Imperfect Strangers

by Stuart Woods

  The D.A. shook his head. "Sounds to me like Martindale, who's English, was faking an American accent. You're not going to be able to get him to do that at a lineup, and I'm not going to be able to get him to do it on the stand, in the unlikely event that his attorney was crazy enough to let him take the stand."

  Tony sat and stared at the D.A.'s desktop. "How about if we brought him up here in handcuffs, throw what we've got at him, and see if he cracks?"

  The D.A. shook his head again. "You're dealing with a pretty cool customer here, deputy, the kind who'd have the sense to clam up until his attorney arrived."

  The sheriff tried to be helpful. "What if we subpoenaed his bank records. If there's a big enough withdrawal to account for the five thousand dollars he paid Barnum, that would help, wouldn't it?"

  "It might help," the DA. said, "but it would hardly be conclusive. I mean, I might be willing to go with less than an airtight case, but I want more than this in a trial that's going to attract a lot of media attention to the county. Is there any physical evidence at all?"

  Tony shook his head. "I dusted the likely spots at the Kinsolving place, but there was nothing usable."

  "How about Barnum's airplane? He could have touched something there, couldn't he?"

  Tony shook his head. "Barnum said the man wore gloves."

  The D.A. shrugged. "Well, I'm always ready to listen, if you come up with something else."

  The sheriff stood up. "Thanks, Dan, we appreciate your time." He looked at Tony and made a motion with his head toward the door.

  Tony got up and trudged after him.

  On the front steps of the courthouse, the sheriff stopped. "You got any other leads on this one? Anything at all?"

  Tony shook his head. "I've wracked my brain; I don't know where to go from here."

  "I've thought about it, too," the sheriff said, "and I agree; there isn't anywhere else to go, unless somebody comes to us with something else."

  Tony nodded. "There's always that hope, I guess."

  "Listen, son," the sheriff said, placing a fatherly hand on the younger man's shoulder, "there a great truth about law enforcement that may not have sunk in with you yet."

  "What's that?"

  "We don't solve ' em all. We do pretty good, I think, but sometimes we just don't have enough to go on, and this could turn out to be one of those times. At least nobody got seriously hurt."

  "I hate to let it get away," Tony said, "when we've got so much already."

  "Maybe it won't get away," the sheriff said. "Maybe you'll find another way."

  "How 'bout if I took Shorty Barnum to San Francisco, to where he could get a look at Martindale? A kind of preview to a lineup?" Tony asked hopefully.

  The sheriff shook his head. "That wouldn't be an ID that would stand up in court, son, and it's not the way I do business, either. You don't want to start shaving off corners at this stage of your career; it gets to be habit forming."

  "You're right, Norm, and I'm sorry I brought it up."

  "That's okay; we all need somebody to steer us around the rough spots at times. I just wish I could be of more help to you on this one. I'd like to see Martindale get locked up, myself. He's a smartass who thinks he's always a step ahead of us, and I'd love to tag him."

  "So would I," Tony replied.

  "Well," the sheriff said, squaring his hat, "let's get back to work. I've got a lot of paperwork looking at me, and you're due back riding the north end of the county."

  Driving north, Tony Wheeler struck the steering wheel of his patrol car several times, venting his very considerable frustration.

  CHAPTER 58

  Tony Wheeler drove north more slowly than he usually did when he patrolled. The case was eating at him, and he tried to figure out why. It was more than that he had almost nailed Martin-dale; he might nail Martindale yet, after all. It was more than what bothered the sheriff-that Martindale was a smartass who thought the police couldn't nail him. What bothered him, Tony decided, was that Martindale was a cold, calculating potential murderer, and that, having failed once, he would almost certainly try again. At that moment, the radio came alive.

  "Napa Four, this is base." It was the sheriff's voice.

  Tony picked up the microphone. "Base, Napa Four."

  "Tony, it's Norm."

  "Yeah, Norm?"

  "What's your position?"

  "Two, two-and-a-half miles north of town."

  "Good. The desk had a call from Mrs. Kinsolving a couple of minutes ago. She sounded upset, wanted to speak to somebody. I just got in, and I called her, but there's no answer. You wheel by there, and see if she's all right."

  "Wilco," Tony said. "I'll be there in three minutes."

  "Let me know if she's all right."

  "Wilco. Out."

  Tony made a U-turn and stepped on it. He turned into the driveway at what was now called the Kinsolving Vineyards and drove quickly up to the house. Mrs. Kinsolving, to his surprise, was on her hands and knees in a flower bed near the driveway, furiously pulling up weeds. He got out of the car. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Kinsolving," he said. "I'm Deputy Wheeler."

  "Yes, I remember," she said. She was standing now, and both hands were filled with weeds.

  "The sheriff said you called; is everything all right?"

  Tears began to roll down her face. "No, everything is not all right. I'm out here pulling weeds, and I'm afraid Sandy's in terrible trouble."

  It dawned on Tony that the woman was very nearly hysterical. "What kind of trouble, ma'am?"

  "He's gone to meet Peter."

  "Peter Martindale?"

  She nodded. "I'm afraid of what might happen."

  Tony was afraid, too. "Where is he meeting Martindale?"

  "He called him and said they should meet at the first place they met."

  "And where's that, ma'am?"

  "I think at Alcatraz."

  "Alcatraz?"

  "Sandy told me that Peter had once insisted that they meet at Alcatraz."

  "How long has your husband been gone?"

  "I don't know, exactly. At least an hour, maybe two."

  "Ma'am, thank you for telling me this; now you're going to have to excuse me, if I'm going to be able to do anything about it."

  He ran for his patrol car, got it started, and pointed it toward town. He grabbed the microphone. "Base, Napa Four."

  "Napa Four, base."

  "The sheriff there?"

  "No, Tony, he went off with the county manager in his car."

  "Okay, listen carefully; I want you to call the airport and get hold of Bert, the pilot. Tell him I'm on my way out there right now, and I'll be there in about six or seven minutes. Tell him to have the police helicopter fueled and running when I get there, that we're going to San Francisco."

  "Tony, you ought to talk to the sheriff about this."

  "I don't have time to find the sheriff; you just call Bert and tell him that, and I'll take the responsibility, do you read me?"

  "I read you, Tony, but remember, it's on your head."

  "That's fine with me," Tony replied. He put the microphone back on its clip, flipped on the lights and siren, and stood on the accelerator.

  Sandy drove across the Golden Gate Bridge feeling a mixture of emotions. He was apprehensive about this meeting, but glad that he was bringing the situation to a head. He was determined to make Martindale understand that by continuing with this madness he was putting his own life in jeopardy. He knew he could kill Martindale now. He could squash the man like a bug and never feel a moment's guilt about it. But he would make one more effort to reason with him; today's effort.

  He looked out toward the Pacific and his vision did not go far; a fog bank covered everything to seaward-one of those midsummer phenomena that were so characteristic of this stretch of water. The bridge was in bright, cold sunshine at the moment, but soon it might be enveloped in the dense mists.

  Sandy glanced at his watch as he drove off the bridge; he was in good time. As he pa
rked the car he looked around for Martin-dale's Lincoln, but it was nowhere in sight. He bought a ticket and got aboard the boat. Halfway to the island, Sandy looked toward the Golden Gate Bridge, and it was gone. The bright, sunlit wall of fog had crept into the harbor and was making its way inland.

  As he stepped ashore Sandy looked up and saw that, since his last visit, a section of the stout Alcatraz wall had collapsed. He was reminded of some ruined castle in Ireland. An elderly tour guide was waiting to greet the group, and Sandy pointed at the wall. "What happened up there?" he asked.

  "The old girl is falling down," the guide said. "There's no money to keep her repaired. One of these days she'll be a complete wreck."

  Sandy let himself fall to the rear of the group as it formed.

  "Now," said the guide, "my name is Wembly, and for the last four years of this structure's life as a maximum-security prison, I was a guard here. I know every nook and cranny of this place, and I'm going to show it to you. Please don't hesitate to ask any questions." He led the group through the gate and toward the main body of the prison.

  Sandy stayed a few steps to the rear of the group, not bothering to listen to the guide, thinking about what he was going to say to Peter Martindale.

  • • •

  Tony skidded to a stop on the tarmac at Napa County Airport. Bert was leaning against the helicopter, waiting for him.

  Tony got out of the car and, as an afterthought, grabbed a shotgun, then ran for the passenger seat. "Bert, I told them to tell you to have this thing running."

  "Well, I just got it fueled," Bert said petulantly. "Now where you want to go, and who authorized it?"

  "Alcatraz," Tony said.

  "Alcatraz? Are you outta your fucking mind? Who would authorize that?"

  "I'm authorizing it. Bert, if you don't get this thing going right now, I'm going to shoot you," Tony said. "You can tell your boss I said that."

  Bert got the thing going.

  It was as before. As the crowd moved out of the cell block, Sandy hung back and looked at the cells to his right. Peter Martindale stood inside one, waiting.

  "How much longer?" Tony said into the intercom.

  "About ten, eleven minutes," Bert said. "Hang on, I gotta call in." He punched the push-to-talk button. "San Francisco approach, Napa One police helicopter."

  "Napa One," a controller said.

  "I'm five miles north of class B airspace at one thousand feet, squawking one, two, zero, zero, heading two, zero, zero."

  "Napa One, what is your destination?"

  "Alcatraz."

  "Napa One, say again your destination."

  "San Francisco approach, Napa One; my destination is Alcatraz. Request vectors."

  "Napa One, do you intend landing at Alcatraz?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Is this an emergency?"

  Bert looked at Tony; Tony nodded.

  "Affirmative, San Francisco, this is a police emergency."

  "Napa One, understand police emergency. Come left to one, niner, zero. Alcatraz is seventeen miles at twelve o'clock. Report Alcatraz in sight."

  "Wilco," Bert said. He turned to Tony. "This better be good," he said.

  "Napa One, San Francisco approach."

  "This is Napa One.

  "The coast guard has advised us that a fog bank has developed over San Francisco Bay and is currently estimated to be one-half mile west of Alcatraz, moving slowly east."

  "Roger, San Francisco." Bert turned again to Tony. "You give me the most entertaining fucking flying, you really do."

  CHAPTER 59

  Sandy sat on the steel bunk and looked at Martindale, who sat opposite him. There was something in the man's face that he hadn't seen there before. Desperation, maybe; determination, probably; madness, certainly.

  "Peter," he said, "I want you to listen to me very carefully We have to end this-today, now, this minute."

  "That is my intention, Sandy," Martindale replied. His voice was low, soft, steely.

  "Peter, if you persist in this, you will destroy yourself."

  "Yes, Sandy, I know that; but I will destroy you first, and then Helena."

  "Peter, think. Why must you have this vendetta in your mind? Helena has given you everything you have-your home, your business-everything."

  "And together, you and Helena have taken it away."

  "What?"

  "In order to raise the money I paid you, I gave the apartment and the business as collateral. But since you have now gutted my reputation, I will never, never be able to earn the money to repay the loan. First, the gallery will go, and since its value has been greatly depreciated by this business, it will bring very little. Then, since I won't have an income, the apartment will have to go, and the real estate market is terrible at the moment. I'll lose everything!" He seemed to realize that he had begun to shout, and he brought his voice down. "Everything," he repeated.

  "Peter, can't you take responsibility for your own actions? Can't you see that you've painted yourself into this corner?"

  "It's your doing," Martindale said.

  "Peter-"

  "Enough talking," Martindale said. "Stand up." He drew his hand from his coat pocket and in it was a silenced revolver.

  Sandy had seen it before. He stood up and slipped his hand into his raincoat pocket.

  Martindale pressed the barrel of the pistol up under Sandy's chin. "Take your hands out of your pockets," he said.

  Sandy obeyed.

  Martindale patted Sandy's pockets, reached in, and came out with the knife. "My, my," he said. "You came prepared, didn't you?"

  "San Francisco approach, Napa One. I have Alcatraz in sight."

  "Napa One, San Francisco approach. Do you see the landing pad on top of the main building?"

  "Affirmative. It's faded, but I can see it."

  "Napa One, cleared to land at Alcatraz."

  "Roger." Bert turned to Tony. "Shouldn't you let the San Francisco police know about this?"

  "Jesus, I hadn't thought of that," Tony admitted. "Yeah, ask them to call the cops. Oh, and they'd better call the FBI, too; this place is federal property."

  "San Francisco approach, Napa One. Request you alert the San Francisco police and the FBI of the emergency."

  "Roger, Napa One. What is the nature of your emergency?"

  Bert looked at Tony. "Well?"

  "Uh, hang on a second." Tony thought about it. "Tell them we're going in to prevent a possible murder."

  "San Francisco approach, Napa One. We are intervening to prevent a possible homicide."

  "Roger, Napa One. We'll call in the cavalry."

  "Now we're really in the shit," Bert said. "There'll be no sneaking in and out of there."

  "Bert," Tony said, "don't land yet. First, let's fly over the yard and see what the hell's going on."

  • • •

  Sandy walked across the yard ahead of Peter, wondering what to do next.

  "Head for those stairs," Martindale said. "The ones to the guard tower."

  Sandy looked the twenty yards ahead of him. A chain stretched across the bottom of the stairs, and a sign hung on it. "No Entry," it said.

  "Unhook the chain," Martindale said as they reached it.

  Sandy unhooked the chain and started up the stairs. From behind them came a shout, and Sandy looked back to see the group of tourists emerging from the cell block. The guide, Wembly, was running toward them.

  "Stop!" he yelled. "It's dangerous up there!"

  Martindale turned, raised his arm, and fired a shot into the dirt near the guide. Wembly stopped.

  Sandy moved to reach for the gun, but Martindale swung around and pointed it at him again.

  "Climb," he said.

  Sandy trudged on up the stairs. At the top, the door to the guard tower was missing, and so was the door on the other side of the little room. Beyond it, a walkway stretched along the top of the wall, behind a waist-high parapet. A patch of fog blew across the top of the wall, momentarily obliteratin
g it before blowing away. Sandy's mouth was very dry.

  "Keep going along the wall," Martindale said.

  Sandy looked over the edge of the parapet; it was a good seventy or eighty feet down, with pavement at the bottom. He stopped and turned around to face Martindale. He was farther behind than Sandy had thought. "Stop this, Peter. Put the gun down." A noise distracted him, and he looked up, across the yard. A helicopter was a hundred yards away, moving slowly toward them.

  Suddenly, Martindale was gone. Sandy could see nothing but fog.

  "There!" Tony said. "On top of the wall-two men!"

  "I saw them for a second, but now they're gone," Bert replied. "It's the fog; I can't see a damned thing."

  "Keep going in that direction," Tony demanded. "I think one of them had a gun."

  Now the helicopter was enveloped in fog. "Oh, shit!" Bert yelled.

  Sandy suddenly realized that if he couldn't see Martindale, Martindale couldn't see him. It seemed the best idea to put as much distance as possible between himself and the gun. He turned and began to run, and as he did, he heard two quick, muffled reports, and something ricocheted off the masonry next to him. He threw himself to the opposite side of the walkway, and the action saved his life; another noise came, and a piece of masonry flew off the wall at the spot where he had been standing. Sandy stopped and tried to see ahead. The fog didn't seem any worse, but now he couldn't see the path in front of him.

  "Stand still!" Martindale yelled.

  A hole in the fog had come upon them, and Sandy could see Peter, no more than four feet away, pointing the pistol at him. He made to run, but as he turned, he saw that he was on the brink of an abyss. He was standing at the spot where the wall of the prison had collapsed.

  "There!" Tony yelled. "I see them! Put my side of this thing as close to them as you can!" He tightened his seatbelt, opened the door on his side, lifted it off its pins, and tossed it into the backseat. "Closer!" he shouted, grabbing his shotgun and pumping a round into the chamber. It was an Ithaca riot gun with an eighteen-inch barrel, so the shot would spread quickly. "Closer, godammit!"