October's Ghost

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “All right. No big deal.” Jorge would have cursed his partner if the pain hadn’t been so bad, but all he wanted was to get onto the bed. “It’s gone. Nothing will survive the fire, okay? Just go to the night window and tell them we lost it. Okay? Hurry, man.”

  Tomás still was pissed at himself for doing such a stupid thing. At least they’d torched the car, which they knew would destroy any fingerprints or other evidence of their identity. And also the key, now. He got a replacement from the not-real-happy-to-be-awakened night clerk and went back to his partner.

  “Five fucking bucks for a key!” He shoved it in the hole and opened the door, letting Jorge in first. He immediately fell onto the bed.

  “This hurts, man. Have we got any booze left?”

  Tomás checked the dresser drawer. “A little Chivas.”

  “Give it.”

  The remains were gone in a minute, but it would take longer for the effects to be felt.

  “Sleep, Jorge. Just take it easy.” Tomás went to the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out, checking the gash inside in the mirror. “We’ll find Sullivan in the morning.” The taste of blood was heavy as he spoke.

  “I want him, Tomás. I want him dead. Dead! And I want him to feel it. No bullet-in-the-head crap—ahhh!” Jorge writhed in pain. “God, is there any Tylenol or anything in there?”

  “None.” Tomás came back from the bathroom. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He twisted and bent his body into as comfortable a position as he could. “Sullivan will be, too.”

  * * *

  Art and Frankie pulled up just as the fire department had finished dousing the flames with spray from an inch-and-a-half line. The injured cop had seen Sullivan bail out of the Lumina before it fled from the crash scene, so they anticipated no body would be in the smoking hulk.

  “You Jefferson?” the LAPD sergeant asked. He was in a foul mood. It hadn’t been a good night for the force.

  “Yeah. Anything?” Art stood back while Frankie began examining the steaming remnants of the Lumina.

  “Just looks like they pulled it in the alley and set the inside on fire. From there...”

  It was obvious. The bulk of the once pretty car was now just charred bare metal, save the extreme front and back.

  “VIN?” Art inquired. The vehicle identification number was stamped on a small dash placard below the windshield in front of the driver’s seat.

  “Burned pretty bad. We’ll have to pull it off the firewall.” A second stamping of the VIN was located on the firewall in the engine compartment in a not readily accessible place. That prevented easy tampering, but it also prevented quick access for the purpose at hand.

  “We don’t have that much time.” Art scratched his head, his fingers finding more scalp than hair. Life was just grand, wasn’t it?

  “Art.”

  He walked over to his partner, who was crouched down at the vehicle’s rear. It was basically untouched by the intense heat, other than some blistering on the trunk deck. “Look here.”

  Art bent down, the LAPD sergeant behind him shining his light on the area just to the right of the trunk lock. “Scratches.”

  “Looks like someone peeled off a sticker,” Frankie observed, looking up to her partner. “Like a rental one, maybe.”

  Art turned to the sergeant. “You got a pry bar?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “We’re popping this trunk. Rental companies started putting additional copies of the VIN and the owner information on a little plate under the trunk lining last year.”

  The sergeant nodded. Anything to find the perps who caused the deaths of two good cops and the injury of his close friend. “One minute.”

  It was less than that. The lock gave way after a few forceful pushes. Art peeled back the soggy carpeting so Frankie could find the placard.

  “Got it.” She copied it down and went straight to the radio. Their teams checking rental agencies now had a specific target, and those running down stolens could be redirected. She was back from the broadcast in under a minute.

  Art had walked to the front of the car, leaving the sergeant to complete his report.

  “Step one,” Frankie said.

  Art was silent, his eyes scrutinizing first the damaged front of the car and then the surrounding area. They were in a mixed residential-industrial area southeast of Beverly Hills, though that proximity did nothing for the neighborhood’s aesthetics. The majority of BH was no better, any observer could see upon a short visit. Art had done so on many occasions, each one convincing him that his town house in La Canada was preferable to living in some mansion surrounded by squalor.

  The alley jutted off from Rimpau Boulevard, a generous description of the narrow street. Rimpau itself intersected Olympic just a hundred feet from where the alley broke off to connect it with parallel streets. From the spot where he stood, Art tried to imagine where the shooters had gone. Which way?

  “Let’s take a walk,” Art led off to the end of the alley—actually its beginning—at Rimpau. Frankie was right with him.

  “They came back this way,” Frankie said.

  “How do you figure?” Art asked, stopping at the alley’s opening, his eyes scanning the neighborhood.

  “Backtrack.” She took a few steps out into the dark street, looking back at Art. “They pulled in this way, probably came up from Olympic.” She pointed down the alley, past the car and in the direction it had been heading. “That way is unfamiliar. My guess is they backtracked out here up to Olympic.”

  Art’s head cocked toward his observant and driven partner. “Let’s see what’s up there.”

  The walk-up took just a minute. Olympic Boulevard at one in the morning was as deserted as any other major street would be. There were the expected late travelers cruising the street, but very few visible on foot. It was not a safe area, like much of the city, especially after the sun went down.

  “And from here?” Art asked.

  Frankie looked to the left, toward the east. The street was almost desolate, and there were no pay phones that jumped out at her. None of the familiar blue handset signs. “Not a cab.”

  Art thought not. That, aside from being a practical impracticality in this area, would have left a well-defined trail. These guys were too smart, he believed. Too smart to do that. “They didn’t walk.”

  “No.” Frankie turned right, looking west, and smiled. “There.”

  Coming from the west on Olympic, across the street from the two agents, was the graffiti-scarred traveler of the night. Art and Frankie trotted across the boulevard, holding their shields in the air to flag down the number 28 bus of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority on its last run of the night. The driver pulled his nearly empty coach over on the south side of the street and opened his door.

  “Yeah?”

  “How often does this line run?” Frankie asked.

  The yellow-shirted driver, a small but muscular man whose years behind the wheel had obviously given him the wariness of the streets, narrowed his eyes at the young woman on the first step of his Grumman. Her coat had parted, revealing a gun on her right hip. He wished he could carry one so large, but his was just a little .380 that he kept in a thigh holster despite company and legal prohibitions against doing so. “Every forty minutes after eleven P.M. We went to that schedule two weeks ago.” He cast an almost evil eye at the other agent behind the woman. “I’ve never seen you out here before. LAPD?”

  “FBI,” Art answered. The man’s eyes were powerful, and the wispy gray of his mustache and hair added to that to give his dark black face an air of authority.

  “How many other drivers on this line tonight?” Frankie probed. She was intimately familiar with the MTA from her many childhood days spent riding from the family’s apartment to the doctor’s office and from her part in an undercover operation that had busted several drivers for trafficking in narcotics.

  “Two.” His eyes narrowed almost to slits.

  “Did you pick up
two guys in the last three hours?” Frankie pulled out her folded copies of the shooters’ composites.

  His head shook in response.

  “The other two drivers still on the line?”

  The driver nodded, wondering just what the FBI wanted with bus riders.

  Frankie turned to her partner, her eyes asking. Well?

  “I want you to contact your dispatchers and have them get a hold of both buses to find out if these guys were on either of them.” Art looked to Frankie, but she was already across the street on her way to get the car.

  The driver picked up his handset, which was a duplicate of that used on telephones. “Dispatch, this is Forty-Five on the Twenty-Eight, bus number Eighty-six Thirty-nine.”

  The dispatcher acknowledged the driver’s call and listened to his relay of the agents’ request. Two minutes later, just as Frankie pulled the Chevy ahead of the bus, their answer came back.

  “Yeah. The one two ahead of me remembers two guys just like that.”

  Yes! “Where’s that bus now?”

  It took a minute to get the answer. “Olympic and Alvarado, deadheading back to division.”

  Art gave a quick thumbs-up to Frankie in the driver’s seat. “Tell your dispatcher to hold that bus there. We’re on our way.”

  “Well?” Frankie asked, anticipation in her voice and eyes.

  “Olympic and Alvarado. Go. Go. We may finally have a trail.”

  Frankie floored it back into the traffic lanes. It would take only a few minutes to travel the distance, but she wasn’t going to waste any time. Trails could grow cold very quickly, and this was just about all they had at the moment. “What about Sullivan?”

  “Let’s hope he’s passed out on a barstool, nice and safe-like.”

  “I think we can count on that.” Frankie accelerated through a series of greens going east on Olympic. “Hang on.”

  * * *

  The bartender looked at the newcomer and pointed to the clock. “Closing soon, buddy.”

  Sullivan looked up, but the numbers were unintelligible. He’d have to take the bartender’s word for it. His second drink was barely touched, which amazed him because he’d been there for more than two hours. For some reason the booze just wasn’t calming him. In fact, it was hard to even swallow. There was no relaxation coming from this round of drinking, and that scared him. Really scared him. “Yeah. Okay.”

  He had come in pretty juiced, and he was not one of the regulars, so the bartender immediately had laid a protective eye on him. Two drinks, he’d decided. That was it. No more. It was his liquor license on the line if the guy walked out in front of a truck or something, not even considering if he got behind the wheel. That he had made sure was not a possibility. The guy only had a motel key on him. That was a smart move, though it really wasn’t close. Well, the walk would do him good.

  Sullivan had that key in one hand and his still-full drink in the other. He stared down at the large plastic tab attached to the key. It had all he needed, all the police would need. Address, room number. He could call 911 right now, and the guys would be caught. He’d be safe again. No more worrying about his life.

  Just the future... What was he going to do about that? No job. His house was wrecked. His eyes went down to the glass of liquid. Was it just that? Liquid? Was that all it was? Just something to quench his thirst?

  Then why can’t I...? His fingers tightened on the object that safely held his friend. That was it! It was his friend. It was that. When all others were gone he still had his...booze.

  It was really all he had.

  No. His grip on the glass released, and the hand came up to his mouth, covering it for fear that he would vomit. He felt as though he would, and he wanted to drink the—What is it? Bourbon? JB? He couldn’t remember. But he still wanted it desperately. It was just that he couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

  He again looked at the key and just as soon realized what had been presented to him. It was as clear and simple as that. It was a choice. Prove yourself, George, or drown in the booze.

  The glass was still there, still full, still calling him to drink. To just take it in. To just drink.

  He turned away. The key was in his hand, and the grip that had held the glass tightly a moment before now squeezed his only hope. It was his only hope. It was the chance to prove himself. He didn’t want to die, not this way. Not now. Not like this.

  Give me the strength, Sullivan asked silently, the request directed nowhere in particular. He doubted that God had any time left for him. He was on his own, determined to do what he had to, despite what he and others had thrown before him in the way of obstacles. He had little left of value in his life, just the memory of what he had been. And what he could be. What I have to be.

  “Hey,” Sullivan said, drawing the bartender’s attention. “Take this away.” He pushed the glass down the bar. “Coffee.”

  The bartender smiled at the request, but George didn’t notice. His attention was focused on the key in his hand. More specifically on the tab. In the morning it would be his starting point. His test. His mission. He was a reporter, a finder of facts, a newshound. It was his job, regardless of the lack of an employer. Some men had to do things for themselves, and sometimes without remuneration for their efforts in mind. This just had to be done.

  Regardless of the outcome.

  * * *

  Mrs. Carroll had obviously done a good job describing the suspects to the Bureau computer artist, as the driver waiting at Olympic and Alvarado needed only a quick look at the composites to make an I.D.

  “Yeah. Those’re the guys.” He handed the folded paper back to Frankie.

  “Do you remember where they got off?” Her fingers tapped the tip of the pen on her notebook. Come on. Please.

  “Sure do. Olympic and Vermont. One of the guys walked funny, like his back was hurt.” He laughed sympathetically. “I popped an L4-L5 disk myself, so I know the way it looks and feels.”

  “South side of the street?”

  “Yeah. Nearside before Vermont.”

  “Did you issue a transfer?”

  One eye cocked at that suggestion. “This time of night? No way.”

  “Remember which way they went?” Frankie waited while he thought back.

  His head shook apologetically. “Nah, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Thanks.”

  The driver closed the door as soon as the agents were off his empty bus. He was already thirty minutes late getting back to division, but it hadn’t been all a waste. The lady cop was a looker, after all.

  “What do you think?” Frankie asked, facing her partner. His eyes were focused to the side of her, his mind in high gear. It was a face she had come to know and respect.

  “No car. They take the bus to Olympic and Vermont.” Art’s eyes finally met Frankie’s, his head shaking the barest bit. “Not a great area,” Art commented. “One of them sounds like that collision might have messed him up.”

  “I doubt they were walking too far,” Frankie said. “This obviously wasn’t the way they planned this to happen, so they probably were just trying to get back to their hole. Especially if one of ‘em’s injured.”

  “A lot of motels along Vermont right there, aren’t there?”

  “You mean rent-a-sheets?” Frankie answered cynically. She had been in the City of Angels long enough to learn that its holy moniker was no guarantee of saintly behavior. “Tons.”

  “All right, we set up an OP,” Art said, the preliminaries of a plan forming in his mind. An observation post was a necessity to watch for the shooters in the area they’d last been seen in. “I want Rob Deans and Hal Lightman on it. Hal’s an eagle eye.”

  “Okay.” Frankie was noting the assignments to be called in.

  “I want it set so they can monitor foot traffic up and down Vermont from Olympic. Then I want a listing of every motel or hotel in a twelve-block area.”

  She mentally recoiled at the size of that area to cover. “How are we
going to keep an eye on that from one OP?”

  “One team at the OP,” Art said. “We’ve got plenty others to use as rovers.”

  “Yeah, but with that much presence the suspects are sure to know we’re out there?”

  Art smiled. “Exactly. I want them seen. I want our shooters to know we’re out there. I want them scared.”

  “But if they know there’s a net out there for them, they’ll stay put,” Frankie observed, not seeing the fullness of her partner’s plan.

  “That’s what I want.”

  “What?”

  Art had learned not only the limits of prudence in his line of work, but also the value of it. “We’re taking these guys on our terms, when we want them, and how we want them. They have to be in that area, probably in one of those motels.”

  “But we have to find them, and I thought the operative word was ‘fast’.”

  “We will,” Art assured her, his surety motivated by determination. “We just have to do it right.”

  “How?”

  Art turned and headed back to the car, accepting the fact that cautious behavior didn’t always lend itself to easy answers. “I’m working on it.” No screw-ups this time.

  And that meant for his partner either. “I’ll get it set up while you go catch some sleep.”

  What? “But...”

  “No buts,” Art said sternly. “If you want in on this, then you need sleep. It’s been a rough past few days, and I know what can happen to someone when they push it too far. Remember me—super Art? You’re not going to end up like me, so consider yourself off duty until seven A.M. Go home, get a few hours shuteye, and kiss Cassie. Once for me, too. Tell your mom I said hi.”

  There was no arguing with her partner. He was right, and she hated it. She had a little girl who needed to see her once in a while, something she had worked her life around. Until the past couple of days. And she still hadn’t told her that Uncle Thom was...was... “Drop me back at the garage?”

  “Sure will. Then you go get some sleep.”

  That she could do with little problem. It was what came after that that scared her.