I glanced covertly at Markham, who shook his head and lifted his eyes, elaborately exhaling.
“—I figured there wasn’t any point in not doing what I was going to do, which was drive home and call you fellows. But then, when I saw them bloodstains, I was already in the car, and driving. And, naturally, I didn’t touch nothing, or nothing like that. And—” Again he paused, breathing deeply.
“Listen, Mr. Bellini,” Markham interrupted, “we’re pretty tight on time, so—”
“Will they take my car down to the lab, did you say? The crime lab? Downtown?”
“Well I don’t—”
“If they do, can I come?”
“No, Mr. Bellini,” I said, “you can’t come. We’ll give you a receipt for your car, and you can bill the city for car rental while we’ve got it, which’ll probably be a day or two. But, right now, I want you to tell me exactly what happened—how you discovered it was missing, and how you recovered it.”
“Sure. I been leaving it out on the street, since I got that boat, which was a couple of weeks ago. I mean, it’s pretty silly, I guess, leaving a car outside to make room for a boat. But it’s sillier yet to leave a boat out in the street. So—”
“Listen, Mr. Bellini. Get to the point, will you? We appreciate your co-operation. But we’re in a hurry. Was the car open? Unlocked?”
“Well, yes. I’d been down to the corner earlier in the morning, see, and I was going out again. So—”
“The keys were in it, too?”
He looked at me shamefaced, then nodded.
“What time was it that you first noticed the car missing?”
“Well—” He thought about it. “Probably about ah—” he frowned. “Probably about three-thirty, I’d say. Yesterday. In the afternoon.”
“And when was the last time you saw it?”
“About noon. The missus and I, we went over to the neighbours.”
“After you reported the car stolen, Mr. Bellini, did you ask around the neighbourhood, to see whether anyone might’ve seen who took it?”
“Well, sure I did. I spent the whole day, yesterday, going up one side of the block and down the other. Which was more, I don’t mind saying, than the police did.”
“Did you get any idea when the car might actually have been stolen, Mr. Bellini? What time, I mean?”
“About one-thirty, I figure,” he answered promptly.
“You’re sure?”
“Well, I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not positive, or anything. But Clarence Rafferty, he saw it there about one, or a little after. He’s a bartender, and he was just getting up. And Mrs. Flowers, across the street, she swore it wasn’t there at about quarter to two, when she left for her dentist, or someplace. So—” He shrugged. “So I figure it was stolen about one-thirty.”
“All right. Now, did any of your neighbours see anyone suspicious in the neighbourhood?”
“Well, Clarence Rafferty, he saw some kid riding up and down the street on a motorcycle a couple of times. And, since we don’t get many of those around here, I guess you might say that—”
“Did Mr. Rafferty describe this motorcycle rider?”
Mr. Bellini shrugged. “He was just one of those hippies, that you see riding those motorcycles all over. You know, with the long hair.”
“Where’d you recover your car, Mr. Bellini?” Markham asked.
“A friend of mine saw it, just a couple of blocks away. His wife called me up about eleven, after she heard that it’d got stolen.”
“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Bellini,” I said, edging towards the door. “And thanks a lot. I think you might’ve really helped us.”
He followed me closely, still talking: “That’s one thing I don’t understand, you know. Why would someone steal a car, and then park it just a couple of blocks away? I mean, if they used it for some kind of a job, or something—a holdup, like—then it seems to me they’d be taking a chance, just dropping it off a couple of blocks away. Don’t it?”
Now I had the door open. “Thanks again, Mr. Bellini. Which house is Mr. Rafferty’s?”
He pointed directly across the street.
We checked briefly with the crew going over the car, then walked to the Rafferty house. A tall, sad-looking man with a long, narrow face and sparse brown hair opened the door.
“Are you Mr. Rafferty?”
“Yes. I saw you coming across the street, so I thought—”
“We understand, Mr. Rafferty, that you saw Mr. Bellini’s car parked across the street at about one P.M. yesterday. Is that right?”
He nodded decisively. “Right.”
“Did you see any strangers in the neighbourhood at that time, Mr. Rafferty?” I asked. “Anyone at all, that didn’t seem to belong here?”
“Well, no one except that blond kid on a motorcycle, that I told Bellini about. I was out watering the flowers, and I saw him riding up and down the block a couple of times, acting kind of strange.”
“How do you mean, strange?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugged, irritably.
“Was he riding the motorcycle fast, or slow?”
“Well, that’s the point: he was riding slow, and kind of looking around. Usually, you know, they go like a bat out of hell. So when Bellini said his car was stolen, I thought of this kid. I mean, he was all dressed up in a leather jacket, and all. And besides, those hippies and those Hell’s Angels, you can’t tell them apart, anymore.”
“Do you think you could recognise this man, if you saw him again?”
He thought about it, sucking his teeth. Finally: “Sure, I think so. Why not?”
I gave him my card. “When do you go to work, Mr. Rafferty?”
“Tonight, I don’t. It’s my day off.”
“All right, then. I’m going to see if we can’t arrange for a lineup, so you can identify this man. If we pick him up, that is. We’ll probably be calling you in an hour or two. So please don’t leave without notifying us.”
He blinked. “You mean you know who he is?”
I smiled turning away. “I hope so, Mr. Rafferty. Thanks very much.”
FOURTEEN
“ARE WE GOING TO BE relieved?” Markham asked, glancing at his watch.
“No.”
“Well, it’s five minutes to five. I’m supposed to go off at five-thirty. And I’ve got a date tonight.”
“All right; let’s give it twenty minutes more, then I’ll call in.”
We sat in silence for several minutes. Finally he said: “If he’s going to work on a boat, he won’t be doing it this time of day. Not with this fog coming in.”
“His uncle said he was coming down here. They’re going to take the boat out tomorrow, and the carburettor isn’t working right.”
“He could’ve come and gone, though, before we got here.”
“I don’t think so. I checked with the watchman.”
“Did you check the carburettor, too?”
I didn’t answer him, content to sit slumped down in the seat, staring at the hundred-odd small boats bobbing at anchor in the grey, calm water. If it hadn’t been for Markham’s complaints I would actually have enjoyed the last few hours. We were parked in an observation area some four hundred yards from the spot where we expected Harper eventually to show. Until the last half hour, we’d had a spectacular view across the bay, towards Sausalito. Now the fog was coming through the Golden Gate, like some enormous blob of white protoplasm, slowly creeping to smother everything it touched. Within an hour’s time, I knew, the bay and its inlets, all but the tops of the surrounding hills, would be completely covered.
Overhead, the K.T.G. helicopter thummered not more than three hundred feet above us.
Markham craned his neck out the window. “Boy, how’d you like to have a job like that? Do you ever hear that guy?”
“What guy?”
“Shelly Wendell. The guy who does the traffic broadcasts from the helicopter. He used to be a disc jockey, you know. He’s been around for a l
ong time. I can remember listening to him when I was a kid. And a couple of years ago I remember once his motor quit on him, over the Bayshore Freeway. It was just about this time of day. You could hear the whole thing, right on the radio. He talks back and forth to the station announcer, you know, while he gives the traffic report. So this time I’m telling you about, when the motor quit, Shelly said to the station announcer that—”
“Wait a minute.” I pointed to a blond-haired man’s figure mounted on a motorcycle. He was approaching the marina from the opposite side. “That’s him. That’s Harper.”
He’d already reached the boat’s berth, and was dismounting from the motorcycle.
A blond-haired figure—
Put Tomlinson and Harper in a line-up, and the resemblance would be remarkable.
Even Donny Robertson, with blond hair, would have been—
“You know,” Markham was saying, “he’s going to see us long before we get to him. The dock’s deserted.”
“He can’t go anywhere, though. Not unless he wants to swim.” I pointed. “I’ll walk from this side of the jetty; you come from the other side.”
“How about the boat? With this fog, we’d never find him if he takes off in the boat.”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere,” I replied, still inside the car. “You go ahead. I’ll let you get to the other side before I get out. He knows me.”
“Right.”
He began walking with his long, light stride.
I reached for the radio and, using the pre-arranged code we’d assigned to the Robertson case, advised Communications that we’d made contact with the suspect. I was told that the other two units staked out at Harper’s apartment and along Haight Street would be called in.
“Do you need assistance, Inspectors Sixteen?” Cunningham asked.
“Negative.”
“Roger. Lieutenant Friedman is standing by.”
“Roger. Out.” I hung up the mike.
Markham was turning into the opposite jetty. I got out of the car, closed the door, and slowly began walking with my hands casually in my pockets, looking at the moored boats as I ambled along. Ahead, I saw him drop down into the boat’s cockpit. I was about three hundred yards from the suspect; Markham was somewhat closer. The three of us were alone on the long, narrow dock. The wind was cold and raw.
I felt very conspicuous, as I always did—taller than my six foot one, twice as wide and beefy as my two hundred ten pounds.
Harper seemed to be fiddling with the cockpit controls. Was he starting the engine? I’d seen him take a fair-sized carton from his motorcycle’s luggage rack. It was probably the new carburettor.
Two hundred yards. Glancing ahead, I saw that Markham’s steps seemed to be quickening. He was—
A motor coughed, faltered, and caught. Harper suddenly stood up in the cockpit, flung off a rope, and dropped back into the seat. The motor’s note rose to a loud, powerful roar; the stern dug into the water.
We were running down the dock, drawing our guns. Already the boat had cleared the anchorage, gathering speed. Markham fired, high. Harper was bending low over the wheel, looking over his shoulder. His pale face was distorted by a wild, wolfish grin. He guided the boat with his left hand, expertly. His right hand dropped to the seat at his side.
I stopped running, panting heavily. The boat was seventy-five yards out, churning up a wide, frothing white wake. Harper was raising his arm; in his hand glittered a gun.
“Duck,” Markham shouted.
I dropped behind a piling. I heard the two shots.
Markham raised to his knees, holding his gun in both hands, carefully sighting.
“Don’t hit him,” I shouted. “Aim for the boat. The boat.”
It was impossible. The range now was more than a hundred yards, widening fast.
“Come on.” I holstered the gun, rose to my feet, and began sprinting for the car. I dug in, lowering my head. We’d covered almost a hundred yards. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the boat clear the backwater, heading towards Marin County.
The boat was already greyed and indistinct in the thickening fog; in two more minutes it would be invisible.
What the hell could we do?
A hundred yards to the car. Behind me, Markham’s steps were coming closer. When I got to the car, I’d be too winded to say anything. I slowed. From Marina Boulevard, a traffic patrol car was driving toward the jetty. The gawkers were pulling to the kerb, illegally. The goddam gawkers.
Ahead was our car; Markham was even with me. The gawkers were getting out of their cars, pointing. Excited. Happy. The kids were hopping up and down.
I fell against the car, wrenching open the door. Markham was on the other side, just reaching the handle. I slumped down into the seat, grabbing the mike, flipping the switch.
“Code Twenty,” I gasped. “Acknowledge. Code Twenty. Inspectors Sixteen. Code Twenty.” I released the button.
“Code Twenty acknowledged, Inspectors Sixteen,” came a calm female voice “What is your position?”
“The Marina Green. But we don’t need assistance here. Repeat: we don’t need assistance here.”
“Roger.”
“Suspect in—” I paused, panting. “Suspect in file 1582—repeat, file 1582—is proceeding across the bay towards Marin County in a blue and white motorboat. Request immediate assistance from—” I gasped. “—from Highway Patrol, Marin County Sheriff’s Office, and Coast Guard. Suspect is John Harper, white American male, long blond hair, weight one sixty, height five foot ten, pale complexion. Wearing brown leather jacket, blue jeans, white sneakers. Limps in right leg. Suspect is armed. Repeat: armed. Acknowledge.”
The information was acknowledged and repeated.
“We’ll remain at this position,” I said. “Out.”
“Christ,” Markham was saying, “they’ll never get him. He can be across the bay in fifteen minutes, and he can dock a dozen places. Especially in this fog.”
I clicked the mike. “Inspectors Sixteen. Supplementing your A.P.B., request that Marin officers place all clocking facilities under immediate surveillance.”
The message was acknowledged. Then, after a standby pause, Friedman’s voice came on the air. “I’m asking for Army assistance, too, Frank. They’ve got a small airfield in the Presidio. Is it foggy on the bay?”
“Yessir. It’s—” At that moment I spotted a small shape hovering above the spires of the Golden Gate bridge, just visible over the thickening fog bank. It was the K.T.G. helicopter.
“Lieutenant,” I said, “we have the K.T.G. traffic spotter helicopter about a mile away, over the Golden Gate Bridge. They’re in constant communication with their radio station. Maybe they could give assistance.”
“Roger. What’s your position?”
“The Marina Green. They could land right here.”
“All right. Hang on. Out.”
“Hey,” Markham said. “Good thinking.”
“Thanks.” I pointed to a steady stream of pedestrians coming towards us across the broad, grassy ten acres of the Green. “We’re going to have to clear an area for the ’copter. You’d better take those two uniformed men and see about it.”
“Okay.”
I watched Markham trotting away, urgently beckoning to the traffic patrol car. As I watched, another patrol car and two motorcycle patrolmen were swinging off Marina Boulevard. I glanced at my watch, trying to calculate how long Harper had been under way. Not less than five minutes, I decided; not more than ten.
The helicopter was coming directly towards me, fast and low. Plainly I could see the two passengers, earphones clamped to their heads, looking down at us. The second patrol car had drawn up beside us. I pointed to the gawkers.
“Hold them up,” I shouted to the two patrolmen. “It’s going to land. That ’copter is going to land. Right here.” Then, outside the cruiser, I waved in a wide, long-armed arc to the helicopter. I saw an answering wave from the right-hand passenger in the round plexigl
ass bubble. I moved both arms down, pointing to the ground. He waved acknowledgment. The ’copter was descending. Three boys with a large brown dog were running towards a spot close beneath the ’copter. The noise of the motor and the thummering of the blades was suddenly intense; the ’copter was within fifteen feet of the ground. I was shouting at the boys, screaming. Then, suddenly, they laughed, turned and sprinted away toward the jetty. Pranksters. Swearing, I shouted for a patrolman to detain them—put them in the rear of a squad car, as a goddam lesson.
The ’copter was on the ground, lightly bouncing, once. The right-hand door was swinging open. I grabbed the riot gun, and together Markham and I were running for the ’copter.
“Keep low,” he shouted. “Watch the blades.”
The right-hand passenger was removing his headset, and unstrapping himself.
“What is it?” the passenger shouted, now standing crouched on the ground. “What’s up? I’m Shelly Wendell.”
“Detective Sergeant Hastings,” I shouted, pointing out across the bay. “We’ve got a fugitive out there. In a boat. A murder suspect. Can I commandeer this?”
“Sure. Be my guest. Besides, the boss says to let you have it.”
“Thanks.” I turned to Markham. “Stay here, Jerry. Keep the two patrol cars here, in case. Okay?” I was already stepping up into the ’copter. The pilot was reaching across my lap, latching the seat belt, then testing it. Wendell was fumbling with the headset, clamping the phones over my ears, adjusting the microphone in front of my mouth. Then, lifting one earphone away and pointing to the dash he shouted, “Here’s the switch. This orange one. When it’s down, you’re on the air. If you don’t want to broadcast, flip it up.”
“Right.” I settled the shotgun between my legs.
“Listen, Sergeant, make it as exciting as you can, will you? The station called me to come down, to help you guys. It was on the air; it’s the only way they could get to me. Like, a half million people heard it. So we do you a favour, you do one for us. Like, this is Dragnet, only for real. Okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Now close the door, will you?”
“Right. Wilco.” Wendell’s long, basset-creased face broke into a jowly grin. “Good hunting.” He flipped down the orange switch, winked broadly, and slammed the door. Quickly the pilot reached across to secure the catch. Then, gunning the motor, he moved the controls. Suddenly we were above the crowd.
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 14
