Free to Die

by Bob McElwain

  “Leave without me. Leave now. I’ll hold my people.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes, when you’ve thought it through. The Pink Lady is almost my home. Who wants blood in his living room? Or in his front yard? There would be far too many questions.”

  Brad was silent, studying the man’s face. Everything he’d said might be a lie, but there was no hint of it. Slowly he moved away from the door. He was cheered by the wariness that flowed into the eyes before him. He stopped only when blocked by the desk, the pistol steady, pointed three inches to the left of the second button of the tailored pale gray vest. “Why do you want me killed?” he asked.

  Rinolli scowled. Brad held his hard look, unmoving, unblinking. Rinolli broke it off, glanced down at his desk and back at Brad. The intensity of his inspection had been replaced with cold anger. Gently he rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Me! I’m supposed to be the smart one, the guy on the way up. That goddamned smart-ass lieutenant.” He pointed a fist gently against the desk.

  Brad’s pulse jumped and a new fine sweat erupted from every pore of his body. Luie in Lydia’s diary! “Stratford?” he asked softly.

  “How did you know?” His look was fierce, the polish of civilization wiped away. “Tell me,” he demanded.

  “Just a guess.”

  “A guess? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

  “Here’s another. He’s been supplying you with heroin, hasn’t he? With the help of my ex-wife and her airline. He told you something, didn’t he? Something that set you after me. What was it?”

  It was the quietest, most deadly rage Brad had ever seen. Mike Rinolli wanted to tear and rip the guts of another human being. Brad tightened his grip on the pistol, his thoughts racing. What card could he play? How could he turn this fine rage to advantage?

  “Try this, Mr. Man-On-The-Way-Up.” He paused; he could almost see steam rising off the man before him. “Stratford decided to close down for a reason I don’t know. Maybe he just figured he’d had enough. He killed Lydia and anybody else that could hurt him, then set you on me. It didn’t matter which of us went down, he’d have one less problem to handle. Nice, don’t you think?”

  “On the outside chance you get lucky and something happens to me,” he snarled, his face a mottled ugly red, “that fucker uses the name of William Mitchell on a safe box at the Wells Fargo Bank downtown.” He moved abruptly, sat down and almost died. It was so very close, Brad’s hand shook. Rinolli never noticed. “Now get your ass out of here. I got business.”

  “And the girl?” Brad asked softly.

  “If that fucker hadn’t told me you saw something you shouldn’t have seen, she’d be alive. Go lay it on his ass, not mine.”

  “Expect I’ll do that. First, I want out of this.”

  “So go.” He reached for the button on the desk that opened the door bolt. Brad shifted the gun slightly and fired. The bullet ripped a gash in Rinolli’s right cheek. With more self-control than Brad believed possible, Rinolli rose slowly, ignoring the blood dripping on his vest.

  “So that’s how it is.”

  “Yeah. We’ll go out together.”

  “I told you how that would end.”

  “We’ll give it a try.”

  Slowly Rinolli reached again for the button on his desk. The recocking of the pistol stopped him. Brad shook his head slowly. “Use the back exit.”

  Again the elegant shrug, as he reached to the other side of his desk and pushed a different button. Slowly, in ghostly silence, a full panel at the end of the wall behind the desk swung open. The hall beyond it was unlit.

  Rinolli dropped to the floor behind the desk as two men with Uzi submachine guns charged, firing. Brad fired once, as he dove for the floor. He was rewarded by a heavy grunt and a prolonged burst ending with a body crashing to the floor. He rolled, took aim and blew out the fluorescent light fixture. In total darkness, he felt better.

  These were city types, unused to moonless jungle where every sound was potentially fatal. He rolled without sound toward the front door, putting as much distance between himself and the desk as possible. He could hear Rinolli fumbling in a desk drawer, looking for a weapon. Although incredibly faint, he could hear the cautious steps of the other gunman, moving for an angle to the front of the desk.

  Again a machine gun roared. On the first round, Brad fired twice from the floor near the door, then watched rounds drift toward the ceiling as the gunman crumpled backward at an impossible angle. In the deafening silence that followed, he jettisoned the empty casings and slammed home a full load with a speed loader. He dropped the empty casings into his coat pocket. Was Rinolli waiting for him to try for the open doorway? Was he waiting for reinforcements? More importantly, where was he?

  As last he heard what he so desperately needed, the faintest sound of a body moving on carpet. Rinolli, full length on the floor, was moving slowly out from behind the desk to the left. Brad, lying facing the sound, estimated his head had cleared the desk by now. Then he heard what he didn’t need, the thundering pounding of heavy feet in the unlit hall beyond the open door.

  He fired six fast rounds nine inches apart, four inches off the carpet. Two missed, four chunked solidly into flesh; Rinolli gasped, then was silent. Brad jumped to his feet, ejected the empties, slipped them in his coat pocket and slammed home another load as he dove over the top of the desk. He found several buttons and pushed them all.

  The bolt opened in the front door. With the feet pounding closer, it was his best chance. He could only hope all of Rinolli’s soldiers had rushed to the back when the rear door had opened. He dashed through the front door, his new shoes slipping on the highly waxed floor. Then he was in the lobby, out the main entrance and into the open, leaving several guests in shock and one kindly looking gentleman on his rump.

  He paid particular heed to the parking lot attendants, but no one hindered his wild dash through the lot. He glanced over his shoulder. Three men were coming out of the entry, but he had fifty yards on them. He dove for the car; it started immediately. By the time his three pursuers reached the street, his taillights were two hundred yards away. The three men disappeared from his view when he took a skidding turn to the left.

  * * *

  It had been an unnecessary risk, one easily avoided. But Brad hadn’t felt like ducking anything. He’d driven thirty miles past an unknown number of police vehicles to sit on the sand near the remains of the storm-battered Santa Monica pier.

  The Pacific tide was incoming. The waves were breaking heavily, but farther out. Moderated by distance and broken pilings, they were much smaller on their final break, drifting up the beach, slowing as they approached where he sat before slipping back gently under the next invasion. Arms about his legs, chin between his knees, he hardly noticed. An uncommon dampness clouded his vision. All he could see was the pale cheek that had been laid down hard on the cold concrete walk.

  He had stopped twice to call Hank Walters, but hadn’t connected until he’d gotten to the beach, using the pay phone back by the car. As before, there had been no names. Three minutes later, Hank had called him back. “How is she?” Brad had asked, aware of the dryness in his throat, nose and mouth.

  “Amanda’s with her.”

  “So answer the damn question.”

  “She’s critical. That’s all I got.”

  “What the hell’s ‘critical’ mean? Does that hospital know what they’re doing? Are there any doctors there who know their ass from a hole?”

  “Amanda rounded up a doc she thinks is good. What can I tell you? They say she’s critical.”

  “What the shit does that mean?”

  Brad became more demanding, Hank more patient. Finally Hank said softly, “It means she may not make it, Brad. You know that as well as I do.”

  The tears coursing fiercely down his weathered cheeks were incompatible with the distant look in h
is eyes and the hard set of his chin. “Give me a minute,” he said hoarsely, laying the receiver down. He walked the few steps across the broad sidewalk, tucked his hands in his pockets and watched the pounding surf, letting the roar of it overpower him. It was later when he rubbed his eyes slowly and noticed the dampness on the front of his new suit. He turned determinedly back to the phone. “Still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t know how much of this you want officially, but here’s a rundown.” Bluntly, with a terse economy of words, he told Hank all that had happened.

  When Brad finished, Hank said simply, “So now you want Stratford?”

  “Bet your sweet ass. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  “What we’ll do?”

  “Yeah. You and me, buddy. Just you and me.” He continued talking earnestly for nearly five minutes, overpowering every objection raised with argument or outright demand.

  Finally, Hank said, “You sure about this?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Ok.” He sighed. “I’ll go along, but I’ll lay nine to one we come up empty.”

  “Be home later?”

  “With all the action you laid on me?”

  “Will you be home later?”

  “Yeah. Probably not before two or three, the way things are going. Before I hit the pad, I’ll check with Amanda at the hospital. Ok?”

  “Thanks,” Brad said. Then he hung up the phone, turned back toward the beach and walked slowly down the broad steps to the sand.

  When he sat down, the strongest waves were dying twenty feet away. Now most lapped the tops of his shoes. Surprised, he realized his butt was wet and had been for some time. Slowly he stood, watching the waves roll over the tops of his shoes. He turned and walked along the water.

  He could ignore it no longer; it was time to get out of sight. A passing cruiser might notice the car and run the plates. He couldn’t afford that; he had no right to take any more risks tonight. He had to be ready for the morning. Determinedly he trudged through the heavy dry sand, back up the steps and over to the car. His shoulders slumped in uncharacteristic fashion.

  He took the back roads. Old Supulveda Boulevard had been left to local traffic by the surging San Diego Freeway that now dominated the pass into the valley. But the old road suited him fine this night. Once in the valley, he tried Hank’s number, but got no answer.

  He located the motel where he and Josie had stayed the night they’d got back from Mexico. When was it? A month ago? Two? When he refused the offered key and asked for room 17, the tired clerk started his trite routine with, “Hey, mister—” He stopped abruptly at the set to Brad’s face and what little was revealed in his eyes. He turned quickly back to the board and grabbed the key to room 17, laying it gently on the counter.

  Outside, he called Hank again. “Yeah.”

  “So?”

  Hank’s sigh was deep. “She’s critical, Brad. They still haven’t got the slug out. They’ll try again in the morning. That’s all I got.”

  “Thanks,” was all he could manage before hanging up. In his room, their room actually, he opened the blinds and drapes. The morning sun would be his wakeup call. He dropped his coat on the floor, kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed. When it came, it was a dreamy, fitful sleep that amounted to almost none at all.

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday

  Brad dialed police headquarters. “Lt. Stratford?” he asked politely.

  “Hold on.”

  “Lt. Stratford.”

  “There must have been some mistake,” Brad said. “I asked for William Mitchell.”

  He could hear deep breathing on the other end of the line. It was Stratford who broke the silence. “Why are you calling?”

  “Returning a favor.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You once called and warned me when Lydia was killed. Course you didn’t leave a name.”

  The quiet chuckle lacked humor. “This isn’t the same thing. You can’t tie me into your troubles.”

  “That’s true. Still, things need to be evened out some way. I got Rinolli last night. You’re next.

  “I picked up a 30-06 this morning with a real nice scope. Better than anything I had in Nam. I can drop you from five, even six hundred yards.” Stratford said nothing, but the rate of his breathing had increased noticeably.

  “Maybe it’s better this way. Better than proof, I mean. Least I’ll see you go down. And with a six-hundred-yard headstart, I’ll be long gone, I’ll drop off the face of the earth.” He hung up the phone and returned to his table at the window of the coffee shop.

  He had a good view of the entrance to the Wells Fargo Bank across the street. He reviewed his brief call, wondering if he’d said enough. Or maybe too much. Waiting was all that could be done for now.

  * * *

  As Lt. Stratford left the bank, Brad stepped up beside him. “Lied some. It’s a .357 magnum.”

  Stratford turned slowly, his face a mask of fury.

  “Die here or walk and live awhile.” Brad’s voice was pitched low, the tone mild. There was no expression in his eyes. He was relaxed, weight forward, his left arm loose at his side. His right hand was tucked casually in the pocket of Hank’s corduroy coat. Neither man paid any attention to the hustling pedestrian traffic flowing past them.

  Reluctantly Stratford turned and began walking. He gripped his briefcase tightly. Brad walked a step behind.

  “That alley,” Brad said, moving closer to Stratford as the man turned. A hundred feet into the alley, Brad said, “Here’s good. Easy like, take your weapon out and drop it into the trash bin.”

  Stratford didn’t move. Brad eased the .357 out of the pocket and let his finger tighten on the trigger. There was no one in sight. Farther down the alley, cartons were stacked high against a building. An occasional large trash bin and assorted smaller containers bordered the vacant alley. At the far end, two cars were illegally parked. There was no one to be seen. The only sounds were traffic noise drifting in from the street.

  Once committed, Stratford did it right. He reached slowly under his coat and, with two fingers on the end of the butt, lifted his snub-nosed .44 revolver out of his holster. He raised it slowly over the edge of the bin and dropped it; sunlight flickered off the ruby stone of his ring.

  “Now the briefcase.”

  Stratford turned slowly, his face mottled with total rage. For an instant, Brad tensed; he wasn’t going to do it. Without taking his eyes from Brad’s face, Stratford slowly lifted the briefcase and let it fall into the trash bin.

  “Let’s start with why you killed Lydia.” A car turned into the alley behind Brad. He ticked the .357 under his left armpit. When the car had passed, he said, “Well?”

  “What’s to start?” The sunlight reflected off Stratford’s balding head. His pale eyes in shadow were nearly colorless, but rage and hate were there. “Some whacko doesn’t like the way I do my job and tries to kill me. This guy is so out of it he doesn’t remember killing his ex-wife. He even thinks I did it. What a laugh. Why would I kill her?”

  “You really think I killed Lydia?”

  “Lt. Broadmore has a witness. Have you really lost it?”

  Brad leaned forward, listening with total attention. Stratford believed what he was saying. “You’re wrong,” Brad said. “I didn’t kill her.” He straightened, watching Stratford intently. “If I didn’t, what would that mean to you?”

  Stratford’s expression didn’t change, but Brad was sure he’d scored a hit. The man had never looked beyond him as the killer.

  “It might mean I’ve done a lot of unnecessary work.”

  “Like killing some people and shutting down your smuggling operation?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  This was looking more like a bad idea every minute. Brad desperately wanted straight answers he wasn’t getting. What he needed was a nice quiet place in the hills where no one could hear the screams. “Did you know Lydia kept a
diary?”

  “Why would that interest me?”

  “Your name comes up often.”

  “Oh?”

  “For example, she talks about the thrill of holding her brother by the wrists while you shot him in the back with a .45.” He thought Stratford’s face paled slightly, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “That bitch,” Stratford said, then laughed. “Why would she write something like that? She must have been hallucinating.”

  “You’re a bright guy. Look what you’ve managed. You and Lydia ran a smuggling operation for four years I know about, without the feds or your own people even picking up a clue. Now you’ve wiped out the operation; you’re clear. But you’ve been dumb about me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m real close to a pine box paid for by the county. If you can’t help me out, somebody’s going to find your bullet-ripped carcass right about where you’re standing.”

  “I may have misjudged you.”

  Brad could feel it; the man was going to make a move any moment. “Believe it.”

  “There’s nothing I know that would help in the case of Lydia’s death.”

  “Which means there is in Gerald’s?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You’re beginning to bore me, Lieutenant.”

  “The briefcase?”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “If the barrel on that .45 you took from him was switched, it could explain why it now matches the murder weapon. You might find a key to ballistics in my apartment.”

  Brad heard the truck rumble into the alley behind him. He moved to his left to give all the room needed. It wasn’t much of a slip, but for an instant his left foot was sliding in alley debris. He was off balance. The roaring truck engine was beside them now.

  Helplessly he watched the solid flat-footed kick catch him hard in the chest, numbing his right arm. The .357 tumbled to the pavement; he staggered backward for balance. He ducked a kick that was meant to sever his head from his body. As he dove for the pistol with his left hand, Stratford backed off, looking hard at the trash bin. Brad managed only to touch the butt of the pistol; it was enough.

  Stratford bolted toward the alley entrance and was gone. Out of the corner of his eye, Brad saw one of the parked cars at the far end of the alley surge toward him. It was Hank.