by Bob McElwain
“No.”
“The name comes up throughout the diaries. It’s the only name repeated over the years.”
Brad was silent, watching the breeze ripple the surface of the pool, reflecting unseen lights.
“She refers to shooting at Tuckman, much as he described it to you. Of course, she has more to say. She seemed to regret not having shot him. Luie was mentioned as if she thought he might help in some way, but it wasn’t clear how.”
After a time, she continued, “Almost every idea, action or fantasy she describes has a sexual connotation, even if it’s not a specific sexual experience. But there is another theme, I think. It would take a psychologist to say for certain. She seemed preoccupied with killing. It may well be that even beyond participating in Gerald’s murder, she had actually killed. If not, she’d have gotten around to it. Soon, I think.” Again she paused, breathing slowly. “I feel I’m in the presence of evil.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Brad said, suddenly standing.
Josie followed him to the rear of the house. He stopped, once outside, breathing deeply. Even the smog tasted good. The door closed and latched behind him. He tossed the key into the rosemary bush beside the house and turned to look at her. She held his glance, then nodded. Their pace was less hurried outside in the dusky night. As they stepped past the front of the house into the open carport, he saw movement in the shadows near the street and knew he’d made a mistake, the kind that kills. He’d forgotten the gray Buick.
“Get back!” he cried, diving to the walk behind the heavy junipers beside him, desperately hoping to draw fire away from her. As he dove, he saw her move, not back, but down as she pawed for the .357 in her purse. Shot rattled the branches above him, grim accompaniment to the slamming echoes of the shotgun blast. Flat on his stomach, he used his hands and arms on the bushes before him to pull himself forward as fading echoes of the explosion were overlaid by the slide of the shotgun driving another round home. His head and his shoulders were beyond the junipers as the second blast slammed echoes into the carport and heavy shot into the junipers just over his back. A few pellets glanced off branches hitting the backs of his legs.
It hadn’t been a plan, really. He’d only hoped to give Josie a chance to escape to the rear of the house. But she had stayed; he couldn’t run now. He rolled free of the junipers onto grass and scrambled on elbows and knees toward the street. A slight mound of earth, part of the landscaping, partially protected him from the shotgun, but not the sound of another round going home.
Josie fired twice; he heard the shotgun clatter to the concrete walk. He clawed at his pant leg with his left hand and pulled the knife free with his right. Another pistol fired. It wasn’t Josie. He heard her cry out. It was futile, but he lunged up, the knife behind his ear. He began his throw as his head cleared the junipers. The tall figure before him still had his gun on Josie as he turned toward Brad. The man who’d used the shotgun lay still, midway between Brad and his target.
It was too much to ask. It was a long throw without time to properly judge the rotation of the knife. Hoping only for distraction, he drove his arm forward and let the knife tumble slowly in the twilight. He dove over the tops of the junipers, landed heavily on his shoulders, then rolled. He grabbed the shotgun and rolled once again toward the street, bringing the weapon up.
It was wasted effort. Georgio Lampino had dropped his pistol and was pulling gently on the knife buried to the hilt below his breastbone. He finally managed to free it; he let it clatter to the sidewalk. He hugged both hands to his chest for a moment, then held them out in front of him. Blood coursed down the vest of his three-piece suit and dripped off both hands. There was no pain in his face, only a puzzled, quizzical expression as he examined his hands. Suddenly his knees buckled; he fell face first to the concrete.
Not knowing how many had been waiting for them, Brad held his position listening intently to the quiet night. He could hear only Josie’s ragged breathing. In a low crouch, he moved to the man who’d had the shotgun. He was dead. One round had hit him in the chest and his left eye was gone, fluids and blood had mixed on the cold pavement under his cheek.
Concentrating on the night sounds, he moved quickly to Josie. She was unconscious. There was too much blood. The round had caught her in the shoulder as she lay nearly flat upon the drive. Gently he explored for an exit wound. There was none. The bullet had tumbled downward inside her body.
Shotgun ready, he ran for his knife, wiped it hastily clean on Georgio’s tailored coat, then ran back to Josie. He laid the shotgun down and gently cut away the part of her dress he could get at without moving her. The knife flashed in the light as if a living thing. He cut strips of cloth, then made a small pillow of the rest of the dress he’d cut and used it as a compress on the top of her shoulder. Gently, moving only her arm, he wrapped it tightly in place with the strips of cloth he’d cut.
It wasn’t much of a sound, but he heard it, a shoe sole brushing the concrete sidewalk to the right of the junipers near the street. Silently he picked up the shotgun and moved toward the street, cuddling against the prickly branches. Four feet from the sidewalk, he waited. If it was one of Rinolli’s soldiers, he wasn’t much good; there was too much quiet sound. When the head peered cautiously around the bush, he moved the shotgun forward slightly. The eyes grew impossibly large.
“Show yourself now,” Brad snapped. With only a slight hesitation, the man moved into view, a pistol held loosely in his right hand, his left dangling aimlessly. He was a tall, gangly man with a balding head and a thin, scraggly beard. Perhaps he’d been up to such games once, but now he only stood quietly shaking, the essence of fear.
“Neighbor?” Brad asked.
His mouth moved to reply, but no sound came. He tried to swallow and settled for a slight nod. His glance jumped back and forth between the two bodies and the pooling blood under each.
“You call the police?”
He nodded again, still looking beyond Brad.
“An ambulance?”
He shook his head, his eyes now on Brad.
“Do it. And get some blankets for the lady back there.” He nodded behind him. The man had not looked in that direction. Again he tried to swallow. “Now,” Brad snapped, shoving the shotgun closer.
The man fled in a gangly skittish gait, the pistol in his hand forgotten. Brad turned quickly back to Josie. He heard the door slam next door as he bent to examine the bandage on her shoulder. Gently he felt beneath her. There was no fresh blood, but that was the only good news. Her ragged breathing had slowed and softened and his hand on her neck felt little pulse.
At the sound of distant sirens, he scooped up her .357. He heard the door open next door, as he tucked the pistol inside his waistband. Maybe he’d do after all, he thought. Certainly it took courage to come back outside the safety of his house, to come near known death again. He heard him speak for the first time from the other side of the junipers. “It’s me. I got blankets.”
“Toss ’em over,” Brad replied. He caught them in the air and turned back to Josie as the man scurried back inside. The sirens were closer. He gently tucked both blankets around her. He took his coat off and lifted her head slightly to slip a few layers of cloth between her pale cheek and the cold concrete. He sat back on his heels and studied her face. The sirens were near now. “Gotta go,” he said to her softly. He leaned down and gently kissed her cheek.
He grabbed the diaries and ran toward her car. The engine roared to life as two squad cars turned onto the street behind him. He pulled away slowly hoping not to draw attention, but only one car stopped. The other, lights flashing, gained quickly on the Trans Am. At the corner, he turned left and slammed the accelerator to the floor. He ran the red light at Balboa, leaving behind a host of angry frustrated drivers sliding in disarray into the intersection and each other.
It slowed the squad car, but only for a moment. The speedometer needle bounced off redline as he eased his way through the scattered traff
ic. Now and then he drifted to the left of the double line in order to hold speed. The squad car did the same. This was his country. There was only one light between him and Foothill Boulevard. If he couldn’t outrun them, he’d outdrive them on the turns. At least that was his plan. If he wasn’t pulling ahead, they weren’t gaining. He knew the real danger was in the power of their radio. All he needed was five or six minutes. Could other cars join in so quickly? Was there a police chopper nearby? He couldn’t know.
The light was red, half a mile ahead. Only one car waited at the intersection. He saw a car turning left toward him from the side street and tried to decide when or if to brake. His luck held; the light turned green while he was still a hundred yards from it. As he flashed through the intersection, he could see the cruiser was gaining on him. At the crest of the hill, he eased off the gas a bit. He knew the cruiser must do the same or lose control. It was downhill here, through an S-curve that tightened at the bottom of the grade. He felt the car drift out of its track, coming out of the last curve. He slammed the pedal to the floor, felt the car straighten, then steadily accelerate.
At the crest of the next hill, he could see the bridge across the Golden State Freeway. Balboa ended at the far side of the bridge at Foothill Boulevard. It was this hard right turn he had to make. He tested the brakes, gently slowing the car as it rushed onto the bridge. He locked the wheels and the back end began drifting to the left. Fifty feet short of the turn, he slammed the pedal to the floor. For an instant, he thought he’d lost it, but there was just enough left in the heavy-duty shocks. His left rear tire drifted briefly onto the shoulder before the powerful car straightened out and charged down the highway.
In his rearview mirror, he watched the squad car on the bridge, slowing. He held his breath, watching the road ahead and the mirror. He saw them drift into a racing turn as he had done, but the back of the squad car didn’t come far enough around. They slammed at an angle into the wooden barrier on the other side of the highway. He saw tires smoking, as the driver tried to back the car. His view was cut off when his car drifted through the curve under the Foothill Freeway.
With a long mile lead, he was clear unless blocked ahead. But he only needed a few moments more. There were side streets intersecting now. Even if the squad car was coming on, they’d never see his turn. He rolled down the window, hoping not to hear the sound of a police chopper. The roaring wind was all he heard as he angled slightly right off Foothill onto Glenoaks. Only then did he begin slowing. At Roxford, he made a respectable turn back south toward the valley, holding his speed to forty-five, ten miles an hour above the stated speed limit, an offense that would go unnoticed in southern California. Three minutes later, he was on the Golden State Freeway in heavy traffic, headed south. Ten minutes later, he was off the freeway in a phone booth. He tried Hank without luck. Amanda answered on the first ring. “Amanda Pothmore.”
“Remember where Lydia’s place is?”
“I do.”
“Josie was shot there. I don’t know where she might have been taken. Can you find out and get over there?”
“Is she badly hurt?”
“Yes.” There was a long silence; he could hear her deep even breathing. “Can you hunt up a good surgeon?”
“I’ll take care of it.” Her voice was low; it sounded far away.
“And stay in touch with Walters. Okay?”
“I will. You take care, do you hear?”
“I’ll try.”
Gently he replaced the receiver to its cradle and ran for the car. Five minutes later he was at Hank Walters’ apartment. It took him another ten minutes to be certain no one was watching for him.
Inside he went quickly to the bathroom, snapped on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. It was really not as bad as it looked. Cuts and scratches mostly, with a good deal of missing hide on his right elbow. He quickly showered, shaved, touched up the major visible marks and put on clean clothes. He borrowed Hank’s shaggy brown corduroy jacket.
He found the cartridges where Hank said they’d be. He took all six-speed loaders, dumped Josie’s .357 and reloaded with Hank’s ammo. He stuffed the pistol and ammunition, along with an extra box of cartridges, into his coat pocket. He laid Lydia’s diaries on the kitchen counter next to Hank’s liquor supply. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.
The stores would be open in Van Nuys. He could buy what he needed. He knew he had to get to The Pink Lady as soon as possible; it was the best place to look for Mike Rinolli. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
* * *
Clothes don’t make the man, but Brad’s new suit and a fifty-dollar bill got him the seat he wanted inside The Pink Lady, a small table near the entry that led to Mike Rinolli’s office. The .357 magnum was uncomfortable, tucked in his waistband, but it was reassuring to have it near. When the waiter brought his drink, he laid the menu aside and ordered another. He studied the diners around him. The restaurant was nearly full. No one seemed to notice him; at the prices they were paying, the guests were working very hard to have a good time. Hovering waiters made it easy to order the unneeded drink or elaborate dessert.
He shifted his chair a bit to the left for a better view of those coming and going through the lobby. He desperately needed a better plan than wandering back and knocking on Rinolli’s door. But he was no nearer a decent idea now than his racing thoughts had provided while getting here. When the waiter deposited his second drink, he waved him away; what he wanted to order wasn’t on the menu. As casually as possible, he watched the lobby; he saw guests enter and leave, Hollywood playtime smiles firmly in place.
Without warning, he felt a sudden tightening in his chest; it was difficult to breathe. All thought vanished, wiped aside by a clear picture of the way she’d looked, the blood oozing from her shoulder and the paleness of her cheek. He remembered the coldness of her when he’d kissed her.
Slowly he forced it aside. He wiped dampness from his eyes; there was no time for Josie now. As he rubbed his face in his hands, he remembered the hard wooden chair in which he’d waited for Georgio the last time he’d been here. He tried once again to remember everything Georgio had done as he was taken to Rinolli. He looked up suddenly. He waved off the waiter who started in his direction. What was it? It was almost there, tugging at the edge of memory.
Rinolli was into electronic gadgets. He remembered the metal detector and the electronic bolt on his door. But he’d seen no indication Rinolli had a view of the hall beyond the closed door.
How had he known it was Georgio who had knocked? Was there something special about the knock? A code maybe? Or was it only that Georgio was expected? He tried to remember the knock. Ta-dah, ta-dah-dah, almost like Morse code. Could it be that simple? Impatience goaded him. Even if Rinolli was here, it was doubtful he’d catch even a glimpse of him from this chair.
He waited until several groups entered almost on each other’s heels. He waved to the hovering waiter and asked where the restrooms were. With a nod of thanks, he strode purposely out of the room, holding his shoulders forward so the drape of his coat would hide the pistol. There was no one in the lobby; the staff was busy escorting new guests. He strode boldly to the door to the offices, opened it and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He moved to the wall, drew the short-barreled magnum and waited, the pistol tucked under his left armpit.
He was completely exposed; anyone moving into the hallway would see him. He’d be as safe knocking on Rinolli’s door as anywhere else. He tucked the pistol behind his belt, kept his hand on the butt and walked quickly down the hall and up the steps. Ta-dah, ta-dah-dah.
The bolt opened and the door began to swing open. His mouth went suddenly dry. He wiped his palms on his pants, pulled the pistol with his right hand and stepped through the door.
“You better have a good . . .” Mike Rinolli, standing behind his desk, stopped abruptly at the sight of Brad, his eyes locking with his, disdaining to glance at the weapon. If he h
eard the hammer cocked, he gave no indication. Brad closed the door behind him. “Lock it.”
With casual indifference, Rinolli touched the bottom of the desktop and the bolt slammed home. “You surprise me, Mr. Ashton. Really you do.”
“You thought I was dead?”
“You are, actually. But no, what surprises me is that you came here.”
“The girl. She’s dead.” He hoped it was a lie, but he knew full well it could be true.
“Ah. I see. Revenge is sweeter than the grape. Something like that?”
“Yeah.” He was puzzled, but tried to keep it from his eyes. If he was dead, so was Rinolli. Why wasn’t the man worried?
Either Rinolli read minds or Brad’s poker face had slipped, for Rinolli asked, “And you wonder how I can be so calm about all this?”
Brad nodded, without much enthusiasm. He felt rather like a lion hunter facing a much larger lion than expected, a hunter who’d forgotten his gun.
“Let me explain. When one chooses my line of work, death is not an unexpected outcome. One lives with the presence of it. But believe me, you won’t kill me.”
“Got a reason?”
“By now, your mind is working. You’re trying to find a safe way out of this predicament. I suspect you’ll try to make me hostage to your effort. A gun barrel in the ear. That sort of thing.”
“And that won’t work?”
“Absolutely not. I have my orders; my people have theirs. We’re all part of a team. They’ll try to take you and save me. But if all else fails, we’ll both die.” His shrug was elegant. If he was bluffing, it was the best Brad had seen. “They never fail,” he added.
“And I’ve no options?”
“One, perhaps.”
“And that is?”