Nothing stirred. Then another spasm of coughing erupted. The edges of my faceplate were fogging. Holding the shotgun with my right hand, I used my left hand to lift the bottom of my gas mask. The acrid smell of gas stung my nostrils. I replaced the mask, settling it in place. I’d have to …
The muzzle of a rifle was sliding into view, moving slowly through the open door.
Crouching lower, I trained my shotgun waist high. Now the rifle’s handstock was visible, and a white-knuckled brown hand. Next came the dirty blue gabardine sleeve of a raincoat. I was holding my breath, blinking my eyes against the sudden sting of sweat. A foot slowly appeared—a leg. My finger was taking up the trigger-slack. Another foot followed the first, then the suspect’s full figure, topcoat-clad, just as he’d been described. Ramirez’ swarthy face was tear-streaked. His eyes were tightly closed. He held the rifle parallel to the floor, probing before him as he moved slowly forward. He was coughing now, choking. But still he moved inexorably ahead, blindly making for the door of the front apartment.
If I called on him to surrender, would he whirl toward the sound of my voice, firing his semiautomatic rifle as he turned?
At the spoke-splintered gap in the banister he hesitated. The gas still choked him; he was still blinded by his tears. Again he moved forward, sliding his feet clumsily across the tattered hallway carpet. What would he do when the muzzle of the rifle touched something?
The question, unanswered, decided me. I took the last two steps quickly. I was behind the suspect, pacing with him. The muzzle of my gun pointed directly at the small of his back. At that range, the buckshot blast would cut him in two. Tiptoeing, I closed the distance between us. Now his gun was within three feet of the opposite door. Two feet. I stepped quickly forward, swinging the shotgun in a short, vicious arc. The wooden stock crashed into Ramirez’ head. I heard the sodden, melon-thumped sound of the wood striking flesh, felt the shock in my arms and shoulders. His legs slowly buckled; the big military rifle fell heavily to the floor. With a long, soft sigh, Ramirez sunk slowly to his knees, swayed for a moment, then suddenly toppled forward.
Five
I SLUMPED INTO THE passenger’s seat of the cruiser, and reached for the mike. The effort seemed enormous.
“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. As I spoke, Canelli got behind the wheel, grunting heavily.
“You got him, eh?” Friedman said. “Nice going. The governor, by the way, is expected to live. In fact, all of the victims—all four of them—are expected to live. How about the hostage?”
“He’ll live, too. He’s just shot in the leg.”
“How about Ramirez?”
“He’s still unconscious. He might have a concussion, but I don’t think his skull is fractured.”
“You sound tired,” Friedman said.
“I am tired.”
“Are you going to check out that Hoffman Street thing, or shall I tell Culligan to handle it?”
“Is he still waiting for me?”
“Sure. It’s only been forty-five minutes, you know, since I first called you. Time passes fast when you’re busy.”
I snorted, then shrugged. “I may as well check it out. It’s less than a mile from here. I’ll send Canelli downtown, to keep the chain of evidence.”
“Roger. Anything else?”
“No.”
“You done good, Lieutenant. Oh, by the way, your friend Ann Haywood called—my favorite schoolmarm. She phoned you, and Communications put her through because they know her. Anyhow, she somehow got plugged into Tach Seven, for God’s sake, and found out that you were busy shooting it out with a bad guy. So do you want me to tell her you’re okay?”
“She was in the net?” It was an outrageous possibility.
“Don’t try to cope with it, Lieutenant. These things happen. Shall I call her, or not?”
Ann …
“All right, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you in a couple of hours, eh?”
“Roger.”
I sank back in the seat, watching the tangle of official cars begin to clear the area. The ambulances were just pulling away.
Forty-five minutes …
Momentarily I closed my eyes, drawing a long, deep breath. “Did you order a squad car to stand by here?” I asked Canelli.
“Yessir.”
“You’ll have to get a ride down to the Hall. Report to Lieutenant Friedman.”
“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “Jeeze, it hasn’t even been an hour since we left the Hall. I can’t believe it. Man, I feel like I been through a war, or something. Is that the way you feel, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right, Canelli. That’s the way I feel.” I still lay back against the seat, again allowing my eyes to close.
“You know,” Canelli said softly, “when I was crouched down there in that stairway, waiting for Ramirez to come out, I started wondering how the hell I got there—what I was doing there. I mean—” He paused. “I mean, it just didn’t seem possible that it was me, waiting there to maybe kill somebody. Know what I mean, Lieutenant?”
I opened my eyes. “This is a tough business, Canelli. Didn’t they tell you that at the academy?”
“Yeah. But hearing it’s one thing. Doing it’s something else.”
“You’ll be all right, Canelli. You aren’t the best driver in the world. But I feel safe with you backing me up. And that’s what it’s all about—the crunch.”
“Well, thanks, Lieutenant. Thanks a lot.” His voice revealed both surprise and pleasure.
For a long, tired moment we sat in silence. Finally Canelli asked, “How’d you get to be a cop, Lieutenant? I mean, you been to college, and everything. And you even played pro football, I know. So …” He lapsed into a tentative, hopeful silence.
To myself, I smiled. “I got in through pull, Canelli. Captain Kreiger and I played football together at Stanford. But he was smarter than I was. He majored in police science, and then got into police work after college. I majored in football, although they called it business administration. So when my so-called football career ran out and my marriage went sour, I came back to San Francisco. And”—I shrugged—“and when Kreiger said that he could help me get into the academy, I went for it. I was the oldest rookie in my class. Luckily, though, I was in good shape. Physically, at least.” I sat straighter, glancing up and down the block. Only three cars remained, waiting for dispatch.
I said again, “You’d better catch yourself a ride to the Hall, Canelli. You and I are the chain of evidence. And I won’t be downtown for an hour or so.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He hastily got out of the car, then turned back, as if he were about to say something. Finally he half saluted, smiled uncertainly, and called to a black-and-white car.
I glanced at my watch. If Culligan had waited this long, I decided, he could wait a few minutes more. Again I settled back in the seat, allowing my eyes to close. At forty-three years of age, I’d finally learned the value of catnaps.
The oldest rookie in my class …
I could talk about it now—smile about it.
But I still couldn’t talk about failure. That would take another ten years—another decade. Canelli had sensed something missing in my story—some secret, essential component that would make the sum total credible. He probably didn’t suspect, though, that the component’s label was failure.
The failure component …
I’d coined a half-catchy phrase: Dale Carnegie, turned mockingly around. How to succeed as a policeman without wanting to be a policeman—or anything else, really.
Yet I’d wanted to play football. I’d tried hard. For a few years, I probably had the potential.
But I’d married an heiress: a tawny, predatory blonde, with a balding, predatory father. Jason Carlson, Detroit industrialist. When the Lions finally cut me loose, Jason had found a P.R. spot for me in his “organization.” He never referred to his business as a foundry. It was “the organization.” The executives were “
team members.”
But the P.R. man, I soon discovered, was merely the team greeter, the golf partner, the drinking buddy, the chauffeur. Even the procurer, if the customers were horny enough—and important enough. Another “team member” took care of the publicity releases and the bad press notices. I took care of the customers’ libidos. The high-level pimping had been the final phase of my P.R. career, capping the grisly climax. By that time, in the line of duty, my cocktail hour began at noon and seemed to have no end. My wife, meanwhile, had found other drinking companions. My children had become …
“Lieutenant Hastings.” Startled, I straightened, opening my eyes, blinking. It was the walkie-talkie, lying on the seat beside me.
“What is it?” I looked toward the last remaining squad car, parked across the street, directly in front of the white frame house. This car would remain, securing the area.
A dark, dumpy girl stood beside the squad car. “I’ve got Angela Ortega here, Lieutenant. The occupant of the apartment. Do you want to talk with her?”
“All right. Send her over.” I got out of the car, moving heavily. The girl was crossing the street toward me. She walked with a slow, dragging reluctance. I opened my car’s rear door and motioned her into the back seat. She hesitated, searching my face with dark, darting eyes. Her arms were stiff at her sides, fists clenched.
“Get in,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
She edged past me, sliding into the car. She sat in the far corner of the seat, turned to face me. She’d been in a police car before.
“Do you know Carlos Ramirez?” I asked.
“Sí. Yo le conozco.”
“Talk English, Miss Ortega,” I said sharply. “If you cooperate, this won’t take long. If you don’t …” I let it go unfinished.
“Yeah,” she said heavily. “Yeah, I know him. Is he—” Her eyes widened. “Jesus. Is he the one who—who—”
“That’s right,” I said. “He’s the one. And his mother said that it’s your fault—that he did it because of you. You made him do it, she said.”
“Me?” She gaped. “Qué pasa—What’d you mean, me?” As she asked the question, her face registered first shock, then surprise, finally a kind of slack, speculative puzzlement. “What’d you mean?” she repeated, watching me avidly. “I’m not even here. All day long, man, I been downtown. I don’ come here all day. So you can’t say I—”
“What’s your connection with Carlos Ramirez, Miss Ortega?”
She frowned. “What’d you mean? What ‘connection’?”
“Were you lovers? Is that it?”
Her lip curled. “Carlos, he’s a—a nothing. Nobody. He never talks, never does nothing. He—he’s—” Her mouth worked as she struggled for the word. “He’s demente,” she said finally. She tapped at her forehead.
“Crazy, you mean?”
“Nada—no. Not crazy, so much. Just strange. He never does nothing, like I said. He just sits, man, and talks to himself sometimes. He’s twenty, but he’s a boy. Twelve. Thirteen.” She raised her palms, shrugging elaborately.
I looked her over, taking my time. Her face was round and lumpish, her eyes lusterless, her mouth slack. Her black hair fell in untidy tangles to her shoulders. She wore skintight jeans and a tight turtleneck sweater. Her figure, like her face, was thick and gross.
“What about the man in your apartment, Miss Ortega? The blond man. What’s his name?”
“Him?” I watched her expression change to one of dull-witted streetcorner guile. “You mean Frankie?”
I nodded. “The blond one. The one who’s living with you.”
“Yeah. Well, we’re just”—she shrugged—“you know, man, we’re just making it for a while. That’s all.”
“How old are you, Miss Ortega?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you work?”
“Sure, I work. Every day. Except today, I mean. Today’s my day off. Wednesdays. I’m a waitress, see?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Aw, man—” She sullenly lowered her eyes. Affirmative.
“How many times have you and Carlos made love?”
The transparently crafty expression returned. “Man, I don’ have to answer that. What’d you think, I’m estúpido?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Ortega. But Carlos Ramirez tried to kill the governor. And it’s my job to find out—”
“The governor?” Plainly, she couldn’t comprehend it. “El gobernador?”
I nodded, watching her. Then I glanced at my watch.
Suddenly she laughed. Soon she was laughing uncontrollably. I let her finish. At last, choking and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “Cristo, Carlos was a boy, you know. Not a man. You know what I mean? He—he couldn’t do it. Nothing. But now he shoots the governor.” She shook her head, still wiping at her mascara-smeared eyes. Then, blinking, she frowned, struck by a sudden thought.
“Hey,” she said slowly, “what you say a minute ago—that it’s my fault. You mean it’s my fault about the governor? You don’ mean Frankie? You mean the governor?”
“Maybe both, Miss Ortega. Maybe Carlos wanted to impress you—show you he was someone. So he tried to kill the governor.”
“Hey.” She was half-smiling, preening now. “Hey, you think so? You think that was it?” The slack, thick-lipped smile widened. “All I ever did with Carlos was—you know—tease him, because he couldn’t do it. We jus’—fool around, you know? I let him fool around, once in a while. But I was just having fun. That’s all I ever did—jus’ have fun with him. A little teasing, you know? And he never say nothing. Jus’ sorta smile when I tease him. Even last night. Jus’ last night, while Frankie was working. But Carlos jus’ smile, and don’ say nothing.”
I studied her for a last long moment, then deliberately reached across to open the door. “You can go upstairs now, Miss Ortega. But don’t go anywhere. We’ll want to talk to you again.”
I watched her swagger off across the street in her skintight, buttocks-bulging jeans. Then I turned the ignition key, starting the engine. Culligan would be waiting at the Hoffman Street address. On my way, I’d order Angela picked up as a material witness.
Six
I PARKED A HALF-BLOCK from 436 Hoffman, and as I walked to the scene I assessed the neighborhood. Most of the houses were solid and substantial, built before 1920 and carefully maintained. Hoffman Street was in San Francisco’s Noe Valley—traditionally a blue-collar district, more recently adopted by a scattering of longhaired young people and mod, with-it professional types, all of whom liked Noe Valley’s solid, post-Victorian architecture and its views from the lower slopes of Twin Peaks. Noe Valley was acquiring an ethnic, nostalgic aura. As a consequence, property values were beginning to climb.
The building at 436 Hoffman had originally been a small corner store. Now its two plate-glass show windows were three-quarter frosted. Bright, psychedelic fabric showed above the frosting. The building’s other windows, originally lighting upstairs living quarters, were curtained in a colorful hodgepodge of burlap, paisley prints and slatted bamboo. The building needed a coat of paint and numerous minor repairs. From outside appearances, the place could be a warren of hippie-style crash pads.
Recognizing me, the patrolman guarding the storefront apartment’s front door came to attention. As he opened the door for me, I glanced briefly at the small knot of onlookers, mostly neighborhood children. It was a classic childhood tableau: kids of assorted sizes and shapes, dogs and wagons, bats and balls.
Inside, Culligan and John Tharp, the medical examiner, were seated together on a low, lumpy mattress that had been covered with bright orange corduroy and placed directly on the floor, to serve as a couch. As Tharp rose to his feet, he pointedly glanced at his watch. He was a small, humorless man with a perpetual frown and a pursed, petulant mouth.
“We were about to give you up,” Tharp said acidly.
“I got delayed.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, they can move the body.” He picked up his satchel and hat, then stood squarely before me in a posture of brusque, peremptory expectation. He was required to wait until the officer in charge released him. His permission, plus mine, was necessary before the body could be moved.
Ignoring Tharp’s fidgeting, I turned to Culligan. “Are the lab boys through?”
“Yes. Everything’s dusted, everything’s photographed and everything’s outlined. So I let them all go. I mean—” As he hesitated, I nodded approval. There was no point in his detaining the technicians even though, by the book, I should have been the one to dismiss them.
“Where is it?” I asked.
Culligan pointed through a bead-bangled archway, leading into what had originally been a storeroom. Unconsciously holding my breath against the sickening, excremental stench of death, I parted the strings of beads and stepped through the archway.
It was a bedroom, wrecked. The body was tumbled into a two-foot space between the double bed and the wall. He lay on his right side, with his face jammed flat against the wall. His right arm was bent behind his back at an odd, shoulder-broken angle. His left arm lay along his side. His legs were extended full length, ankles peacefully crossed. A sizable smear of blood streaked the white-painted wall beside the bed. The front of his jacket was blood-caked, matching the smear on the wall. He’d probably struck the wall with his chest, then slid to the floor. Glancing around the room, I saw blood everywhere: puddled on the floor, spattered on the walls, smeared on the furniture. By the look of it, he’d been stabbed in the heart.
I stepped through the bead strings, reentering the living room. Tharp was impatiently snapping and unsnapping the lock on his gleaming black satchel.
“What about it?” I asked Tharp.
“Well, of course, there isn’t much I can say,” he began defensively. “I mean, about all I could do was check the limb flexion. But just eyeballing it, I’d say he was stabbed repeatedly with a reasonably thin-bladed knife. I’d also say that he’s been dead for twelve hours, at least. Beyond that, I can’t really tell you much.”
Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 4
