Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)
Page 19
I slipped the unloaded .45 from my pocket and pointed it between Ferguson’s eyes, two inches from his nose. “Let’s talk about this piece, Ferguson,” I said softly. “Let’s forget about the M-16. Because that M-16 is nothing, Ferguson, compared to the trouble this piece is going to give you. They’re talking about reinstating the death penalty, Ferguson. Maybe I can arrange it so that you’ll be the first one into the gas chamber, after all these years.” As I slowly lowered the pistol, I said, “You’ve got about sixty seconds. That’s all.”
Ferguson glanced at the pistol, then looked away, as he shook his head in despairing, long-suffering bafflement. Now Halliday leaned forward, picking up the interrogation’s softly menacing cadence: “That piece killed someone Sunday night, Ferguson. And we’ve got that piece tied to you, tight as wire. That’s what the lieutenant’s telling you, Ferguson. That’s why he’s here—because we’ve got you cold for Murder One.”
As Halliday talked, I watched Ferguson’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I saw his hands tighten. The cords of his long, skinny neck drew taut as he swallowed once, then twice. Murder One can make the mouth go dry.
“Hey, listen, man,” Ferguson protested, sitting up straighter in the steel chair as he looked warily at Halliday. “Listen, I don’t mind if you do your number about that M-16. I mean, so old Homer messed me up. So I can handle that one. But when you start talking about murder, man, then you—”
“Who’d you sell this piece to, Ferguson?” I asked, again raising the heavy automatic, this time pointed toward the wall. “Tell us who you sold it to. Then we’ll talk about the M-16.”
“What’d you mean by ‘talk,’ anyhow?” he asked. “What you telling me?” As he spoke, his shrewd eyes narrowed. Like every hustler, Ferguson’s ear was finely tuned to the first hint of a deal—a way out.
“I’m saying,” I answered, speaking very deliberately, “that if you help us—tell us who bought this gun from you, and when and where and why—then we’ll go looking for your friend Homer, about the M-16. You help me, I’ll see whether I can help you. But if you screw me up, Ferguson, then I guarantee the roof’s going to fall in on you. The D.A. will hit you with the Sullivan Act like nobody’s ever been hit before. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Ferguson?”
“Yeah,” came the soft, thoughtful answer. “Yeah, man, I heard about the Sullivan Act, it seems to me.”
“Do you know about the part on machine guns?” Halliday asked. “Because that’s what we’re talking about, you know—unlawful possession of a—”
“All right. Jesus.” Ferguson’s voice slipped to a ragged, aggrieved note. “All right.” He glanced down at the .45, pretending to study the pistol as he frowned heavily and shook his head, projecting an air of exasperated vexation mingled with injured innocence. “Jesus. You—you don’t even give a guy a chance to think about things. I mean, Jesus, I don’t know whether I can help you or not, and I don’t know whether you can help me, either.” For the first time he looked at me directly, deciding whether he could trust me.
“I don’t have time to waste on this, Ferguson,” I said, holding his gaze until, finally, he dropped his eyes. “If I walk out that door, I walk to my office and I call the D.A. And you’re screwed. Automatically.”
“And the lieutenant means it, Ferguson,” Halliday said. “If he tells you something, he’ll do it. Good or bad—easy or hard—whatever Lieutenant Hastings tells you, that’s how it comes down.”
“Yeah—well—” Ferguson blinked at me. “That’s great. I mean, Jesus, you can say it, no sweat. But we’re talking about my ass, not yours.”
“You don’t have a choice, Ferguson,” I said, “and you know it. Either you trust me, or you fall, hard. And your time is about up.”
“Did you read the papers this morning, Ferguson?” Halliday asked. “The guy that died Sunday night was rich—a doctor. Do you think the lieutenant’s going to let this one die? Do you think he can let it die?”
Ferguson sighed, then shrugged, affecting a slack-shouldered indifference. He was ready to deal. “All right, I’ll give you a name. But, Jesus, you better protect me. Because the name I’m going to give you, he plays a rough game.”
I waited.
“Don’t worry about the protection,” Halliday said. “You just think about that M-16.”
“Yeah. Well, as a matter of fact, that M-16 is part of the deal. I mean, this guy—Jimmy Royce—he wanted it. Or, anyhow, that’s what he—”
“Did you say Jimmy Royce?” Halliday asked incredulously. “Is that the name you’re giving us?”
“That’s the name.” As he said it, Ferguson’s eyes slid toward the .45.
I picked up the pistol. “Jimmy Royce bought this from you?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“If it’s the gun I think it is—from Seattle—then that’s what I’m saying,” Ferguson answered steadily. Having finally copped, his manner was now more businesslike. “You wanted a name. Now you got one. But don’t expect me to make your case for you. I mean, I didn’t keep a list of the serial numbers, or anything.”
I turned to Halliday. “Put him in a holding cell. I’ll get back to you in an hour.” I pocketed the .45 and quickly left the room.
“Well,” Friedman said, “this is a socko development, no question. You know what it means, don’t you?”
I decided to wait for him to tell me.
“It means,” Friedman said ruefully, “that we’re going to be ass-deep in reporters.” As he spoke, he stared down at the Xerox copy of the extortion letter. “It fits,” he finally said, nodding decisively as he said it.
“What fits?”
“The language and the feeling of this note fits the P.A.L.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do,” he answered. “Definitely.” He tapped the note. “I took a copy of this home with me last night, and passed it around the dinner table, just for the hell of it. And all three of us—Florence and Steve and me—we all agreed that this note was probably written by someone who had both a high IQ and a good bit of education—in other words, a profile that fits most of these P.A.L. types. Agreed?”
“Yes,” I answered thoughtfully, “I guess so.” Rereading the note, I allowed my voice to trail off. The P.A.L.—the so-called People’s Army of Liberation—had hit the headlines ten months ago with a spectacular bank robbery, followed by their Communiqué Number One, announcing that the “people’s revolution” had begun. Three members of the army had been captured—two refugee intellectuals from the affluent middle class and one Chicano with a record of juvenile delinquency, car theft and aggravated assault. Communiqué Number Two had threatened reprisals against the “ruling class” unless the three “soldiers” were released forthwith. Communiqué Number One had been signed simply “P.A.L.” The second communiqué was signed “Comrade Cain,” the revolutionary name of Jimmy Royce, a tough, smart, opportunistic black hood who’d apparently become the darling of the radical left following a love affair with Jessica Hanley, the daughter of aluminum cookware tycoon Jackson Hanley. Both Royce and Jessica Hanley had often been arrested on suspicion of numerous crimes, but sympathetic lawyers had always gotten them off. Jessica Hanley called herself the P.A.L.’s Information Minister. Royce was the Minister of Internal Security. Hanley and Royce were the only members of the P.A.L. whose whereabouts were known to the authorities. The rest of the Army had gone underground.
“You don’t seem convinced,” Friedman prompted, waiting for my argument.
“Why the Masked Man?” I asked, on cue. “Why not the P.A.L., or Comrade Cain, or whatever Jessica Hanley calls herself?”
“It’s a point,” Friedman admitted.
We were standing in front of my desk, each of us lost in separate speculation as we continued to stare down at the letter. Finally Friedman sighed. “It’s almost ten o’clock. How about coffee and doughnuts? Unless I’m mistaken, it’s your turn to buy. Then we can call the FBI. Maybe, if they’re feeli
ng nice, they’ll tell us where to find Royce.”
“Do you want to bet?”
“No.”
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