants at ground level seemed huge, some of them with leaves as big as elephant ears.
No one ever cut through here. It was off-limits. But I was late. Very late. The rumor was that there was a tunnel that went directly under the railroad embankment and that it would knock fifteen minutes off my time getting home.
The path grew narrow as it led me farther down. Soon the leaves and branches of the bushes scraped at my arms. And then I finally saw the tunnel. Its opening was dark and lined with whitewashed bri
cks. As I got closer, I saw tangles of roots hanging down from inside.
I saw no light and thought the rumor couldn’t be true. The tunnel didn’t go through. But then I felt warm air come out of the darkness and wash over me. If there was air coming through, then there had to be an opening on the other side.
I checked my watch. I was out of time. I stepped into the tunnel and ducked under the hanging roots. My second step landed on something soft. It moved and jerked my foot out from under me. I fell, and my hands felt the slime. That was when I realized that the tunnel entrance wasn’t lined with white bricks.
They were teeth.
Suicide Run: Three Harry Bosch Stories Page 7
