Dirty Harry 11 - Death in the Air

by Dane Hartman

  “You stay here and think about it,” he told her from the door. “The bathroom’s through there,” he said, with a jerk of his head. “And there’s beer and cheese in the fridge.”

  He slammed the door closed, threw the clasps into place, and locked the door. He couldn’t chance losing his one reasonable escape. He’d have to keep her there until he got back, and if she wouldn’t talk, he would.

  He’d tell the press everything he knew, up to, and including, her connection with Dr. Carr. Even if she were still unwilling to corroborate, the press would still report that she knew everything there was to know about the Program, thus forcing Carr’s hand.

  Harry drove the stolen car like a man possessed until he reached the North Beach precinct. He handed it over to the cops there, saying he had found it with the keys still inside and no clues as to the thieves. And, since he was an inspector, no one doubted him.

  Inside, he was directed to Captain Dobbin’s office. Wendall Dobbin was waiting for him on the second floor in the company of the other unit officers. The Captain, a beefy, dark-haired police vet, made the introductions.

  There was Detective Manuel Rodriguez, who looked the part. He was strictly Spanish, down to the kinky, greased, short-cropped, black hair, and the pencil-thin mustache. He was short—just making it over the policy five-foot-six requirement.

  Sergeant Eddie Bluth was next, a thin Midwesterner with sparse, almost white hair, and a black mustache. Add fifty pounds and he’d look like George Peppard. Next to him was Detective Rod Uslan, an athletic black man.

  Since no one had seen Callahan before, except for the occasional photo in the newspaper, no one questioned his unusual outfit of a dark turtleneck, dark pants, and a long, loose raincoat.

  “Look, I’m sorry it has to be tonight,” Dobbin said. “But that’s what police work is all about. We’ve got to be ready any time, any place. At least, these guys won’t be expecting us to hit.”

  “These guys” were: Adam and Francis Stilino, who were a brother team of jewel thieves and smugglers; Aaron Whitelaw, their contact in the diamond district; and Avery Jessup, their fence.

  “They’re in Jessup’s office at Grant and Pacific,” Dobbin revealed. “It should be fast and simple. Bluth stays down in the lobby, covering the elevators. Rodriguez covers the alley outside. Uslan and Callahan come with me upstairs. I’ll cover the hall while you two go in. Guns out, papers down—that’s it. We cuff them, get them into the cars, book them, and go home. Right. Any questions?”

  There were none. Harry stretched out in the back seat of Dobbin’s nondescript tan car with Uslan next to the Captain in the front, while the other two detectives rode in a dark-green Pontiac. Nobody had much to say to each other. Harry just wanted to get the job over with and get back to Patterson. The sooner he could spill his guts, the better he would like it.

  Dobbin and Uslan kept looking at each other as they drove through the well-lit night. It was obvious that the city was reveling, and it was equally obvious that the North Beach cops didn’t much like the idea of a downtown chaperone coming along.

  Callahan didn’t care. He stared out the window, seeing nothing until they got to the corner of Grant and Pacific. When everyone parked and got out, it was just like stepping into New York’s Greenwich Village or Boston’s Newbury Street. Everywhere were art galleries, coffee houses, bars, and brownstones.

  The five-man arrest unit walked across the street to a building that had seen residents come and go for at least sixty years. It had the look, feel, and smell of a structure erected in the twenties. Even though it was simple, squat, and unadorned, it reeked of rotting deco.

  Dobbin nodded at the Spaniard, who trotted around the corner to cover the space between buildings in case anybody wanted to fire-escape it. The rest went inside the dim, ash-smelling, fake-marble lobby which consisted of a small snack bar which had already had its sliding cage front locked for the night, and two elevators with floor pointers rather than digital floor displays above their sliding doors.

  The Captain glanced at Bluth, who leaned casually against the wall. The next second, he stood straight again, brushing the greasy dust off the shoulder of his jacket. The black man pressed the up button and the car to the right dutifully opened. Harry and Dobbin followed Uslan in.

  The ride was short and uneventful. The Captain stopped the car on the second floor so that the trio could walk up to the third. The stairway door opened onto a landing with the elevators against one side wall and the door marked A. Jessup Industries across from them.

  It was a classic door to go along with the classic structure. There was a stippled, opaque-glass pane taking up most of the upper part, and a simple copper-colored knob to the right Dobbin and Uslan marched right up to it.

  The Captain then held back, motioning Harry to go ahead. Callahan didn’t think twice about it. He didn’t think at all until the big black man grabbed one arm, and Dobbin hit him across the back with all his weight behind it.

  Harry’s feet left the ground as Uslan pushed and he dove straight through the glass pane of Jessup’s door. As the thick, jagged glass shattered around him, he heard the Captain shouting “It’s a hit!”

  Callahan slammed down among the debris of the destroyed door as Jessup, Whitelaw, and the Stilino brothers leaped up in shocked surprise.

  Then everybody started shooting at him.

  C H A P T E R

  E l e v e n

  He didn’t feel the pain of smashing through the door. He didn’t hear the rending, shattering crash of the vicious trick. Drowning out everything were Patterson’s words filling Callahan’s entire brain.

  “He can tap into the computers. He can change anything on anyone.”

  The North Beach cops couldn’t be in the Program’s employ. But through the Program’s influence and the government funding, the police could be convinced that Harry was a dangerous enemy of state and country.

  It made no difference how Carr had pulled it off. He could have bribed them, he could have played on their patriotism, or he could have pulled a “Serpico”—saying that Harry was going to blow the whistle on some crooked cops: maybe them.

  However he did it, the important thing was that it had worked. Callahan had been set up and was right in the middle of a cross fire between the good guys and the bad.

  Uslan had tripped him as he threw him forward, and, with Dobbin’s brutal pressure contributing, Harry was unable to keep on his feet. That might have spared his life, initially.

  He dove through the glass and fell across the wooden section of the door, splintering it under his weight. He landed inside the office as most of the entrance fell all around him.

  If the cops had waited a second before shooting, the Stilinos might have pumped him full of lead where he lay. As it was, they were too busy returning the cops’ fire to ventilate Callahan.

  It seemed as though the Captain was hoping Harry would be “accidentally” wiped out in the cross fire. But the Inspector knew too much to stand up. He forced his body forward, twisting and rolling farther into the office.

  The cops in the hall both had Colt .357 Python revolvers. The Stilino brothers each pulled out a Safari Arms Enforcer .45 automatic, a sawed-off version of the larger Matchmaster, complete with finger-groove grips and hooked trigger guard.

  As all four men started firing at once, what was left of the door was splintered by the high-calibre bullets. Harry didn’t try to recover. He just kept twisting out of the way like a worm trying not to get stepped on.

  Jessup ducked behind his desk and came up holding a sawed-off twelve-gauge Mossberg 500 slide-action shotgun with an eight-shot tubular magazine. He let go with his first blast, ripping off whatever was left of the door after Harry went through it.

  Even Whitelaw got into the act, dumping open his briefcase on the floor and scooping up a Llama small-frame automatic. Capable of firing either .22, .32, or .380 rounds, it cost anywhere from two hundred and fifty to fifteen hundred dollars. Just the kin
d of weapon a diamond broker would use.

  And he was ready to use it on Callahan. He saw his opportunity to shoot the closest thing to him, which happened to be the desperately crawling Harry.

  The Inspector reached above him and grabbed the leg of the card table the Stilinos had set up in front of Jessup’s desk. With a twisting tug, Harry threw it at Whitelaw.

  Everything atop the table scattered to the left wall, including papers and a handful of gems. Whitelaw went down beneath the thin hunk of furniture, beaten back by surprise more than anything else.

  The Llama fired anyway, the bullet disappearing into the wooden floor in front of Harry’s stomach. Callahan rolled in Whitelaw’s direction as the booming chaos continued around him. He jumped on top of the overturned table, with the diamond merchant beneath.

  That put him in view of Adam Stilino, who was stupid enough to change his aim toward Harry. At that moment, a slug from Uslan’s gun took him in the stomach. He bent over, the bullet meant for Callahan’s brain snapping off a table leg. Then he tripped over his own weakened feet and fell backward.

  Harry took the time to pull out his Magnum, slipping it between his torso and the table. He pulled the trigger once, sending a .44 slug through Whitelaw’s struggling form. That quieted him down for good.

  Neither Francis nor Avery was happy with the way things were turning out. Roaring that he would take care of the guys in the hall, Jessup sicced the unwounded Stilino on Callahan. Harry twisted around, the Magnum fully out as Francis pivoted to get a better shot.

  The two men fired through Jessup’s spinning shotgun loads, sparks flying as the lead missiles smashed through the spreading twelve-gauge pellets. Stilino’s round went through the hem of Harry’s coat and between his legs. Callahan’s Magnum shot true, ripping open Francis’s chest.

  The second Stilino flew backward, smashing into the opposite wall and bringing down the various plaques and diplomas Jessup had hung. Uslan took that moment to try to enter the room, and Avery paid him by letting him have a shotgun blast across the face.

  The detective stopped being black and became red as the hunk of speeding pellets turned his head into hamburger. He went down hard on his side as Harry moved the Magnum over to the shotgun wielder.

  Adam got up and in the way just as Callahan pulled the trigger. The wounded Stilino danced away, the hole in his waist joined by a gaping rip in his shoulder. The .44 attack pushed him right through the window behind Jessup’s desk.

  Stilino’s ruined middle dipped over the sill and he somersaulted out onto the fire escape. Even then, his mangled body didn’t get any rest. As the broken glass smashed down, more bullets sliced up—many whining off the metal fire-escape slats, but some thudding into the already punctured target.

  Jessup pivoted the shotgun barrel so that it yawned in front of Harry. Callahan dived forward. The blast ripped off the corner of Jessup’s own desk. Having learned a good lesson with the table, the cop didn’t stop there. Crouched in front of the splintered furniture, he grabbed the bottom of the desk and threw it.

  Jessup dodged, shooting his desk again as it flew by and smashed into the wall. Captain Dobbin jumped into the doorway. Harry’s gun came up. The fence didn’t know who to shoot first, so he didn’t shoot anybody. Callahan and Dobbin shot him at the same time.

  The .357 and .44 bullets combined to mangle Jessup’s head and shoulders. The top of his skull tore open like a sardine tin and erupted. The shotgun dumped its load into his feet, tearing off all ten toes and most of his instep, but he was beyond feeling any pain by that time.

  The last Goldfarb murderer toppled forward, whatever was left of his brain spilling out of his open skull as he hit the floor.

  Steam from the blood and gun smoke rose to the ceiling, revealing two men pointing guns at each other. Dobbin was in the doorway, his .357 aimed down at Harry. Harry’s Magnum barrel was centered between the Captain’s eyes.

  “Moment-of-truth time,” Callahan said. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, and I’m guessing whatever you heard about me is a lie. So you’ve got a choice. We can play out this Mexican stand-off thing or we can go back to the station house.”

  Harry watched the Captain’s face. He read things in it. His expression said that he knew of “Dirty” Harry’s reputation and that he was torn about deciding what to do. First, because he wasn’t sure what he was doing, and second, because he was sure that Harry was a better shot.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” Harry said. He let go of his own gun.

  The .44 Magnum fell to the office floor with a heavy, echoing thud. It bounced slightly, fell over onto its side, and slid two inches. Dobbin looked at it in astonishment, then up at Harry. This time his face showed respect and belief.

  The Captain smiled slightly and started lowering his own gun. Then his back exploded.

  “Shit.” Harry couldn’t keep the word from ripping out of his throat as the Captain was blasted from behind with what seemed to be a firing-squad’s-worth of lead. It tore up his back and flank, dicing and shredding the skin and muscle, beneath his clothes.

  Dobbin tried to stay upright, the shock wanting to root him to the spot, but the point-blank assault drove him forward, his legs unable to keep up with the force of the bullets’ blows. He looked at Harry helplessly, as if to apologize for the mistake and for his own stupidity, but it was too late.

  He fell on his face, dead before he hit the floor. His Colt Python slithered away from him, seemingly like the snake it was named after.

  Harry jumped forward, his right hand reaching for the dropped Magnum, but three bullets beat him to it, surrounding the gun like guards.

  The words came afterward, but they were hardly necessary. The bullets had done all the talking for him. “Hold it”

  Harry looked up to see the Grand View Park Apartments’ superintendent standing in the door. Cradled in his hands was a silenced Walther MP nine-millimeter parabellum submachine gun.

  Although it was the same face and same body, the man looked different. It was the way he carried himself. He wore a dark-blue running suit with red and green piping, as well as blue Adidas on his feet.

  Harry leaned back from the fallen Magnum. “Fitting you should be using a German gun,” he commented.

  “Big man,” the super said derisively. “Keep talking, asshole. That’s why I came up here. To see what the smart guy wanted put on his tombstone.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a whistle from downstairs. “Yeah?” the super answered it, without taking his eyes off Harry.

  “Everything okay?” another voice called up to him.

  “Yeah,” the super replied. “Keep your shirt on. It’ll all be over in a second.” He said that last part mostly for Harry’s benefit, watching for a reaction.

  “Perfect, huh?” Harry said, figuring that as long as he was talking, he was still alive. “The crooks killed the cops, but not before all of them die too, huh?”

  “Exactly,” the super agreed. “But first, you and me got to have a little chat.”

  “About what?”

  “About where D. Patterson—Apartment 4-B—is.”

  “What for?”

  The super didn’t like Harry’s flippant attitude. He pushed the vicious little Walther in front of him and raised its nose. “You can die fast. Or it can seem like you’ll never die,” he promised. “I’ve got all night, Inspector. It’s your decision.”

  Harry seemed to think about it from his sitting position on the floor. His eyes drifted to the one corner of the room which wasn’t splattered with blood or guts. Then his head moved slightly as if making a choice. He looked back at the super.

  “Darers go first,” he said.

  The left side of his coat billowed outward, a hunk of cloth around the pocket ripped off, and the Browning Hi-Power’s nine-millimeter bullet slammed into the super’s chest.

  Because of his position and the gloom in the office, the super couldn’t really have seen that Harry’s left hand was i
nside the slash in his coat, reaching for the waist-holstered automatic.

  The super flew back, his arms wide, his back smashing into the lead-riddled frame of the office door. His Walther submachine gun slipped out of his flaccid hand and slid across the floor.

  There was no silencer on Callahan’s gun, so the Browning’s blazing report could be heard throughout the building. Even before the super fell to the floor, his associates were racing up the stairs.

  Harry was waiting for them. Right after pulling the Browning’s trigger, he was on his feet, his free hand throwing the long coat wide open and hauling out the Mac machine gun from underneath.

  As he ran for the door the super was stretched out under, the coat flaps flew back, revealing the Magnum in its shoulder holster, the Browning holster on Harry’s left hip, and the Mac-harness across his front.

  Harry slammed against the left side of the door frame as two men—looking for all the world like SWAT troopers—stormed up the stairs. It was a clear shot right across the landing.

  Harry didn’t waste the Mac’s bullets. He snapped off two more shots from the Browning’s fourteen-bullet clip, catching each man right where they lived. They crumpled as if felled by poison gas.

  Callahan moved quickly into the hallway, the automatic in his left hand, the Mac in his right. As he reached the elevator bank, one set of sliding doors opened, revealing Detective Bluth lying on the car’s floor.

  His eyes and mouth were both open, and he had a red third eye in the middle of his forehead which was leaking crimson tears. Somehow, it seemed like an open invitation of some sort, so Harry took it.

  He stepped into the elevator doorway, leaned against the closing doors, and fired two bursts from the Mac into the car’s ceiling. He ripped the bullets across the roof in an X pattern. To his savage satisfaction, he heard one grunt and one scream.

  The trapdoor in the elevator ceiling caved in and the torso of a Program man fell out, his tongue lolling out of his bloody mouth. Harry planted a nine-millimeter round through this nose.