Was it possible that Elton didn’t know they were being followed?
Was it possible that he knew—and didn’t care?
Ahead, the traffic light turned green. Elton and the woman were crossing Ellis Street.
Should he make his presence known to the woman, force her away from Elton’s side, force Elton to return to the St. Francis? Could he do it? Would Elton come with him? What would happen if Elton resisted? Would the police have their chance? If they found the cord on Elton, they could arrest him. And disaster would certainly follow.
As Mitchell crossed Ellis, he looked back. Yes, the policemen were coming closer. One of them—Canelli—was pressing a pudgy forefinger to a tiny earphone as he talked into the palm of his hand. His words would be relayed to the police switchboard, connecting him to the vast machinery of the law: hundreds, thousands of policemen, watching and waiting.
The image of the police switchboard tipped the precarious balance. Mitchell stepped suddenly forward, at a half trot. He’d come down to a choice of evils, with time running against him.
But, as he quickened his pace, he saw the woman’s arm come up. She was pointing to a narrow door, between two shop fronts. Elton was nodding, turning to his right, pushed the door open.
Almost all the time was gone. Only minutes remained; only instinct was left.
Without looking back Mitchell broke into a full trot, reached the door: a plate glass door, inscribed THE HOTEL ALBION. He was inside a narrow, short hallway that immediately opened into a dingy, windowless lobby: four chairs, three of them empty, one occupied by a black man, asleep, snoring. A narrow stairway led upstairs. The stairway was deserted, but Mitchell heard the sound of footsteps on bare wood: Elton and the whore, going upstairs. A big, broad-shouldered man was rising from behind a small desk. This was the inevitable bouncer, the enforcer—the man with a club, or a gun, or brass knuckles, the man with cold, killer’s eyes.
As Mitchell reached for the wallet in his hip pocket, the man behind the desk moved quickly, smoothly. A blackjack materialized, slapped down on the counter, hard. But, beside the blackjack, Mitchell placed his wallet, opened.
“Can you lock that door?” Mitchell asked, jerking his head to the front hallway.
“Sure.”
“Is there a back way out?”
“Sure.”
“Then lock the door—for fifty dollars. Keep it locked for five minutes. Now. Before anyone comes. Fifty dollars. Now.” As he spoke, he moved closer to the desk, out of the line of sight from the street. Repeating urgently: “Now. Don’t let anyone in for five minutes. And don’t tell anyone about the fifty.”
The bouncer’s mouth warped in a mirthless smile as he pocketed the bill. He moved quickly, with surprising agility, toward the front door.
He watched her dig in the hip pocket of her black leather pants, saw her produce a key that was attached to a gold-colored medallion.
“Home sweet home.” Over her shoulder she leered at him, then inserted the key in the lock. From close by, through one of the corridor’s closed doors, he heard the sound of a man’s voice, babbling, as if he were pretending to talk like a child. From downstairs, from the lobby, he heard the sound of violent knocking. From the stairwell, he heard the sound of footsteps.
Mitchell was coming, pursuing him. And behind Mitchell, there were the others: the policemen, and all the others. From earliest memory, he’d heard them: the furtive footfalls, followed by the faceless men.
Inside the room now, close behind her, he grasped the doorknob, closed the door. Yes, there was a bolt. He knew he was expected to set the bolt; he could feel his fingers moving in response to the command, the night’s first clear command, independent of himself, of his own volition.
Because now, suddenly, it was beginning, sooner than he had first imagined. She’d already put her purse on the floor. She was sitting on the bed, tugging at one black leather boot, pulling it free. This one would take off her clothes, reveal her body to him, then ask for his money. So he must be prepared to—
From behind him came a furtive sound: a mechanical sound, metal upon metal. But he need not turn, to look. Because the power was with him now, revealing everything, concealing nothing, strengthening, steadying, commanding. Therefore, the union was complete. Volition was transferred, alignments were defined. So, protected—finally free from himself—he need only listen, sense, allow the power to flow from the cosmos to the musculature, responding, allowing his response to accelerate as he moved forward.
But now, suddenly, with only the one boot off, she was standing. She looked at the door, then looked at him. Her mouth was moving, about to protest. But, before him, the instrument of judgment had materialized: the gold coil, suspended between hands that—
“What the fuck’s going—”
The wood-splintered crash was louder than the woman’s voice—and louder than his voice, too, as he turned, compelled to face the familiar figure filling the doorway.
Recovering his balance, blinking in the dim light, Mitchell saw the golden cord. He lunged, caught the cord, tore it free. With his left hand, he thrust the cord into his pocket. With his right hand he drew the .45 automatic as he flung out his left arm, blocking the whore’s escape from the tiny room. He saw her eyes widen, saw terror clutch at her throat, saw her mouth come open, to scream.
“Don’t—” He shoved the pistol’s muzzle cruelly beneath her chin. “Don’t yell. I’ll pull the trigger if you yell.” He held her motionless, impaled by the gun, helpless now, gone limp.
“Here—” Still with the gun jammed into her throat, he withdrew his wallet, took out two fifties. “Take these. And shut up about this. Shut up and stay here in the room. Understand?” He jabbed the gun into her flesh, felt her sag, pushed her back until, off balance, she sprawled on the bed. “Don’t move. Not for five minutes.” He glanced at Elton, who was standing motionless, staring at the girl on the bed as if she had just materialized. Slipping the .45 into its holster, buttoning his jacket, he stepped to the closest door, opened it, saw the toilet, the basin. Withdrawing the cord from his pocket he stepped to the toilet, dropped the cord in the water, flushed the toilet, watched the cord coil slowly, coil faster, finally disappear. Forcing himself to do it, he waited for the tank to refill, flushed the toilet again. Then he turned again to Elton, who stood as before, looking at the whore who lay sullenly on the bed, shaking her head as she muttered inaudible obscenities.
With all his strength, Hastings hammered on the steel door frame with the heel of his clench fist. Beside him, Canelli moved back, balanced himself.
“Should I kick it in, Lieutenant?”
“Without a warrant?” Furious, Hastings struck the door another blow. Then: “Get around back, in the alley. If they come out—” Futilely, he touched himself at the beltline, where a surveillance radio should be clipped. But he’d arrived at the St. Francis only moments before Elton and Mitchell had appeared; there hadn’t been time to get a radio from his car, parked around the corner.
“If they come out, follow them. If they don’t come out, stay there. I’ll call for some back up. Try not to get too far ahead of me. Clear?”
“Yessir. Which way’s the alley?”
“How the hell should I—” Through the dirty glass of the door, he saw a big man with boxer’s shoulders materialize in the dim, narrow hallway that led back into the lobby. Nodding, raising a restraining hand, the man came toward them as Hastings took his shield case from his pocket, slammed the shield against the wire-reinforced window, shouting, “Open up, goddamnit. Now.”
Moving deliberately, sullenly defiant, the man put his hands on the door, took off one lock, then another lock, allowed the door to swing free.
“What’s the trouble, officer? What’s the hurry?”
“Why’s this door locked?”
The big man smiled, shrugged. “I was in the can. A place like this, you go to the can, you got to lock the door. Right?” He didn’t bother to smile.
&nb
sp; “Where’s the back door? Quick.”
Indolently, the clerk pointed to a doorway beneath the stairs. As the two detectives split up, one racing upstairs, one struggling with the alley door, the clerk smiled, took the fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, smoothed it down against the counter, slipped it into his wallet, slipped the wallet into his pocket.
23
“I’M SORRY,” FLOURNOY SAID, stepping between Holloway and a bearded TV reporter. “This was a private banquet, just a dinner that Mr. Holloway has been planning for a long time, with friends.” As he spoke, he nodded to the security man, who signaled for the Holloway limousine. “But if you’ll be at the DeAnza Room of the St. Francis at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, we’re having a buffet brunch for the press. Mr. Holloway will be there, of course, and he’ll be more than happy to—”
“Excuse me—” A young woman stepped directly into his path, raising a plastic identification plaque as she said, “I’m Bea Henderson, with the Sentinel. I’m on the crime beat, and there’ve been reports that homicide detectives are—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Henderson. Mr. Holloway’s late for an appointment, I’m afraid.” As the limo drew to a stop at curbside, Flournoy looked at another security man, moved his head toward the woman. At the same time, the first security man opened the right rear door, ushering Holloway inside. Flournoy followed, sitting on the far side of the car so that Holloway could wave from the window. As the limousine pulled away from the curb, the pulse of the mobile phone shrilled. Flournoy glanced at Holloway, who now sat with his head resting against the seat cushions, eyes closed. As Holloway gently shook his head, eyes still closed, Flournoy lifted the phone from its cradle.
“Yes?”
“It’s Lloyd, Herbert. Can you talk?”
Glancing at the security man, who sat on the jump seat, Flournoy said, “That depends on the subject.”
“It’s Elton. He just tried it again—tried to kill a whore, on Mason Street. Just a block from where the other one was murdered, on Tuesday.”
“Where’s he now?”
“In his room. With a man watching the door.”
“Were there any—problems?”
“That depends on what you mean by problems. He hasn’t been arrested, and the woman’s all right. But she saw him with the gold cord in his hands. And, sure as hell, the police will question her.”
As Flournoy listened, he kept his eyes on Holloway’s face. The eyes remained closed, the facial muscles sagging. With the applause of some of the most powerful men in the country sustaining him, Holloway was recharging his batteries.
“We’re coming directly to the hotel, should be there in ten minutes. Where’s Gloria?”
“I don’t know. As soon as I got Elton settled, I called you.”
“How’s his state of mind?”
“Strange. Very strange, I’d say. We’ve got a problem, Herbert. A big problem.”
“I know. I want you to tell Gloria what’s happened. Austin and I will be with you shortly.”
“Right.”
The connection went dead. Slowly, Flournoy replaced the phone in its cradle, glanced again at Holloway, then rested his own head on the seat cushions, allowed his eyes to close. For what lay ahead, he must prepare himself, compose himself.
As Mitchell finished speaking, Holloway sat silently on a sofa in his sitting room, head bowed, his body slack, suddenly drained. Then, with his eyes closed, very slowly, very somberly, he began to shake his head. How could it have happened? How could the evening’s earlier triumph have failed him so suddenly, so completely, so catastrophically, leaving him so desolated, so vulnerable, so utterly certain that disaster threatened?
Why was he unable to open his eyes, raise his head—take command? The three of them were keeping their silence, deferring to him, waiting for him to speak. But first, before he could speak, he must purge his thoughts of all the images that had seared his consciousness as Gloria had spoken, followed by Flournoy—followed finally by Mitchell, delivering the final blow. He must somehow find peace, find release from the instant’s flash of memories: the baby, feeding at Marvella’s breast, the toddler, diapered, unsteadily walking across a wide green lawn—the child, singing on Sundays, and the cap-and-gowned teenager, posing with his diploma.
But the child had seldom smiled, and the teenager had never laughed. From the first, there’d been a darkness of the spirit, a sense of withdrawal. “He’s like somebody else’s child,” Marvella had once said. “A stranger’s child.”
A stranger’s child …
“Dad?” It was Gloria, speaking in a voice that was strangely soft, a voice he’d seldom heard. Slowly, with great effort, he raised his head, opened his eyes.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He forced himself to smile. But he could feel his face—the face that was his fortune—twisting into grotesque unpredictability. Over the years, like all good actors, he’d developed a talent for imagining his face as the camera must see it. And this expression, televised, would invite disaster.
But, still, he must keep the smile in place, must make some response, any response.
“I’m as good as can be expected, I guess, considering that I’ve just learned that my son is a—a homicidal maniac.”
As if they shared a common embarrassment, they averted their eyes as he looked at each of them in turn. He felt the bogus smile fade into final defeat as he said, “It’ll take a while—a long while—to adjust to the idea, really understand. I always knew, of course, that Elton was—” Helplessly, he shook his head. “—that he was strange, that he did strange things. There were the—the juvenile authorities, and the police, a few times. But this, it—” He realized that, still, he was shaking his head. “This’ll take time to understand.”
“We don’t have the time, though,” Gloria said. “That’s the point. Right now, probably, the police are talking to the girl. If she identifies Elton—” Ominously, she let it go unfinished.
“He didn’t try to kill her, though,” Mitchell said. “He was going to try. He had the cord in his hands. But he didn’t touch her.”
“He would’ve tried, though,” Flournoy said. “We’ve got to face that, face the fact that he would’ve tried. And we’ve got to do something, Austin.” Flournoy turned to face him squarely. “We’ve got to get him out of town. Even if he’s not actually convicted of anything, even if Harlan can get him off, the publicity of the arrest, of the trial—” Heavily, Flournoy shook his head. “It would be devastating.”
“Where should we send him?” Holloway asked, once more looking at each of them in turn. “If he’s with us, we can protect him. Like Mitchell did, tonight. But if he’s in some other city—” He shook his head. “It’d be worse, not better. He’ll—he’ll do it again. And he’ll be arrested. And the publicity will be the same, either way.”
Gloria drew a deep, measured breath. “Elton’s sick, Dad. We’ve known it for a long time. You’ve said so yourself, that you knew Elton was sick. We’ve known it, but we haven’t done anything about it.”
“He should have treatment,” Flournoy said. “He should—” He paused. Then, speaking in a low, uncompromising voice, eyes hard, mouth set, he said, “He should have professional treatment. In a sanatorium, somewhere. Now. Right now.”
“Where the police can’t find him,” Mitchell said. “He’s got to be where the police can’t find him. And he’s got to be kept there. Physically kept there. Otherwise—” He shook his head, spread his huge hands. “Otherwise, they’ll find him, and arrest him.”
“He won’t go,” Holloway said. “I know Elton. He won’t go. He won’t go away, won’t run. Whatever he’s done—” He broke off, momentarily closing his eyes as he searched for the strength to finish it: “Whatever he’s done, he’s done it for God. He believes he’s God’s instrument. So he won’t run. And he won’t refuse to answer questions, either. If anyone questions him—if they’re smart enough, skillful enough—he’ll tell them just tha
t. He’ll tell them everything. He’ll insist on telling them everything. Believe me.”
“He’s God’s instrument,” Mitchell said. “He hears voices, and he does what they tell him. He told me that tonight.”
“If he won’t go away willingly, then we’ve got to force him to go,” Gloria said. “Lloyd’s right. He’s got to be physically restrained if that’s what it takes. And it’s got to be done immediately.”
Impatiently, Flournoy shook his head. “We can’t force him to go to a sanatorium, though. Not unless we get a court order. Which, God knows, we don’t want to get, because of the publicity.”
With heavy emphasis, speaking slowly, Gloria said, “He’s got to be confined. And he’s got to be isolated. That’s the bottom line.” Impatiently, she gestured, compelling Holloway’s close attention. “My God, buy a sanatorium. How much can it cost? Buy one in—in Europe, where the reporters will never find him.”
At the thought, calculating, Flournoy looked up, his eyes sharpening.
“If one reporter finds him, though—” Holloway shook his head. “If just one found him, that’s all it would take. And they’re sure to ask why Elton isn’t singing on Sundays.”
“Tell them he’s on a mission somewhere,” Flournoy said impatiently. “South America, maybe. It’s happened before. He was in Africa for two weeks. Remember those pictures we got—that canned footage?”
“A mission—” Holloway said it softly, reflectively—without hope. Missions ended. But madness went on forever.
“I hate to strike a crass note,” Flournoy said, “but this couldn’t come at a worse time. I mean, it’s ironic—” Wincing as if he were in sudden pain, he sharply shook his head. “I don’t know whether you were aware of it tonight, Austin, at the banquet, but at the end you had them absolutely riveted. Not at first, admittedly, which makes it so very significant. At the first, they were probably the toughest audience you’ve ever faced. But, by God, at the end, they were yours. They’re still yours, if you can deliver what they want. And then, to have this happen … now …” Flournoy shook his head.
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 14
