by Lia Matera
“They’ll check the serial number against the one listed for your gun in the police records.”
“It’s not hard to change police records.” His voice regained confidence. “I’ve done it before.”
There’s a moment in almost every trial when a lawyer’s best arguments are disregarded, or even ridiculed, by the judge; when the judge says, “Well, if that’s all you have to say about it …” In that moment, as short as a comma in a sentence whose conclusion you don’t want to hear, a litigator will say any goddam thing that comes to mind.
I said, “Sander Arkelett is FBI.”
His tone was skeptical. “Not the FBI’s jurisdiction.”
He was right … but he wasn’t shooting. There had to be some paranoia there. Maybe enough to exploit.
I said, “Continued surveillance of Wallace Bean, until it could be determined whether he posed a threat to other federal officials.”
Loftus stood motionless in the dark room, apparently thinking about it. He finally said, “FBI always checks in with us.”
“You shot Bean before Sandy had a chance to check in.”
“So why didn’t Arkelett arrest me?”
He was beginning to believe me. My voice had to be just right. He would hear the tone, not the words. “Sandy was investigating possible collaboration by other officers.”
Loftus didn’t respond. He stepped cautiously backward, toward the window. I could hear voices outside, but not close enough.
“Let us go, Captain. Your luck ran out when you didn’t kill Sander. He’s told all those reporters outside that he saw you murder Bean, and that he saw you go to Kirsten’s house later that morning. He’s an eyewitness and a federal agent to boot. It’s no use killing anyone else now.”
I could hear Hal’s ragged breathing, the scrape of the captain’s shoe over bits of debris. For a few minutes—maybe only seconds—Loftus kept us in a limbo of silence.
Then he lunged at me.
Gun metal banged my cheek, a steel-trap grip wrenched my shoulder. I lurched forward, my fingers sliding through a slimy substance on the floor. And Loftus’s arm caught me around the neck. His damp sleeve filled my mouth as he yanked me to my feet. Pain shot down my spine.
I heard Hal scramble toward us.
I stopped him with the warning, “The gun’s at my throat!”
The captain’s thirty-eight was buried painfully beneath my jaw. It reeked of lubricating oil. My arm was twisted behind me, my hand bent backward nearly to the snapping point. Loftus breathed over my shoulder. I could feel his wet jacket on my neck, could smell cinnamon gum on his breath. His voice was quiet and determined. “You, boy. Go ahead of us where I can see you, and keep your hands up. We’ll just go on downstairs, and see what the reporters have to say.” He jerked my arm upward and back, sending a searing jolt all the way to my pectorals. “And I’ll do the talking, please, Miss Di Palma.”
40
The news van was parked at the edge of the development, where the sand flats began. I couldn’t see anyone near it. I could just make out the white of the van and the contrasting darkness of its open door.
A hundred feet beyond it, flashlights bobbed over the flats. Three figures were silhouetted behind the lights, walking through blowing sand toward the rock jetty. The reporters had apparently taken my Uncle Henry at his word when he’d relayed my message to meet me “out on the jetty.”
“Hullo!” Loftus called. The echo of crashing waves drowned out his shout. Loftus tried again without success.
The wind sucked my hair back. It sliced through my coat, pelted my legs with clumps of damp sand and shards of brittle dune grass. I stood very still. My arm was a hair’s breadth from dislocation, and Loftus’s gun was aimed at the back of my cousin’s head. I watched the reporters’ flashlights sweep the sand, moving closer to the jetty.
I had discovered in Loftus a well of guilty paranoia; and because of it, he’d been chary of dismissing my lie. But the minute those reporters denied my story—
A dark shape skirted the white of the van. Damn! Someone had remained behind with the equipment.
An FBI agent would never call a news conference before he’d made an arrest: he might as well buy his suspect an airplane ticket to Brazil. After two murders and one attempt, trepidation had made Loftus gullible. But it wouldn’t take much to restore his confidence. Just a word or two from this reporter.
And it wouldn’t take Loftus long to invoke his police authority and send all four reporters away.
Hal stood about eighteen inches in front of me and the captain, his fingers laced on top of his head. The reporter at the news van would certainly notice it. He’d remember it when the captain claimed his “suspect” had tried to escape, pulling me into the line of fire. The reporter would also remember that I’d stood by while the captain kept his gun aimed at my cousin. He’d conclude—and report—that I’d approved of Hal’s arrest. There would be an inquiry, of course. Hal was the mayor’s son, after all, and I was a public figure, of sorts.
But the world would learn about Hal’s injury—how it had happened, the aftermath of brain damage, his refusal to take antipsychotic drugs, his transient lifestyle. Psychiatrists would appear on A.M. San Francisco to confirm that my cousin’s psychological profile was consistent with a homicide spree. The captain would be praised for having arrested Hal, in spite of having been forced to kill him. And as for me … everyone would agree my death was “a great tragedy.”
I inhaled a bracing lungful of ocean wind. If I could somehow cue the reporter … But I realized Loftus would order the van away and frog-march me off, Hal two paces ahead, if I so much as sneezed.
The captain called out to the figure beside the van. “Police officer! Step forward.”
The reporter ducked sideways, as if contemplating flight.
“Police!” Loftus shouted with greater authority. “Step forward!”
The figure hesitated, then came slowly closer. He was a very tall man of average build. I couldn’t see his face.
Loftus barked, “Have you been talking to a man named Arkelett?”
Even in the dark, the figure radiated reluctance.
Loftus crushed my wrist in exasperation. “Answer my question!”
“Sander Arkelett?” came the choked response. “Yes, sir.”
I’d have recognized that faintly accented voice anywhere. It was Dieter Strindberg (if that was really his name). Strindberg, who’d fled from me a few hours earlier. Apparently he’d taken shelter in this forsaken bit of suburbia. He’d probably approached the news van to request a ride home.
And now his “Yes, sir,” was buying me an extra minute of life. I took a deep breath. As a child, I’d loved wild, windy nights. Hillsdale had seemed a good enough place to me, then.
One more question, and Loftus would know the truth. I wondered about reincarnation, realizing sadly that It—or They—would never let me be a litigator again.
“Did he say anything about who killed Wallace Bean?” Loftus’s words swept through the deserted streets, echoing Bean … Bean.
I waited. The jury was in.
The boy answered, “Yes.”
I believed, at first, that I’d heard what I wished to hear. An aural mirage.
“What did Arkelett say?” Loftus’s voice lost all pretense of confidence.
“He said—” The boy broke off, seemingly frightened of the man interrogating him in the darkness. He looked over his shoulder.
Several hundred feet behind the van, two of the three flashlights began bobbing back toward us.
“Tell me, goddam it!” Desperation crackled in the command.
The boy turned back to Loftus, hugging himself, hunching his shoulders. “He said it was the captain of the police. That he must be careful because—”
The boy didn’t finish his sentence. Captain Loftus m
oaned, “Madonna in heaven!” and released my arm.
I felt a tide of relief from my fingertips to my shoulder. I watched Hal lower his hands and turn his head.
And I realized what the boy had said. He’d said the one, the only thing that could make Loftus believe it was all true, my whole preposterous story. I glanced over my shoulder.
A flash of blue and orange flame exploded right behind me. The air-shattering blast sent me staggering. I clapped my hands over my ears as the echo of it boomed through the empty streets. I coughed out acrid smoke, blinking a sulfurous sting from my eyes.
In front of me, my cousin doubled over.
I watched him drop, vaguely aware of someone screaming German phrases.
And I dropped too, bruising my knees on the ruined concrete. My cousin had been shot. Shot. Because I’d involved him in my stupid scheme.
“Hal!” The wind whisked his name away. I felt rather than heard myself speak it.
I touched my cousin’s back. And to my great relief, he moved. He pushed me aside, crawling over my legs to get to the captain.
Then Hal stopped, still on all fours, still straddling my legs. He stopped cold. Panting. Watching.
I twisted beneath him, frightened to numbness, expecting to see the dark outline of a gun pointed at his head.
Loftus was on his knees. He still held the thirty-eight, but his arm was down. The gun barrel scraped the concrete. Even in the darkness, I could see that his head was bowed, that he swayed slightly. He’s praying, I thought bitterly. Please, God, don’t acquit him.
And then Loftus folded over and tumbled sideways.
A ray of light jerked over the uneven street, bouncing over the captain’s hooded head, momentarily spotlighting his hand, the fingers still gripping the gun.
I heard pounding, felt it reverberate through the concrete. Running footsteps. I looked behind me. Light dazzled my eyes.
Hal crawled over me, putting his body between me and Loftus.
The reporters reached us, their voices breathless, high-pitched with excitement. “Was that a shot? Where’s Laura Di Palma? Are you guys okay?”
Then both flashlights discovered the captain. Stopped. Moved closer.
In the cast-back glow of light, I saw the big reporter with the clipped beard. His hair fell over his forehead in stringy dishevelment, his beard glistened damply. He stared down, mouth gaping.
Behind him, the other newsman murmured, “Right in the eyeball! Kee-rist!”
The big reporter blinked at his companion for a moment. Then he gestured toward the van. “You’d better start setting up the lights.”
41
It was a rough night, an uphill battle making the captain’s underlings believe he’d killed himself or anybody else. I sported a few new bruises, from being tossed against a wall by a cop with a clamped jaw and tears of anger in his eyes. I was strip-searched for no good reason, and though I repeatedly requested some, no coffee ever found its way into the interrogation room.
But it was over by late morning. Hal and the German boy corroborated my story. It was also consistent with what the Oregon reporters had discovered. But the clincher was the physical evidence. A bullet fired from the captain’s standard-issue thirty-eight matched the bullets taken out of Kirsten Strindberg and Sander Arkelett. And out of Loftus’s own skull.
As I left the building, one of the cops who’d searched my house stopped me at the door.
“I’m Terry Dickens. You don’t remember me, do you? We were in Algebra Two together.”
I did remember him, after a moment. I’d thought he looked familiar, when he came to search my house.
He said, “I guess the fellas gave you a lot of shit, huh?”
“I guess so.”
“We all liked the captain.” He stepped closer. His skin was oily, spotted with tiny black grains, just as it had been in high school. “But between us, I wasn’t all that surprised. I used to be good buds with John, the captain’s son. There was a lot of bad feelings on John’s part when the captain made him enlist.”
I considered telling Terry Dickens that the captain needn’t have forced John into the army; that John hadn’t screwed up the exhaust system of my car, after all. But it was a long story, and I was heartily sick of men in blue uniforms.
Terry Dickens continued, “When John got killed, the captain, he got like superpatriotic, you know, like he had to think it was worth it, sending John over there. If Wallace Bean had asked me, boy, I’d have told him, stay the hell away from Hillsdale. ‘Cause the captain was a big fan of those two senators, and he didn’t think much of you getting Bean off like that.”
“I didn’t get Bean off,” I explained mechanically. “A jury acquitted him.”
“Now that I think of it …” Dickens rubbed a bit of the shine off his nose. “Captain had me and another uniform go out to Old Town and check IDs, you know, generally hassle the winos, the night Bean got offed. I wonder if he wanted us to find Bean. You know, and eliminate the temptation.”
“Could you give me a ride somewhere?”
Dickens smuggled me out of the building through the downstairs garage (reporters outside, he explained). At my request, he drove me to County Hospital.
I repeated our conversation to Sander Arkelett.
Sandy looked terrible, pale and full of tubes, but the doctors said there was no sign of infection.
He said, in a wheezy whisper, “Scared hell out of me, Laura. I flew in a night early, and there was Wallace Bean on the plane. I rented a car and offered him a lift. Took him to a flophouse near the canneries. So I’m still slouching around three or four hours later keeping an eye on him, when I see this plainclothes cop get out of an unmarked car.” He smiled slightly, wincing as the tube taped to his upper lip shifted. “I can always spot an unmarked. And the way a cop walks. Anyway, Bean and the cop got to talking, and next thing I know the cop’s handing Bean a revolver.”
I sighed. “Loftus must have had the same idea that Kirsten got, later. He must have spotted Bean around town and decided to set him up for a bust by giving him an unregistered gun. Then he arranged for a couple of cops to go into the neighborhood and shake down strangers. But by then, Bean had left Old Town. He’d come to my house. The cops didn’t bust anybody, so Loftus was forced to go look for Bean again. When he finally found him near the Lucky Logger, Bean didn’t have the gun anymore. Maybe Loftus tried to get Bean to take the matching gun, but by then I’d warned Wally to be careful. And I guess maybe the whole thing got to Loftus. Here’s a sleazy, volatile killer out on the streets after only eleven months … I guess Loftus must have decided to skip the half-measures and shoot him. Execute him for crimes committed.”
“Probably right,” Sandy rasped. “I followed Bean to your house. Saw him go in with the gun, then leave without it—I knew you’d take the damn thing away from him. I followed him back down to the pier, and here comes Plainclothes again, with what looks like the same damn gun.” The wheezing grew worse.
“It’s okay, Sandy. Don’t talk. I know what happened.”
Loftus shot Bean, looked around, and saw a car taking off down the street. Kirsten Strindberg. She’d driven to the pier because she knew Bean had been lurking there. She’d heard him tell me so, when he came to my house. Kirsten suspected I was in town to make trouble for her, so she’d decided to make a little trouble for me. She’d taken the gun out of my drawer while I was passed out on the couch, and she’d gone to give it back to Bean. Maybe she assumed Bean would do something stupid, like get caught shooting it; or maybe she intended to find a cop and have him busted for weapons possession. But she ended up seeing him get murdered instead.
“Kirsten saw Loftus execute Bean,” I said. “And Loftus saw Kirsten’s green Peugeot.”
Sandy nodded weakly, closing his eyes. When his breathing was less labored, he said, “I’d cased Gleason’s place
before when I was in town, so I knew who the Peugeot belonged to. I got to Gleason’s in time to see Strindberg cross the street and stick the gun under the driver’s seat of your Mercedes. Not like you to leave the car door unlocked, Laura.”
“Hal drove me home. He got out on that side. I didn’t think to check.”
“Strindberg looked nervous enough to fall to pieces.”
“Stupid woman.” My antipathy had survived her. “Ironic, isn’t it, Sandy? She gets rid of that gun, only to have Loftus plant its twin in her house. He must have been irritated as hell when the twenty-two wouldn’t fire again. He had to use his own police revolver to kill Kirsten. I guess he left the twenty-two there to connect her with Bean’s murder and add a little confusion to a case he didn’t want solved.”
“Well, I didn’t care for all this coming and going of guns. I spent the night in my car, down the street from your house, keeping an eye on it for you. And what do I do but nod out for a while. I open my eyes and Plainclothes is coming out of Strindberg’s house. He starts looking up and down the street and I slide out of the car real fast, keeping low. I’m in your bushes by the time he walks over and starts looking the Mustang over. I guess he remembered seeing it parked down by the cannery earlier. So he leaves, and I’ve got this problem. Who the hell’s going to believe the captain of police shot anybody? He denies it, and where does that leave me? Out of town on a rail, and maybe facing a hearing to revoke my P.I. license, if Loftus is feeling mean. I need evidence. More than just my word against his.”
Talking was clearly coming harder to him. I put my hand over his, taking over.
“So Loftus ran a license-plate check on the Mustang. And it took him to the car rental place at the airport, where the woman—who has quite a crush on you, by the way, Sandy—gave Loftus your name. So he had your name, but no idea who you were or what you looked like. Not until one of his officers stopped my car to take me to police headquarters the other day. Remember, Sandy, before Hal and I got into the police car, I told you to meet me at Hal’s house? I called you by name. The cop must have repeated the conversation to Loftus. It was Loftus who fired those shots at me. He knew which house Hal had been staying in: the cops had been keeping an eye on it to make sure Hal didn’t start any fires. He went out there to get rid of you, in case you’d seen anything. He’d probably have shot Hal by mistake if I hadn’t shouted out his name. But I suppose he missed me on purpose. He didn’t have any reason to kill me. Just scare me. Anyway,” I concluded, “I guess it’s no mystery why you climbed out my window and ran away when the police came to my house.”
