by Alex Ames
Detective Jamie stopped typing on his computer. “We dragged the bottom, and we checked the filter machine and the tubes. Nada.”
“Homer and Washington are still searching?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Let’s drain the pool.”
“Are we covered?”
“Let him sue us; it is just one filling. Hundred bucks or something.” He looked around us. “He is too slippery and—how did Miss Moonstone here put it? Too optimistic. That means he is overly self-assured.”
Doren walked over to the desk without waiting for the opinion of his colleagues and called Detective Simpson for a change of plan.
“What’s next?” I asked Henry.
“Donuts,” he said as the desk sergeant brought in a box of Dunkin’s. “We continue the search. We will hold Rip until tonight; after that, we will have to release him.”
“I thought you could hold him for forty-eight hours?”
“Theoretically, yes, but we have to bear in mind that the case so far is pretty shaky. If we exercise the full forty-eight hours without a case in the end, we may get into trouble with civil right groups. All we have is the anonymous phone call, and we don’t even have that but only an unofficial transcript.”
We had a round of bad coffee—well, I had fountain water—and bad donuts—well, I skipped. We made small talk for a while. Doren went back to question Rip for a few more minutes.
When he came back, he just shrugged. “I told him about our fishing expedition in the pool. No reaction. The pool action will take at least three to four hours, so we might as well call it a day. No need for most of you to stick around.”
Graves looked at his clock. “Yeah, back to the chain gang. Keep me in the loop. Miss Moonstone.” He nodded and went his way. I shook hands, and Henry walked me back down and out into the morning.
He stretched and breathed in heartily. “Ah, I could use a walk on the beach with my favorite jewelry maker!”
I nudged him. “Stop it. I will be so glad when this is over. Even Graves acted a little bit friendlier toward me.”
“Think we will find something in the pool?” Once a cop, always a cop.
I shrugged. “Who knows? In my opinion, it’s silly to hide something there. Very incriminating. Why not somewhere else where the police wouldn’t think of looking? Or somewhere completely off the premises?”
Henry gave the parking lot a routine glance, probably looking for car thieves or daylight muggings. “Yeah! But who knows? Maybe we—and you—are lucky. See you tonight for a walk on the beach?”
“What about dinner? I’ll cook. We can meet around five-thirty, watch the sunset on the beach, and then eat at my place.”
Henry beamed genuinely at me. “Sounds great. I am beat after last night’s action. Let me give you a call around, let’s say, five. Just to confirm the date. Hopefully no jokers will rob a bank just at that time so you have to throw my food into the disposal.”
He pecked me on the cheek again, I gave him a quick hug, and Henry went back in. I made my way over to my car. I started and, just when I got out of the police plaza parking lot, spotted a supermarket on the other side of the road. When in LA, do like the Angelinos do. I drove across the street and parked the car just fifty feet from my last parking position.
I breezed through the aisles and collected some fresh ingredients for a yummy salad and some pasta sauce. Then I bought the most expensive bottle of wine on the rack. While I was waiting to check out, I spotted a display with five different styles of condoms. I looked left and right to see how embarrassing things could turn out and finally selected a five-pack of Trojans, making sure they were properly tagged to avoid unnecessary clarification shouts through the market.
The checkout girl didn’t even look up as she scanned the incriminating pack and I paid. I received my two brown bags and made my way across the parking lot toward my car.
I glanced up over to the police building.
And saw Rip Delaware in the process of climbing down from the third story of the police station, hanging on a drainpipe.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Crossing the Delaware
“Hey!” was all I could manage to shout as I continued walking, transfixed to the display of bold escapism. I ran against another parked car and spilled my brown bags. “Hey! Hey! Hey!”
I ignored the broken wine bottle and the bouncing vegetables and started to walk faster toward the police plaza. Traffic was thick, and I had to wait at the main street for an opportunity to cross it. Meanwhile, Rip had almost made it down, climbing skillfully like a monkey—or like a good cat burglar.
I fumbled for my cellphone and pressed the speed-dial button for Henry’s cell. “The caller you are trying to reach is—”
Shit, I didn’t have any other number for the guys upstairs. So I hit 911 and crossed the street toward the station.
Rip was down on the ground floor already. He had moved down the pipe like a circus artist in quick and sure movements. He now casually cleaned his hands on his jeans and patted his shirt, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He glanced around and didn’t see me immediately. I decided to keep quiet and walked in a straightforward manner toward him across the parking lot of the police building.
“Nine-one-one, how may I help you?” The 911 operator finally came on the line.
“This is Calendar Moonstone. I want to report a break-out from the police station of North Hollywood.”
“Madam, you want to report a break-in?”
“No, listen, a prisoner of the police just escaped. I just watched a man climbing down from the third story of North Hollywood’s police HQ. The prisoner’s name is Rip Delaware, and he was a recent arrest of your Detective … Falk Doren.” I had to dig for the name.
Rip was moving along the building and making his way downtown on foot. I wondered what his plan was. He had no money or cellphone on him because he had been recently arrested. So, he couldn’t take a taxi, could he?
He hadn’t seen me yet. He was on the sidewalk now and walked quickly toward the commercial centers on Lankershire Boulevard. There were some shops in that area, and a hundred yards further along a mall entrance was showing.
“Excuse me, madam, but how do you know all that? Detective Doren, you say?”
“Yes, please call him right now and tell him that suspect Rip Delaware just escaped and is walking down your main street toward the shopping mall.”
“Hang on, please, I will try to reach him,” the emergency operator said without any emotion or conviction. I was placed on hold where an automated voice told me that someone would be with me shortly.
I picked up my speed and kept Rip at about fifty yards’ distance. Of course my luck ran out. Rip turned around and spotted me. He was so surprised that he even forgot to flash his small, arrogant smile.
Act or react.
He turned around and probably started calculating his chances. He had seen the cellphone at my ear, so he knew that I wasn’t ordering pizza for the both of us. I immediately started running toward him as fast as I could while keeping the phone in listening distance to my ear. I didn’t have a clue yet what I was supposed to do should I ever catch up with Rip.
Rip started sprinting, too. What I had gained by starting earlier, he made up in a few steps.
“Hello, this is nine-one-one. I am sorry, but Detective Doren is in a meeting. How can I help you?”
“Listen, one of your arrests is on the run. I’m following him. We are entering the shopping mall on Lankershire now. Find Doren and tell him: Rip Delaware escaped; Calendar Moonstone is chasing him.”
“Madam, are you reporting an emergency here? I can give you the direct number of the detective division, please—”
“This is a fucking serious emergency.” I hung up, put the phone in the pocket of my jeans, and started running like hell. The race was on.
Rip vanished into the mall, and I followed him five seconds later. An old lady picking up her shopping ba
gs from the ground indicated the general direction that Rip had taken. I could see his black curly head bobbing up and down in the distance. He was fast! I skillfully avoided a family that was walking hand-in-hand and overtook a few morning shoppers. The mall had the layout of a large T, and at the crossing I had to stop to determine which way to go. Parking to the left, Oxnard Street to the right. Either Rip was trying to steal a car, or he was on the street hunting for a cab. I stomped on the floor and let out a frustrated yell. Then I took the turn right. I burst through the doors onto the street. No Rip left or right. A cab was idling on the corner, the dreadlocked owner eating a donut.
“Was there another cab here just a second ago?” I asked out of breath.
The taxi driver looked ahead for a second, trying to remember, then shook his head. I jumped in and told him, “We have to follow someone. Could you drive around the corner to the exit of the parking garage of the mall, please?”
“You mean, like, follow that car?” the dreadlocked driver said with a mischievous Starsky & Hutch smile.
“That is your chance to prove yourself, Huggy,” I said, and he threw the donut out of the window, revved up the old car, and punched the meter.
“You are aware that this car has about three-hundred-thousand miles on it?” Dreadlock said and wound down the compartment divider.
“Shut up and drive. It is all in the swing,” I was out of breath and sat back. “What’s your name?”
“Jamaica, at your service, ma’am,” he said as he took the first corner with screeching tires. He pointed at the upcoming mall parking signs. “Here it is. Want to stop here?”
“Yeah, let’s see when he turns up. I am looking for a white guy with dark black curls on his head. Looks like an actor.”
“You’re filming?”
“I am hunting.” I got out my cellphone again, tried Henry, and still got the “out of service” message. 911 again? I frowned and called up the phone company directory service instead.
A few cars were coming out of the garage exit, drivers easily identified.
“Voxcom Directories, how may I help you?”
“I need the number of the North Hollywood police station on Burbank Boulevard.”
“North Hollywood, California?” The call agent was replaced by an automated voice that recited, “818-555-3323” and instructed me to press 7 to dial directly for only umpteen cents per minute. I pressed 7, and a few seconds later a bored voice said, “North Hollywood Police, Sergeant Donahue.”
“This is Calendar Moonstone—shit, this is him! Follow him.”
The last remark was directed at Jamaica. Rip had just left the garage in an early Oldsmobile that probably had no electronic theft protection and had been easy to hotwire. He looked left and right and headed right, toward the next freeway ramp. Jamaica hit the gas and sped after him.
“Madam, what can I do for you?” Sergeant Donahue asked, impatiently.
“My name is Calendar Moonstone. I was a visitor with Detective Doren a minute ago. One of his arrests has just escaped, stolen a car, and headed toward the freeway. Don’t get too close.”
“Madam, who escaped from where? Who are you?”
“Rip Delaware just broke out from one of the interrogation rooms on the third floor and stole a car. He is on the run. Find Detective Doren and tell him to call Calendar Moonstone on the cellphone under this number. Shit, he spotted us!”
Rip didn’t stop at a red light but carefully crossed the junction, and we were stuck behind some honest citizens. After the crossing, we could see him accelerating and speeding off toward the freeway ramp.
“Madam, you will love me for this,” Jamaica said as he set back and overtook the waiting cars to cross the red light junction, too. He accelerated, and the car groaned on.
“Madam, this is a cock and bull story, if I ever heard one. No one gets out of here if we don’t release him.”
“Why is no one interested in this? Find Doren; tell him Calendar is chasing Rip. We will be on Freeway 405 soon.” And I snapped my phone shut again.
“He went south,” Jamaica said and floored the gas, not that it mattered. The old cab started swimming soon, and every bump on the road required major counter measures to keep the car straight on the freeway. I saw Rip’s gray Oldsmobile in the left lane, running at about eighty miles per hour but not pulling away from us anymore.
“Any ideas where this is going?” Jamaica asked.
“Airport, car rental, mailbox, bank, train station, Nevada desert, any of the above,” I assumed, holding on to the passenger seat from behind. “Try to stay in a middle lane. I don’t want him to make funny maneuvers and get off the freeway without us following.”
Easier said than done. The morning traffic was getting thick, and only the left lane was still speedy. We had to stay right behind Rip most of the time because the right lanes became too congested.
“When he reaches the other side of the mountains, he will run into trouble. Traffic is going to stop there, sooner or later in the morning rush hour,” I said. “You know your way around in LA?”
Jamaica shook his head. “Not so good. Just the major fares like the airport, Santa Monica, the studios, downtown, Venice Beach. Otherwise I rely on Mr. Navigator.”
Soon we reached Woodman Avenue, and Rip took a squealing left turn and headed straight south. Jamaica’s taxi made it around the corner, too, and we remained on his heels. Then we were on 101 running toward 405. Traffic got thicker; Rip was in major danger of getting stopped soon by rush hour traffic jams. He may have come to the same conclusion and got into action. When there was the possibility to drive faster, Rip accelerated and Jamaica tried his best to follow in the dense traffic. My cellphone rang, and I opened it.
“Calendar, it’s Henry; where are you?”
“Henry, Rip is gone. We are on Highway 405 now and running south. I’m following him in a cab.”
“I know Rip is gone. How did he do it?” Henry asked, and by the improper priority of his question, I assumed that the detective division of North Hollywood was in a major commotion right now.
Rip suddenly slammed on the brakes! The brake light flashed, and the Olds screeched, burning black smoke, slowing down fast. Jamaica couldn’t brake fast enough. He tried, but his old cab started to slide and spin sideways slowly. We rammed Rip’s car with about twenty miles of speed difference. I got thrown against the front seats, my cellphone sailing and smashing into the dashboard, breaking into a million little high tech pieces, formerly designed in California. Jamaica screamed and protected his face with his arms, his head hitting the steering wheel once. Another car slammed into us from behind, pushing us forward once more into Rip’s car.
Rip accelerated again and steadied his car. I could see him moving to the right, cutting off several cars that had to brake hard, too, to avoid a collision. We were just leaving the hills and the first exit, Sepulveda Canyon Road, was just two hundred yards ahead—and Rip clearly was heading there.
“Jamaica, are you all right to drive? Jamaica?” I shook him and saw blood running over his face from a wound over his left eye. “Shit, you all right, man?”
“Shit, yeah, that sucker!” he cried, wiping blood from his face onto his sweater.
“Peter, Paul, and Mary,” I cursed. Rip was going fast out of sight. The traffic around us had come to a halt. I opened my side door and ran onto the lanes, waving like mad, running across the freeway, following Rip’s car, which crept slow and study down the right lane toward the exit. But I was faster now on foot.
Cars were honking and revving, drivers were yelling after me, and exhaust gas was all around me, stinging my eyes and lungs. I sprinted on the right lane side, having enough room now. I was about twenty yards from the Olds, and Rip was honking like mad to force right of way. He had four cars ahead of him before he was able to exit the freeway. Ten yards for me, two cars for him. I reached the passenger door of the Oldsmobile, one more car for him. I pulled the passenger door—it was locked. I looked
into the car and saw Rip staring at me for a second, before he turned his attention back to the traffic and that one single car that stood between him and freedom. I stepped back and kicked in the passenger window. It broke with a bang, and little glass diamonds exploded into the interior.
Rip gave a startled shout, protected his eyes, and suddenly accelerated just as I was trying to open the door from within. The car made a jump, crashed into the rear-end of the car in front, pushing it a good two yards forward, giving enough room to squeeze through. He had to back up a yard and gave me the chance to try once more. I managed to open the door just as Rip was putting his gear into drive again and flooring it. I jumped into the compartment over the passenger seat almost on top of him. Rip accelerated the car through the car gap, down the freeway exit ramp toward Sunset Boulevard.
“Stop meddling, you bitch!” Rip shouted and pounded his fist against my head, sideways. I managed to grab the gear stick and put it into park with good effect. The Oldsmobile gave a major crunching, screeching sound as the wheels locked and the whole car moved sideways, burning rubber all the way. Rip was slammed against the driver’s door, holding onto the steering wheel. I managed to get on all fours and rammed my head against his, doubling the impact because Rip’s head bounced hard against the window. The Oldsmobile slid sideways into the building on the other side of Sunset Boulevard; a loud crunching noise told us of disintegrating car parts, and we finally came to a rocking halt.
I was thrown against Rip once more. He still wasn’t done and tried to push me away. His eyes were unfocused and glazed, his hands wildly fighting me off. I turned away from him to protect my face and managed to grab his beautiful black curls, giving a hard push. His head bounced against the window again. And again. His fighting spirit and ability waned.
“Never. Fuck. With. Me. Again!” I shouted, punctuating each word by smashing his head against the door window several times until it left a bloody imprint.
