by Daniel Fox
George’s left arm instantly went numb. He lost his grip on Pointe. He grabbed Pointe’s collar with his right hand and spun him around, shoved him into Pileggi. He ran back inside, past Fortier, into the living room. Finally got a God-blessed half-second to pull his own piece from its holster.
He ran for the back door, through the kitchen. The door was gone here too, but plywood had been hammered up. George slammed his already numb left shoulder into it. The wood splintered. He stepped back to get another run at it. A shot gun blast flared down the hall, the buckshot peppering the hallway then the plywood. Two or three balls caught his right hand, stinging like hundred-mile-an-hour wasp bites. He dropped his own gun.
George started to bend down to pick it up but heard Pileggi crank the pump on the shot-gun. George barely heard it, his ears ringing from the blast. He ran back for the living room. Ducked back again as Pointe took a shot at him. The pistol shot sounded like a kid’s toy compared to the shotgun. The shot whined past, whacked into the back wall behind him.
Back the other way. Pileggi right there. No time to stop so George plowed on ahead. Banged the shotgun to the side with his arm, rammed his body into Pileggi, smashed him against the kitchen wall. Pileggi’s head smacked into the wall, his eyes rolled up. He sagged.
George tried to grab his shotgun but Pileggi held on. Down the hall, Fortier raised his gun and fired. The shot went wild, scared Fortier as much as it did George.
George rammed a fat knee into Pileggi’s head. Pileggi moaned but held onto the shotgun. George turned the shotgun in Pileggi’s hand, aimed it down the hallway, jammed his finger into the guard over Pileggi’s and squeezed. The gun bucked, George went deaf and blind from the blast, but not deaf enough to completely muffle out Fortier’s scream.
He ran down the hallway, almost to the front door. Hating every extra pound he’d put on. A shot from the living room, Pointe’s gun, took him in the back of his left shoulder, knocked him off course, slammed him into the wall next to the gaping doorway.
Another shot missed his head, kicked up plaster. He turned from the door, pounded up the stairs to the second floor. Rounded the banister and ran hard to the last room, the room at the front of the house, a bedroom.
He heard Pointe below him, calling out. Fortier answered, sounding hurt. Pointe’s footsteps made the bottom of the stairs. A pause. Count on him putting in a fresh mag. The footsteps started up.
George slammed the door to the final room loud, but stayed in the hallway, and crept back to the next room down the hallway, a second bedroom. He slipped back into the shadows of the room.
Pointe made the top of the stairs. Came down the hallway with his gun at the ready. George’s distraction worked – Pointe passed the second bedroom without even looking in, thinking George was holed up in the first.
George charged forward, all bull. Pointe heard the heavy footfalls and spun but was too late. George crashed into him full-tilt and they cracked the banister like dry kindling, tumbling through the air to hit the stairs halfway down, George’s weight landing on Pointe’s older smaller body, Pointe taking the brunt of the stairs. They shuddered and rolled down the rest of the stairs, crashed to a halt at the bottom.
George’s left arm was dead to him. His right hand was fire and live wires. He staggered up to his feet without using his arms, sliding himself up against the wall. Hardest thing he’d ever done.
He stood over Pointe, ready to bring his foot down on the traitor’s neck, wanting to hurt him first to make him tell him why.
But he heard movement from the kitchen. Movement from the living room. Both Fortier and Pileggi alive and kicking, maybe coming forward with their guns right now.
George turned and limped through the door. Someone was there, hiding behind the door frame. He saw something metallic and thin and quick whip across his face, below his eye-line, then there was a keen burning across his throat and he was choking on his own blood.
He kept going forward. His car was right there. Maybe twenty feet away. Now fifteen feet.
He fell on the cracked walk, face first.
Last thing he did was turn himself over on his back to see who had done this to him. The person from behind the door frame stood over him, looking down.
And George had thought the police would stand out in Skid Row.
CHAPTER 45
Ida was in the newsroom, one of the few lights still on at night, going through old issues of the paper. She had seen the face of that man before. She knew he wasn’t an actor, but he was a thing in social circles. She was sure of it. Tall, dignified, neat and tidy. She’d never much cared about the celebrity scene, but she was at least fifty percent sure that smiling face from the New Year’s picture was somewhere in the social section.
She had asked to take the photograph with her, to show it around the paper. For sure someone at the Clarion would have known the guy. The hostess said no. She was already worried for her job because she had snuck out the boss’ prized photo album, something she wasn’t supposed to touch. No way was she going to risk pulling out a picture.
One of the late-night copy kids dumped another stack of archived papers on her desk. She didn’t notice him.
She also didn’t notice the elevator bell ding.
She didn’t hear the faint noise of the doors sliding open.
She didn’t think to look up. If she did she would have seen a pale and shaking Bob Tree, war hero, lock onto her.
She didn’t hear him walking across the wood floor. Didn’t see him clench his hands into trembling fists.
She did notice his shadow fall across her desk. She thought it was the copy kid coming back from another run to the archives.
Except the copy kid just stood there. He didn’t dump another stack of old papers on her desk.
She looked up. And understood that she was about to die.
The door to Clifford’s office banged open. Ida and Bob both nearly jumped out of their skins.
Night editor Charlie, looking sad and spooked at the same time: “You guys both know that big cop, right?”
***
They took separate cars to the morgue.
Their fame got them inside the building.
Coroner Denny Green was called in to handle it personally, taking over for the night shift guy.
They got the basics from Green before he went in to start the autopsy. Residents in Skid Row had heard an extended gunfight. He said that different weapons had been used.
This pricked up the reporters’ ears. A gunfight with multiple kinds of weapons in Skid Row was a tune they’d both heard before. At that point Green had only glanced at George’s body, but he could give a visual confirmation – George had been hit by both buckshot and what appeared to be a smaller calibre handgun, not to mention taking on a lot of bruises, cuts, and scrapes along the way. The fatal blow was the slash across his throat.
Green went in to get the autopsy underway. The sound of some kind of powered saw whined out into the hallway.
Ida and Bob stood next to each other, looking at the door, not at each other.
“Hey Bly?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you break into my apartment?”
“No.” Ida nodded at the door in front of them. “He did.”
“Oh.”
“Hey Tree?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you kill that girl in Skid Row?”
“What? No. Jesus. Is that what’s been going on? You and George thought I-”
“Yeah. I saw you laughing near her body. I saw you coming apart at the seams.”
Bob was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. When George broke into my place, did he trash it?”
“No. He said he was extra careful to leave it just like he found it. We didn’t want you to get spooked and scamper.”
“Well then someone broke in after him and tore it apart. They left an imprint of a woman’s shoe.”
“To make you think it was me.”
“I don’t have any other women in
my life causing me grief.”
“They wanted you to kill me.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Meaning someone else out there knows you’re...”
“Screwy in the head?”
“Having some troubles.”
“Hey Bly?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re in a lot of fucking trouble, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
The whining of the drill in the next room stopped. There was quiet, then something that might have been a hammer hitting a chisel into bone.
Ida swiped an angry hand at the tears running down her cheeks. “I hope he hurt the fuck out of them.”
“You want to go somewhere and catch me up?”
Ida turned, looked at Bob through watery eyes. Wondering if she could trust him.
He looked back at her. “I think maybe the two of us are all we have left.”
Ida considered, then managed a small slanted smile. “Hell, that’s one more than I usually have. Let’s go.”
***
Ida knew an all-night diner in Westlake. They drove separately again, met up in a booth. It took Ida the better part of half an hour to lay out what she and George had learned to Bob.
Bob turned his empty coffee cup in circles on the table. “You ever figure out who threw the brick through your window?”
“No. I thought it was you. Then I thought that Brian Lagercrantz had found out about me somehow, thought maybe I was getting too close to him, and sent it as a warning.”
“And now?”
“Now it could be the tall man. Or it could be the ones who... who got George, pretending to be the tall man, to scare me off of him.”
“Or to scare you off of something else.”
“How do you figure?”
“That gunfight back during the blockade raid. Myrna Hodges getting killed. Now back to another gunfight that ended up with Georgie dead. I dunno... I think it’s all connected. Don’t ask me how.” He looked up at Ida. “Did the nuthouse ever explain how Lagercrantz escaped?”
“Maybe. Not that I’ve heard though. How did you get hip to the first gunfight?”
Bobby shrugged. “I don’t entirely remember now. I got interested in Wally Clemp-”
“Who’s that?”
“George’s partner in homicide. An ace case guy from the sounds of it, clearance rate through the roof. Anyway, he went missing-”
“When?”
“Back not too long before the blockade raid. Before he went missing, he was getting mighty curious about a bunch of high-end unsolved bank robberies. He bought his lovely wife some nice duds, took her out to a fancy restaurant, promised life was going to be a lot easier from then on out. She calls me up after we nabbed Lagercrantz, reminded me I had promised to try to track him down. That’s when I found the bodies by the hunting cabin.”
“You think Clemp robbed a bank?”
“Or robbed the guys that robbed the bank.”
“What a mess.” Ida wrapped her hands around her cup. “Do you feel like you’re drowning? I feel like I’m drowning.”
Bob sat back. “Well alright. So here we are. In the middle of something nasty. I think we both have the feeling this thing might end up getting us killed. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And here you’ve been pretty open with me. My question is, why don’t you think I’m involved in this... conspiracy? Whatever it is. Why don’t you think I killed Myrna Hodges anymore?”
“It’s just... Well...”
“What’re you, shy all of a sudden? Just say it.”
“You’re a coward.”
“Oh.”
Ida looked around the nearly empty diner, then back at Bob. “I could still see you killing some girl maybe, someone who was a sure thing. But you taking on George Schuttman, even with a gun? Naw. I’m not saying this to hurt you, but George would have gone through you like an express train through a tunnel.”
Bob let the sting of it settle. “Well shit. I wish I could say that you’re wrong. But here I am, the mighty war hero, scared of his own shadow.”
They were quiet for a moment. Ida slumped back. “I was trying to make it up to him. To George. For getting him in all that trouble by stealing the morgue photo.”
“You still can. You can put this right.”
“Or we can run like hell. Go our separate ways. Never see each other again. Change our names. I’ll be some unhappy schmuck's unhappy housewife, you’ll rustle little Bobby Junior’s hair and tell him he did great in the game.”
Bob shook his head. “Nah, that ain’t me. Besides, I’m way too handsome and famous to ever disappear in this country.”
Ida rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you the famous part at least.”
“And I bet you bake shitty pies.”
“That is accurate.”
There was a moment of quiet between them.
“You hurt me.”
Bob nodded. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
More silence. Then:
“So I guess we finish this thing?”
“I guess we do.”
“We gonna stop hating each other long enough to get this done?”
Bob shrugged. “I guess we are. Where do you want to start?”
CHAPTER 46
Chasen’s was closed for the night. They didn’t care. Neither of them knew how to pick a lock so Bob went back to his car, got out his tire iron, hid it by his side as they went around to the back of the building. He scratched some of the wood around the lock as he pried open the rear door. They didn’t care about that either.
They slipped inside and closed the rear door behind them. Ida started forward but Bob held up a hand to stop her, motioning for silence. He stood stock still, mouth slightly open, listening.
Ida started getting impatient, how long did you need to listen to hear a janitor or what have you? Then again she hadn’t gone sneaking around dense tropical jungles populated by snakes and maybe panthers and probably pockets of Japanese who most definitely wanted to kill every round-eye they could get their hands on, so she kept her cake-hole shut.
Finally Bob nodded to her. “Where’s this photo album?”
“I think she got it from the owner’s office.” They moved through the kitchen, shying away from knocking hanging pots and pans with their shoulders.
“What do we do if it’s in a safe?”
Ida shrugged. “I don’t know. Cry a lot?”
They went past the doors that led into the main dining area and continued down a hall that stretched off from the kitchen. There was a small room with aprons hanging from hooks, probably a staff break room. Next was a single-john washroom, also for staff. At the far end was a small office, well-decorated, lots of pictures of celebrities on the wall.
Ida checked the drawers of the desk. Bob ran his fingers along the spines of the book on the book shelf. He pulled something out, held it up. “This it?”
“Yeah.”
He put it down on the desk, snapped on the desk lamp.
Ida flipped through the pages. “It was somewhere around here. New Year’s pictures.”
A Halloween party, faces from the movies partially covered by masks.
A Thanksgiving bash, cartoon paper turkeys on the tables.
Christmas cheer – more celebrities toasting the camera with eggnog, wearing little Santa Hats.
New Years, 1946 into 1947.
Ida jabbed down a finger. “There!”
“Oh shit.”
“Who is he? It’s driving me nuts.”
“Oh, its no big deal. That’s just Doctor Vincent Bader.”
***
They pulled the picture of Bader and Myrna from the album, wiped the album and anything else they thought they had touched for fingerprints, and then got out of there before some eager beat cop happened to see the damage done to the back door of the restaurant.
They parked near the corners of South Beverly and Wilshire. Bob walked back to Ida’s car and climbe
d into the passenger seat. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
Ida held the photograph. “Bader.”
“Yeah.”
“You think he did the deed?”
“I think it’s possible. Autopsy said the lungs were cut out with surgical precision and probably with a surgical-grade blade.”
“Theresa-”
“Remind me.”
“That crazy lady from the Row that came to see me. Gave me-”
“The boogeyman drawing, right.”
“She kept insisting that the real killer was really tall.”
“Bader is that. I’m six foot three. I figure he’s got a couple of inches on me.”
“Jesus, they called him in to do the autopsy.”
Bob scratched his neck. “Maybe the idea was that he could cover up anything that could identify him.”
“But George... what? Got to the autopsy too early?”
“I don’t know. We’re just guessing here.”
“Bader does work at Camarillo State Hospital.”
Bob nodded. “Where Brian Lagercrantz busted out.”
“But... but... the timeline doesn’t work. Figure Bader kills Myrna. Dumps her. Would he have known to set up Lagercrantz as a patsy before that night? I mean, the autopsy said Myrna got the hell beaten out of her first. A crime of fury, passion... not something that’s premeditated. Bader wouldn’t have known at that point that he needed a scapegoat.”
“Somehow he gets George assigned to the case. Everybody figures that George is not a great case guy-”
Ida curled her lip. “Stupid. They thought he was too stupid to make Bader. Especially once he becomes friendly with the doctor at the autopsy.”
“But George, and you, you start getting close anyway. Close enough to make him, or them, nervous.”
“So they need someone to take the fall. Bader was a kid in a candy-store at Camarillo. The joint’s full of violent nut-bars.”
“Hell, we gave Bader the write-up on the likely killer my... my shrink constructed. Like a recipe for what we’d be looking for in our killer. So he chooses Lagercrantz and whispers sweet nothings in his ear. Details about the killing to make Lagercrantz seem plausible. And Lagercrantz himself is so screwy that maybe he even starts to believe it when he’s not busy howling at the moon. And then Bader busts Lagercrantz out.”