Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Friedman said, “Okay.”

  “If we can locate the car, we’ll know where we’re going. He could be on his way to Reno, for all we know. Besides, you can always contact me on this phone. I’ll leave it off the hook. Whistle if you want me.”

  “I never learned to whistle loud. Just a minute.” Then: “It’s okay. Markham can whistle. You sure you don’t want some reinforcements?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Rawlings’ll have to come in through a narrow hallway, which is where we’ll probably take him. It’s close quarters. Too many men, and we could trip over each other. Maybe you and Markham can come up behind him, out of sight.”

  “Roger. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes. Do you still want to leave that phone line open?”

  I hesitated, then said, “I’d better hang up.”

  “Roger. Out.”

  I remained standing, still holding the telephone, staring at Canelli, who was leaning against the opposite wall. He looked vaguely uncomfortable in his rumpled suit and improbably creased hat.

  “How long have they been gone?” I asked the girl.

  “About an hour, I guess. I dunno.” She was gazing down at her twisting fingers, clasped together on her thigh.

  “They could be coming back any time, then?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Will he come through the front door?” I asked.

  Head hanging, she nodded nervelessly. I turned to Canelli. “There’s a back stairway opening into the kitchen. Make sure it’s locked, just in case.”

  “Right.”

  “You’d better get out of sight,” I said to the girl. “If he sees your face, he’ll know something’s wrong.”

  Her shoulders jerked convulsively as she choked on a short, bitter laugh. Slowly she raised her head. Her throat was corded painfully, her lips drawn back from tightly clenched teeth. Her eyes were wet.

  “That’s probably because I’m worried, Lieutenant. That’s why he’d know something’s wrong. My kid might be dead, in a few minutes. The idea worries me.”

  Looking at her coldly, I was thinking that she was a little late worrying about her child—several years too late. But pitching my voice to a neutral tone, I said, “There’s nothing to worry about, Miss Swanson. Not if everyone keeps his head. Including you.”

  Again she choked, half-sobbing. Her eyes were bright, tear-glazed with a bitter, bogus mirth. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, Lieutenant. Nothing gets to you. I’ve known men like you all my life: cool, good-looking bastards with no more feelings than you can squeeze out of a Pepsodent smile. You’re all alike. You’re all—”

  In my hand, the telephone suddenly rang. Startled, I automatically reached for the receiver, then recovered myself at the last instant.

  “You’d better take this, Miss Swanson. Just in case. And you’d better get hold of yourself.”

  On her feet, she was staring fixedly at the phone, now beginning its second ring.

  “Take it. I want everything to appear normal.” I stepped up to her, thrusting out the phone.

  At the beginning of the fourth ring, she answered. Instantly her eyes bulged. She was nodding frantically to me.

  “Where are you?” she was saying. “Oh. Yeah. Well, I—What?” She paused. Then: “I was in the bathroom. What’re you—What?” Another pause. Eyes still wide, she was mutely begging me for a cue. I stepped close to her, whispering into her free ear, “Tell him to come here. Home.”

  “—whatever you want,” she was saying into the phone. “Get some round steak, or something. Anything.” Her voice was breathless, strained, unconvincing. Holding the receiver, her hand was knuckle-white. “No, nothing’s wrong. I told you, I was in the bathroom. Just get the steak. Then come on home.” Commanding him, her voice was edged with its habitual note of peremptory contempt. “And hurry up.” She listened a moment, swallowing rapidly, searching my eyes for reassurance. Then, woodenly, she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  “How’d he sound?” I asked, taking the phone from her.

  “I—I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.” She sank down on the sofa. “Edgy, I guess. Jumpy.”

  “You sounded pretty jumpy yourself,” Canelli said, standing beside her now.

  Her hostile eyes flicked toward him as she automatically muttered a dejected obscenity.

  “Where is he, do you know?” I asked.

  “I think he’s at Petrini’s Market. Buying something for dinner.”

  Turning my back on her, I dialed Communications. Immediately, I was connected to Friedman’s car.

  “I’ve got the license number for you,” he said. “CVV 306. It’s already on the air.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Geary and Seventh Avenue.”

  “You’re within about fifteen blocks of the suspect’s possible position. Petrini’s Market.”

  “What’ll I do?”

  “Proceed to Petrini’s. Canelli and I will meet you there. What channel are you on?”

  “Tach Twelve.”

  “Right. I’ll be checking with you in two or three minutes. Have another unmarked car assigned to this address, will you?”

  “Roger.”

  I hung up and turned to Jane Swanson. “We’re going to try and find Rawlings. It shouldn’t be too hard. If we miss him, there’re men outside this building. They’ll apprehend him on the street, before he comes inside.”

  “B—but what about Jerry?” She spoke as if her lips were numb.

  “Don’t worry.” Eying Canelli, I jerked my chin toward the door.

  “I want to come. I won’t stay here. You—you can’t make me stay here.” Eyes wide, she was beginning to babble.

  “I’ll leave a man with you. He’ll keep you advised.”

  As she protested, I gripped her arm, digging my fingers into the flesh, hard. “You stay here. Right in this apartment. If you put your head outside that door, I’ll book you for interfering with an officer.”

  I shoved her deep into the sofa, and left the apartment without looking back. As Canelli closed the door behind us, I could hear her cursing.

  23

  IN THE STREET OUTSIDE Jane Swanson’s apartment building, Culligan and Sigler were pulling to a stop in front of a fire hydrant. Verifying that Friedman had assigned them to me, I quickly outlined the situation, instructing Culligan to remain in the Swanson apartment, with his walkie-talkie hooked into Tach Twelve through Sigler, outside in their cruiser.

  As I finished, Canelli was urgently beckoning me from our car, ready to roll.

  “What is it?” I asked, slamming the door as the car jerked forward.

  Canelli pointed to the radio, tuned to Tach Twelve. “Lieutenant Friedman. They’ve spotted Rawlings’ car in the Petrini Plaza parking lot. The man and the boy are inside the car.”

  I clicked the mike to “transmit.”

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re just sitting there. Doing nothing. I guess they’re talking. Maybe arguing. The suspect seems to be waving his hands a lot. The kid is quiet, as if he’s being disciplined.”

  I instructed Canelli to proceed to Petrini’s at moderate speed. Into the mike I said, “The suspect could be going into the market. You’d better maintain your position.” I paused, then added, “He might go inside to shop, and leave the kid inside the car. We’d be home free.”

  “Sorry,” came the laconic reply, “but the suspect’s just been inside. He’s getting ready to leave the area, I think.”

  Muttering an obscenity, I said, “We’re proceeding up Stanyan, near Parnassus. We’ll be with you shortly. Out.” Leaving the channel open, I leaned back in the seat, braced against the car’s sway. I forced myself to relax, conscious that my muscles ached with the dull, leaden weight of exhaustion. One way or the other, I’d soon be committed to another confrontation, too soon.

  “Maybe Markham and the lieutenant can take him in the parking
lot,” Canelli was saying. “Before he gets under way.”

  “We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “Let’s see what happens. With the kid involved, I don’t want to—”

  Friedman’s metallic voice interrupted: “He’s starting the car, Frank. We’re down to our last ten seconds.”

  It took me three of the ten seconds to decide. “Let him go. Let’s follow him with a rolling tail. If he heads for home, we’ve got reinforcements.”

  “Roger. How far away are you?”

  “Eight, nine blocks. We’re still proceeding north on Stanyan.” Motioning Canelli to go faster, I called into Communications, confirming that Culligan, inside the Swanson apartment, and the three cars outside the building were hooked into Tach Twelve. Then, in a sentence, I outlined the current situation.

  As I finished, Friedman’s voice cut in: “The suspect is proceeding west on Fulton, Frank, just entering the Cole Street intersection. He’s coming in your direction.”

  “He might be heading for home. If so, we’ll apprehend him after he leaves the car but before he enters the building. All units, please verify.”

  As the verifications came over the air, Friedman’s voice, tighter, interrupted: “He’s approaching the intersection of Stanyan and Fulton, Frank. But he isn’t signaling for a left turn. It doesn’t look like he’s going home.”

  “Maybe he’s going through the park. Anyhow, we’re just a block from Fulton. We should sight him soon.” And to Canelli: “Turn left on Fulton, slow and easy, so we’ll be heading west, like Rawlings.”

  “Check.” Canelli jerked the car abruptly into the left-turn lane. Fulton was a half block ahead, mildly congested. A few drops of rain were spattering against the windshield. Ahead, the traffic light turned red, against us.

  “We’re stopped at Fulton, waiting to turn west,” I announced into the radio.

  “Keep on your toes” came Friedman’s voice. “He’s just entering that intersection.”

  And fifty feet ahead I saw the red GTO. The boy’s head was clearly visible in the passenger’s front seat. He was staring straight ahead, apparently untroubled.

  Then, as if it were passing before us from stage left to stage right, the GTO was gone, disappeared in the wings. The traffic light turned green; our lane of traffic was moving.

  “You go ahead, Pete,” I said. “Pass him. We’ll take over.”

  “Roger.”

  And as we turned into Fulton behind Rawlings, Friedman passed us, accelerating to overtake the red Pontiac.

  “Keep about a half block back,” I told Canelli. “We don’t want to spook him.”

  “It doesn’t look to me like he’s going home,” Canelli said. “I’ll bet that Swanson chick scared him off. She sounded about as convincing as—as—” He shook his head dolefully.

  “You’re a pessimist, Canelli. I’m surprised you chose police work for a career.”

  He glanced at me doubtfully, then turned back to the road. “Well, the honest-to-God truth, Lieutenant, is that I started out to be a fireman. But I—”

  “Lieutenant, this is Sigler.”

  “What is it, Sigler?”

  “I just heard from Culligan, up in Swanson’s apartment. Apparently Swanson’s raising hell. Claims we’re endangering her son. She’s threatening to sue. Everything. Culligan thought you should know.”

  “Tell Culligan to tell her that she’s got no one to blame but herself. Out.”

  The GTO was pulling to the right lane, signaling for a turn. Almost a block ahead, Friedman was already into the next intersection. If he turned right, Rawlings could elude Friedman.

  “I knew it,” Canelli said. “He’s turning on Park Presidio, making for the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  Into the mike I gave the suspect’s new direction, then momentarily switched to Communications, outlining the situation, requesting State Police assistance at the Golden Gate toll plaza. As I switched back to channel twelve, Canelli said, “If the State Police don’t already have a car at the toll plaza, they’ll never stop him. He’ll be there in just a couple of minutes.”

  “It’s like I said, Canelli: you’re a pessimist.”

  A hundred yards ahead, Rawlings was turning, sharply accelerating as he moved into the faster flow of parkway traffic. Seven or eight more blocks, and he’d be on the bridge approach, traveling nonstop at fifty miles per hour in the sparse early afternoon traffic.

  “Where are you, Pete?” I said into the mike, bracing against Canelli’s jolting turn.

  “We’re proceeding north on Fifteenth Avenue” came the terse reply. “We should be about even with him, one block over. What now?

  “I’ve radioed for the State Police to intercept him at the toll plaza. We’ll be right behind him. I hope.”

  “Right. I’ll be on Park Presidio in a minute. Maybe we should try to stop him on the bridge approach.”

  “At the toll plaza, he can’t go anywhere.”

  “It’s your ball game. But there could be a jumbo traffic jam.” He paused, then said, “We’re approaching Park Presidio now, traveling on Balboa, preparing to—Hell, we’ve got a red light at the intersection, and a bottleneck.”

  Two cars ahead of us, the GTO was midway into the Balboa intersection.

  “There he is,” muttered Friedman. “Big as life.”

  To Canelli, I said, “Pass these two cars. Get right in behind him.”

  “Check.” He swerved abruptly to the left, cutting off a horn-wailing gray station wagon. Canelli was muttering indignantly as he passed the first car ahead of us, then drew even with the second, a bright red Ford driven by a blowzy middle-aged blonde. Rolling down my window, I motioned for her to fall back. Frowning, lips pursed, she was shaking her head vehemently. Over my shoulder I saw Friedman coming up fast, but still a full block behind us. Looking through the GTO’s rear window, I could clearly see both Rawlings and the boy.

  “Cut her off,” I said shortly, withdrawing my arm, unwilling to risk attracting Rawlings’ notice.

  Traveling at almost fifty-five, Canelli suddenly cut to the right. I saw the blonde’s broad, flat face contorted with rage as she braked quickly, falling back. Ahead I could see Rawlings glancing repeatedly into his rear-view mirror. The Lake Street intersection, coming up, was the last one remaining before the parkway emptied into the nonstop bridge approach. The traffic light was green. Contacting Communications, I fumed through a thirty-second delay, waiting to be connected to the single highway patrol car, just arriving at the toll plaza, barely three miles away. Finally I heard a garbled voice:

  “—is Patrolman Stark, standing by.”

  I identified myself, then said, “How many outbound lanes are open?”

  “Three, sir.”

  “Don’t you have anyone else there? Any other officers?”

  “Negative. I’ve requested assistance from one unit standing by at the northern bridge approach. He’s proceeding across the bridge now.”

  “Do you have a description of the vehicle we want?”

  “Yessir.” He repeated the description.

  “Can you place your car so as to block the suspect’s lane while he’s paying the toll?”

  “I can try, sir” came the doubtful rejoiner.

  I saw Friedman drawing up beside us, gesturing with a single upraised finger, eyes straight ahead. He looked like a well-fed tourist out for a Sunday drive.

  “Have you advised the toll collectors of the situation?” I asked Stark.

  “No, sir. I just this minute arrived.” His voice was softened by a slight Southern drawl.

  “Well, advise them. Get out of your car and explain what’s happening. You’ve got about a minute. Tell them to stall—drop his money, anything. Then, while he’s distracted, try to get your car in position. If you can’t do it—if you can’t block him—we’ll take over. We’re right behind the suspect. We’ll get out of our car while he’s paying the toll, and we’ll apprehend him. Clear?”

  “Yessir.”

 
“Be careful. He’s got a gun, plus the boy. Just park your car and slip out on the opposite side. Take cover. Out.”

  Friedman and Markham were still beside us, ignoring the indignant bleating of an orange Porsche. I switched to channel twelve. “It won’t be long now,” I said. Friedman grunted in reply. Rounding the last long, sweeping curve, I could see the line of tollbooths. Rawlings was already slowing sedately, making for the center of the three outbound lanes. To our left, Friedman was falling behind, helpless, trapped in a slower lane.

  “Crap,” I heard him mutter.

  “Get in behind me,” I said.

  A horn blared as Markham obeyed. I could see Rawlings shifting from side to side in his seat, searching his pockets for a quarter.

  Four cars remained between Rawlings and the tollbooth. To the right, partially concealed behind a huge wrecker, I saw Stark’s highway patrol car. I realized that he had a delicate timing problem. If he moved too soon, Rawlings could simply make a quick U-turn, hopping the center barrier, heading back to San Francisco, spooked. Moving too late, Stark couldn’t get through the right-lane traffic soon enough to reach the center lane, and the suspect.

  Two cars remained in front of Rawlings.

  I unbuttoned my coat, drawing my revolver. “I’ll take Rawlings’ side,” I told Canelli. “You get the kid. Yank him out of the car and get him down on the ground.”

  “Right.” Canelli’s gun, a big Magnum, was on the seat beside him.

  “Here we go,” I said into the mike. “If he makes a break, let’s aim for the tires.”

  “Right. Good luck” came Friedman’s low voice.

  Only one car remained.

  Stark was moving out from behind the wrecker. A camper truck and a blue Cadillac were blocking him. Rawlings, arm extended outside his car, had reached the toll-taker’s booth.

  I opened the door. “I’m getting out. You stay with the car for a second or two, until I reach him. Then you move.”

  “Yessir. Good luck.”

  With our car still in motion, I swung open the door and jumped out, crouching low, stumbling as I fell to one knee, quickly recovering. Stark’s car, I saw, was hopelessly blocked, out of it. Rawlings was fully stopped; the toll taker had dropped his money. I was rounding the rear of the GTO, still crouching, my shoulder touching the car’s gleaming red metal. On the driver’s side now, still crouching low, gun ready, I—