by Jan Burke
“Hang on.”
He floored the accelerator and pulled the car into a hard left. The wheels squealed in protest and the car fishtailed onto a short street that ran alongside the warehouses and away from the water. He made a sharp right onto an alleyway so narrow it didn’t seem we would fit. We didn’t — the car scraped along between two corrugated tin buildings on either side, metal screeching against metal, throwing sparks. Both side mirrors went flying off in the first few seconds. The doors grew hot, but the car kept moving. Frank looked up in the only remaining mirror.
The Lincoln had reached the alley, but was too wide to follow us. It roared off. Frank reached the end of the narrow passage and made a series of turns and came out on McKinley Road, which leads back into downtown. We were still going full speed. For a moment I thought we had lost them, but soon I heard the squeal of tires behind us — I turned around and saw that the Lincoln had found us again. There still wasn’t much traffic, but we were going faster than anything else on the road, and were weaving around cars that seemed to be standing still.
The street became less and less industrial as we swerved along it. We reached a flat stretch near some old houses, and the Lincoln began closing the distance between us. Within seconds, it seemed, it was right behind us. Frank took a turn up a curving hillside residential street. The Volvo cornered well, but the Lincoln had more power. It began to pull alongside us. Frank jerked the wheel hard to the left, bashing its back end into the Lincoln’s front bumper. Both cars swerved wildly, the Volvo recovering a little more quickly as we pulled ahead again. But within seconds the Lincoln had regained the lost ground.
Once again it pulled alongside us, this time the barrel of a gun clearly visible on the passenger side. Frank grabbed me by the neck with one hand, forcing my head down. I could see nothing, but felt the car veer from side to side. Suddenly a blast of shattered glass fell all around me as the gunman fired through the back windshield.
Frank took the wheel with both hands again, and I started to sit up, ignoring him when he shouted, “Stay down!” We reached the crest of the hill and began rocketing our way down the other side. That was when we saw the garbage truck.
Coming up the hill from the opposite direction, almost as if in slow motion, the lumbering white giant filled the road. There was no time to stop. Both cars were plummeting downhill side by side, heading straight for the truck. Frank gave a hard pull to the right, driving up onto the sidewalk. The car jolted as we went over the curb and mowed down a picket fence. We heard a sound like a bomb going off, the loud boom of the Lincoln hitting the truck. We kept going, Frank trying to regain control of the Volvo as it bounced wildly through front yard after front yard. The front windshield shattered as we came to rest with a bone-jarring halt in a large hedge. Beads of glass and sticks and leaves came flying at us, with Frank’s side of the car taking the brunt of the impact.
There was that eerie peacefulness that follows collisions. For a moment, it seemed all was still. I was a little dazed, but came around quickly. I became aware that my forehead was cut in several places and bleeding, but not too badly. I may have hit the dash. I was shaken up, but nothing seemed to hurt much.
Then I heard Frank moan softly.
He was slumped over the wheel.
“Frank?”
Another small moaning sound. Afraid to move him, I called his name again, without response. He was breathing through his mouth, as if he were sleeping. There was a streak of blood down the front of his shirt, but it all seemed to be from his nose and some facial cuts.
People from the neighborhood were starting to come toward the car. An elderly man reached us first. He spoke to me though the open windshield. “You okay, honey?”
“Yes, but please call an ambulance. And the police.”
“Already called ’em. They’re on the way. Is your friend all right?”
“I don’t know. He’s breathing. There’s some blood. He’s unconscious. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt. I’m afraid to move him.”
“That’s all right, now. Shouldn’t move him. Can you open your door here? It’s pretty smashed in on this side.”
I tried, but it was no use. The trip through the alley had sealed us in.
Frank moaned again. I felt utterly useless to him.
“Don’t let that worry you, honey, he’s just trying real hard to come around. My name’s Charlie. What’s yours?”
“Irene,” I said. “This is Frank. Detective Frank Harriman,” I added, not really knowing why.
“Oh, a policeman? Well, it looks like you two had quite a chase. You came out better than the folks in that blue car. Those boys didn’t have a prayer.” I looked around, still in something of a fog. The garbage truck and what was left of the Lincoln seemed far, far away.
If it hadn’t been for that old man, I would have gone crazy. I couldn’t tell how badly Frank was hurt, I couldn’t get out of the damned car. But Charlie would see my face grow worried, and console me. “He’s going to be okay, Irene,” he would say, “I know you wish there was something you could do, but you can’t, you’ve just got to hang on for a little while. He’s gonna make it, it looks worse than it is. You listen to this old man; I know.”
I was calmed by his constant stream of conversation. His gravelly voice went on and on, telling me his life story, trying to distract me. Before I knew it, I heard the wail of sirens coming up the hill.
“There, now, you see?” Charlie said. “That didn’t take too long. They’ll have you out of here in no time. And they’ll get your friend fixed up, too. He’ll be all right. He just needs a little time to come around is all.”
As if he heard Charlie, Frank moved himself to a sitting position for a moment, eyes closed; he moaned, then slumped over the steering wheel again. His nose had been bloodied, his upper lip was swelling; much more I couldn’t see before he fell forward.
The paramedics arrived. They got a crowbar and went to work on the car doors, Frank’s side first. They got the door open and tried talking to him, checking him over and cleaning him up a little without moving him. He didn’t come to, so they gently strapped his back and neck to a support board. I watched as they carefully managed removing him from the car, taking no chances with his injuries. By this time, one of the other men had helped me out of the other side. I felt shaky and tired, but was okay. They cleaned my cuts out and bandaged my forehead, and made sure I could answer questions like “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Someone had called in a report of an injured officer, and more sirens soon howled their way to the scene. I was watching Frank get loaded into an ambulance, feeling afraid to see him taken away, when I heard someone say, “Miss Kelly?”
I looked over to see a short, dark-haired man in a suit. He introduced himself as Pete Baird, and told me he was Frank’s partner. He offered to take me over to the hospital, but would I mind answering a few questions on the way? Before we left, I walked over to Charlie and said, “Thank you isn’t enough, Charlie. I won’t forget your kindness.”
He looked genuinely bashful as I shook his hand.
As I passed by the remains of the Volvo, I suddenly remembered Hannah. To Pete Baird’s surprise, I got back in the car and crawled halfway over the seat. I picked up the box with Hannah’s skull in it and retrieved the papers from under broken glass. I opened the top flap of the box, and there was Hannah, grinning at me, unscathed by it all.
“What have you got there?”
“This,” I said, gently closing the box, “is the beginning of a long story.”
18
PETE LED ME over to a black-and-white where two uniformed officers stood waiting. As Frank’s partner, Pete already knew about O’Connor’s notes and Frank’s conversation with Hernandez. As we drove to the hospital, I told him about the visit with Dr. MacPherson. I asked him if they could please have someone check on the professor. I thought of MacPherson’s last cautioning words to Frank — he was right, harming a cop was no big deal to whoever
had come after us.
“Do you know who was in the Lincoln?” I asked.
“No, not yet. I don’t know if anyone told you — they’re both dead.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Do you think this was the car that fired the shots into your house?”
“Yes, pretty sure. But I’m not positive.”
“That’s okay. If it is, ballistics will probably be able to match the gun to the bullets from your wall. These guys followed you from San Pedro?”
I told him about the drive back, and the chase. It seemed as if it had all happened to someone else, except that I was holding a skull in my lap. It was funny in a way. I didn’t want to have it near me earlier. Now it was my link to believing we still had an edge over whoever wanted Hannah’s identity to remain a secret.
“Here,” I said, reluctantly handing the box to Pete. “It’s her skull. And here are the computer drawings. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take one set in to the paper. And this is a list of places she was most likely to have lived before coming here, or at least, where she lived as a child.”
“Thanks, we’ll get the pictures out to all these places and make some phone contacts with the local PDs. If somebody hadn’t made all this noise, I probably couldn’t get anyone to take a look at it, you know? But now we’ve got a homicide, two attempteds, and a long list of other charges to excite people about.”
We pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Anne’s. It was getting to be familiar territory. I got out of the car and rushed into the waiting room. The nurse at the counter told me that Frank was still in the ER; they would let me know when I could see him.
I sat down on one of the plastic chairs. Pete checked in with the desk as well, showing his ID and telling the nurse he would be waiting with me.
“Hey, how’s your sister’s husband?” he asked as he sat down next to me.
“Still critical. Thanks for helping him and taking care of Barbara.”
“Your sister’s okay. It was rough for her, you know? But all things considered, she did okay.”
“Yes, she did.”
“You hanging in there? Most people would want to go home and crawl under the covers after what happened to you today.”
I shrugged, and felt the stiffness that was starting to set in on my back and neck. I stood up and stretched.
“Starting to get sore?”
“Yeah, a little.”
THE NURSE CAME OVER to Pete and me, told us Frank was being taken to a room, and that the doctor would talk to us now. We went through the door to the hallway outside the waiting room and were met by a young man in scrubs. He introduced himself as Dr. Baldwin.
When I told him my name, he said, “Detective Harriman has been asking about you.” Then, talking mainly to Pete, but giving me polite eye contact now and again, he told us that Frank had suffered a concussion and a broken nose, two cracked ribs, and various minor facial injuries. Luckily, the ribs hadn’t punctured his lungs. Frank was conscious now but we should keep our visit brief.
Frank was lying in the bed, his head and shoulders slightly elevated. His face was chalk-white. His eyes, nose, and upper lip were puffy; he lay very still. Even knowing that he was probably going to be okay, it scared me to see him like this. As we approached the bed, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on our faces. “Hi,” he managed to say.
“Hello. Good to see you’re awake,” I said.
“You’re hurt,” he said, seeing the bandage.
“Look who’s talking.”
He swallowed, and made a motion for the water glass. I held the straw up to his lips and he took a long drink.
“Thanks.” He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, “Hi, Pete.”
“Hey, Frank. Doctor tells us you’re gonna be fine, but that it will hurt like hell for a while.”
“It already does,” he said. I wondered if we should leave, but it was hard to make myself do it.
He managed an odd, lopsided grin. “Glad you’re okay. I was worried.”
I took his hand, held it between mine. “You worried me, too. Get some sleep. I’ll be back to see you in the morning.”
“Okay,” he said, and squeezed my hand as I let go. As I turned to leave, he said, “Irene?”
I turned back. “Yes?”
“Miss your deadline?”
“There will be another one tomorrow, and another one the day after that. Don’t worry about it. Get better.”
I moved to the foot of the bed, and Pete moved up toward him. “She’s right, Frank, just get better. And don’t you worry about Irene. I’ll watch out for her.”
“Thanks, Pete,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes again, falling asleep this time; Pete and I, like tiptoeing children, stepped quietly away from his bed.
On our way down the hallway, we met Captain Bredloe, Frank’s boss in Homicide. He was a tall, strapping man with a deep voice. I stood to one side while Pete told him Frank was asleep and not able to talk much right now, but that he should be okay. The captain hesitated, looked down the hallway toward the room, then turned and walked out with us.
Pete went over the list of Frank’s injuries. The captain asked a few questions, then looked over at me as Pete gave a brief summary of what I had told him about the day’s activities.
“You’re a reporter?” Bredloe asked.
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“You worked with O’Connor, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” That seemed like something as long lost as childhood right now.
“I liked O’Connor,” he said. “You be careful.” He paused, then said, “Can we give you a ride somewhere?”
“My car’s just over at the paper. Frank met me there before we went to San Pedro.” I thought of the picnic on the cliffs.
“So your car has been there all day?”
“Pretty much. Since about nine this morning.”
“Hmm. Pete, have it checked out before she gets in it.”
A simple phrase, but it made me feel queasy.
He noticed. “I’ll tell you what, you look like you could use some rest. Why don’t I take you home and let Pete deal with your car?”
It sounded like a good idea. I told them I could get a ride in with Lydia tomorrow. I gave Pete my car keys and left with the captain.
On the way to Lydia’s, he talked to me about O’Connor, told stories of his own first days on the force, when O’Connor was already a journeyman reporter. Apparently they had lifted a few glasses together at Banyon’s back when Bredloe was a single man. “O’Connor always gave us a fair shake,” he said. “He wasn’t as sympathetic as some would have liked him to be, but he was always fair.” We pulled up in front of Lydia’s house. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Kelly. I’ll just watch you to the door.”
I thanked him and said goodnight, feeling the stiffness again as I got out of the car. I waved to the captain as I let myself in.
Lydia exclaimed over me, mothered me, fussed over me once again. My weary, lifeless retelling of the day’s events brought further sympathy and care. “Take another hot bath tonight or you’ll be super sore tomorrow,” she advised. I agreed, and went down the hall to run the bath. She came in with a coffee-colored drink.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A B-52 — Kahlúa, Grand Marnier, and Irish Cream.”
“Jesus, Lydia, what are you trying to do, embalm me?”
“Trust me.”
My resistance was low. I climbed into the bath and sipped the sweet drink that went down my throat like liquid fire. The bathroom door opened, and in strolled Cody. He climbed up on the edge of the tub and started meowing at me. I scratched his ears and chin with my dry hand, and he rubbed against it and almost fell in. He settled down on the bath mat and watched me. I could hear him purring. It’s nice to be loved.
When the water got cold and my face felt numb from the drink, I crawled out and dried off. Cody pranced ahead
of me and jumped up onto the bed. I definitely had a buzz on. I fell asleep quickly, saying a little prayer of gratitude. I don’t know if it was the prayer, exhaustion, the booze, or Cody’s purring, but that night I didn’t have any nightmares.
19
I WOKE UP at about six the next morning, acutely aware of every muscle in my back and neck. I forced myself out of bed and hobbled into the bathroom. I took a hot shower to help get limbered up a little. I stood there, aiming the water on my neck and then between my shoulder blades, wondering how Frank was feeling, thinking of him lying there in the hospital. I wondered how Barbara and Kenny were doing. Thought about the fact that O’Connor had been killed three days ago. By the time I got out of the shower, I was depressed.
As the steam cleared off the bathroom mirror, I was a little startled to notice my forehead had started to bruise. I looked pretty weird with that and the cuts. For some reason it struck me as comical. I could hardly brush my teeth, I wanted to laugh at my odd appearance so much. “Well, Miss Mood Swing,” I said to myself in the mirror, “get a grip.”
I rode to work with Lydia. She was nice enough to walk at my pace as we made our way into the building. Geoff gave me a look of great concern. I felt self-conscious now that I was exposing the public to this purple band above my eyebrows. “Not as bad as it looks,” I said to him.
“Glad is isn’t. Miss Kelly, the night man left me a message to give you. It says the police checked your car and it’s okay. Here are your keys.”
I thanked him and we took the elevator up the one flight. I knew if I kept moving I would feel better, but stairs were not yet on the program.
One of Wrigley’s assistants stopped me on my way back to O’Connor’s desk. Staring at my forehead, she said, “Mr. Wrigley asked me to give you all of Mr. O’Connor’s mail. I put a couple of letters that arrived yesterday afternoon on his old desk for you.”
