Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 18

by Blindman's Bluff

  Marge swept her flashlight over the ground until she found the molded piece of glass resting in the grass. She picked it up and screwed it back into the socket, bathing the back area in welcomed yellow light.

  “Call in for backup, all units in the area.” Standing off to the side, she pounded on the back door and shouted out to Harriman. Did it again and when she got no response, she hooked her flashlight onto her belt and took out her service revolver.

  “Cover my ass, Rangler, we’re going in.”

  IT WASN’T GOING like he planned.

  None of the fucking lights worked!

  They were pounding at the back door.

  There were the two cops watching the front door.

  Sirens in the background.

  You’re not a stupid guy, he said to himself. Don’t start being stupid now!

  With desperation, he looked around for a way to get out undetected. But both doors were guarded. He was a cornered animal about to be hunted down.

  Think, you asshole, think!

  He took out his piece and held it in his hand. It would give him some leverage, but in the end he was badly outnumbered. A shootout wasn’t the answer.

  There was no place to run; he might as well hide.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  HARRIMAN COULD HEAR the banging at his back door. His heart, already galloping, almost flew out of his chest. If he yelled from under the bed, could they even hear him? Would he give himself away to the intruder?

  Wait until they were closer.

  Patience, patience.

  Like they say, silence is golden.

  WITHIN MOMENTS, BRESLAU had returned and was breathless. “I heard the call go out.”

  “What call?” Marge pounded the door again.

  “911 from the inside of this address.”

  “Good God!” Marge exclaimed. “If Harriman called 911, someone’s inside. The door’s bolted. I don’t want a hostage situation, but I don’t want to ram the door without vest protection. Guy could have a gun.”

  Her eyes made a frantic search around the yard and landed on the patio chairs. She stacked the four of them together, picked them up, and brought them to her chest, using them as a shield.

  “This’ll have to do,” Marge said. “Cover me.”

  “I’ll ram the door, Sarge,” Rangler said. “I got a lot more weight on me.”

  “This isn’t Kevlar, Rangler. A bullet could rip through this like it was snow.”

  “We all signed up for the job.” Rangler held his arms out. “I got more weight on me. Whoever can do it the easiest, you know?”

  “Can’t argue with that.” Marge would remember the good attitude as she passed the chairs to Rangler. He hefted them as if they were a pile of blankets. Taking two steps backward, he rammed the door.

  Once.

  Twice.

  By the third time, the frame splintered and the back door swung open. In the background, the three of them could hear the sounds of approaching sirens.

  Marge peered inside: dark and silent.

  “Harriman, are you here?” When Marge didn’t get any response, she pulled out her semiautomatic issue. “Rangler, you take the flashlights and shine the beam inside so I can see. Breslau, you’re my cover. Let’s go.”

  There was not nearly enough illumination to discharge a weapon. Marge flattened herself against the wall and inched her way inside, groping for the light switch. When her fingers finally found it, she steadied her breath and lifted it up.

  Nothing happened.

  She did it again and again and then remembered the obvious.

  The guy was blind.

  Marge wondered if there were any active lights in the entire unit. She thought for a few moments. Brett had mentioned something about a girlfriend driving him to Rina’s. She must visit sometimes at night. There had to be artificial lighting somewhere. Assessing her surroundings, Marge was standing in the laundry room, which led directly into the kitchen.

  The kitchen!

  Maybe there was a hood light over the cooktop with a working bulb. She said, “Throw some beams into the kitchen with your flashlights.”

  The area looked unoccupied, but someone could be hiding. Slowly she moved toward the cooktop. She reached under the hood, felt for the switch, and turned it on.

  Voilà!

  The illumination was better but far from adequate. She saw a duplex switch on the tiled backsplash. The first one operated the garbage disposal, but the second one turned on a system of under-the-counter lighting. They could see enough to clear the kitchen and move forward.

  Harriman’s condo sported an open floor plan: living room, dining area, and kitchen bleeding into one another. The good news was that nothing appeared disturbed. There was no upended furniture or other signs of a struggle, but there was just something off about the place.

  Too quiet? The smell?

  Sirens continued to wail in the background.

  Marge said, “Rangler, call in our position to the RTO and tell all units coming to the scene to approach with extreme caution.”

  Her eyes skittered around in the dimness. Off the open public area was a hallway that probably led to the bedrooms.

  “Cover me,” Marge told the officers.

  She plastered herself against the wall and inched her way down the foyer until she came to the first closed door. She knocked hard on the door, announcing herself as the police, telling anyone inside to come out with their hands in the air. When the door remained shut, she threw it open and pointed a gun forward.

  Nothing happened.

  With caution, Rangler shined the flashlights inside the room and it appeared to be empty.

  “Police!” Marge shouted again. “You’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!”

  They waited…one second…two seconds…three seconds.

  They entered the room. The small space was set up as a gym with a stationary bicycle, a treadmill, and a weight machine. The pole lamp inside worked and bathed the area in soft light. Marge pointed to a closed door—probably a closet. Pressing herself against the wall, she turned the knob and tossed open the door.

  Nothing happened, and that was just the way she wanted it.

  As Breslau kept watch at the door and Rangler provided the spotlight, Marge rummaged inside the closet, pushing away clothes and weights just to make sure that no one was hiding.

  She jumped when she heard a pounding at the front door. Rangler let the backup officers into the living room, turning on as many lamps as they could find. Good mood lighting but no romance was in the air. When everyone was safely inside, Marge took a head count—eight including herself.

  “I want one at the front door, one at the back door, one guarding the first bedroom and two of you clearing that closed door, which is probably a bathroom.” She turned to Breslau and Rangler. “We’ll check out the last closed door, which is probably Harriman’s bedroom.”

  Heart hammering in her chest, Marge pounded on the door and yelled, “Police. Come out with your hands up.”

  The response was a male voice that screamed out a “Help!”

  “Harriman?”

  “Yes! Help me! I’m under the bed.”

  “Don’t move. Are you alone?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t move!” Marge repeated. “We’ll come in and get you.” Speaking loudly, she said, “We found the occupant. We’re going in. I need a couple more bodies.”

  The two officers who had cleared the hallway bathroom came to help. Marge said, “This could be a setup. Everyone take a position of safety, and I’ll open the door when we’re all ready.”

  When she got the nods, she flattened herself against the wall, turned the knob, and flung open the door.

  Flashlights lit up the dark room, darting around the blackness like giant fireflies on a moonless night.

  “We’re inside, Brett,” Marge said. “Stay put. We’re going to
clear the room. Are there any lights that work in this room?”

  “Try the bed lamp on the nightstand. I think that’s what my girlfriend uses.”

  Marge worked her way to the nightstand lamp and turned it on. The space was a decent size with a king bed and two flanking nightstands. Across from the bed was a dresser. One wall had a closet with sliding mirrored doors and opposite that was a closed door, which Marge guessed opened to the bathroom.

  Using standard procedure, she opened the bathroom door. Empty but the shower curtains were drawn.

  “Police!” Marge screamed, pointing the gun at the tub enclosure. “Come out with your hands in the air!”

  The shower curtains didn’t appear to hear because they didn’t even ripple. With great care, she pulled them back and revealed an empty tub.

  “Clear!” She went back to the bedroom. “What about the closet?”

  “Clear,” Rangler told her.

  “Harriman?”

  “Still here.”

  “You can come out now.”

  “I’m naked.”

  “Somebody get a robe or something.”

  Harriman crept out from under the bed and stood on shaky legs. He was trembling all over as they handed him a terry cloth robe. He was breathing as shallowly as a panting dog. “Did you find him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m not crazy!” Harriman said. “I swear I heard something.”

  “We’re not done searching, Brett. We’ve got the place surrounded. As soon as we get you out of here, we’ll finish up.” Marge offered him her arm. “I’ll guide you out.”

  When they reached the front door, Harriman started shivering. “He’s here!” he whispered to Marge. “I can smell him!”

  “Then we’ll find him.”

  “Please don’t leave until you do. I know he’s here!”

  “Officer Fetterling is going to escort you to a police car. He’ll wait with you until we’ve cleared the area.”

  He grabbed Marge’s arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. That’s what we’re paid to do.” When he was gone and safely ensconced inside one of the cruisers, Marge looked around.

  “We’ve cleared everything but the hall closet.” Standing off to the side, she pounded on the door. “Police! Come out with your hands in the air!”

  Nothing. What was the likelihood that this last search would yield anyone?

  The door had been locked from the inside. Was Harriman putting everyone on? Was he a drama king? But then how did the back porch light become unscrewed unless the blind man did it himself.

  She thought about all the possibilities as she flattened herself against the wall. Then her brain shifted into pure focused energy. Hand on the knob, she shouted, “Take positions!”

  Throwing open the door.

  Nothing happened.

  “Hold your positions!” Marge was still squashed against the wall, and something told her not to move. It was the smell of sweat…the smell of fear.

  The air became very quiet. Her breathing was amplified in her brain, as if listening through a stethoscope. Heart pounding in her chest.

  Breathe in, breathe out.

  Slow it down, Marge.

  “Hold your positions!” she repeated.

  Listening carefully, she finally heard it; inhalations and exhalations that didn’t match her own breathing rate.

  Someone was definitely inside, hiding.

  “Police!” she shouted. “You’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!”

  Again, no one stirred.

  “I’m giving you to the count of three and then we’re going to shoot—”

  “No, don’t do that!” a voice pleaded.

  “Get out, get out, get out,” Marge ordered.

  Something rose from the corner, and Marge caught a glint of metal. “Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it! Drop it!” When she heard something hard fall with a thud, she said, “Hands up, hands up, hands up!”

  As the creature from the black lagoon emerged, Marge told him to hit the ground. As soon as he did, he was pounced on by four officers while two others searched the closet. The gun was a .32 Smith and Wesson, one of the weapons used in the Kaffey shootings.

  What were the chances that it matched anything? She supposed it depended on who was lying spread-eagle on the floor. She shined a light on the face, seeing if he looked familiar while Rangler rifled through the man’s back pockets. He pulled out a wallet and then a driver’s license and showed it to the sarge.

  Marge grinned. “Well, hello, Joe. Welcome back to the USA.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE PACING SERVED a twofold purpose. It kept Decker warm and it shook off some nerves. At three in the morning, the hospital loomed like an electric ghost as he held the phone to his ear.

  He was shaking, but from excitement. “You got Cruces and Pine in custody?”

  “Not bad for a day’s work—a very full day. I’ve been up around twenty hours.”

  “Who’s down at the station house besides you?”

  “Oliver, Messing, and Pratt. Who should interview whom?”

  Decker thought a moment. “Okay, here’s the thing. The optimum would be that neither Pine nor Cruces gets a deal, but we may have to flip one against the other. With Pine, we’ve not only got fingerprints, we’ve also got Rondo Martin’s eyewitness testimony. He mentioned Pine before I did. With Cruces, Rondo Martin remembered him, but only after I mentioned his name. His memory with Cruces is less clear. It makes more sense to have Cruces flip on Pine. So you and Oliver take Pine. If you don’t get anywhere, bring in someone else for a fresh perspective.”

  “That sounds good. Where are you at up there, Rabbi?”

  “There’s a team from Herrod P.D.—which is the next town over—that’s taking over our positions at the hospital in about a half hour. Tim England—Sheriff T—said he’d drop in in the morning. Martin’s in good hands.”

  Marge said, “Now that Pine is in custody, maybe Martin can breathe a sigh of relief.”

  “Maybe a little sigh, but not a big one until we find out who El Patrón is. Did anyone go back to interview Truillo, the bartender, at Ernie’s El Matador?”

  “By the time Bontemps and Lee reached the place, it had closed for the night. I’ll make sure someone’s there when it opens tomorrow. Maybe it won’t be necessary once we talk to Cruces and Pine.”

  “Rechecking is always necessary. Willy and I are taking the first flight down in the morning.” Decker checked his watch. The plane was set to leave at six-thirty—four hours from now. “We’ll see you at around eight in the morning.”

  “Get some sleep, Pete.”

  “Too wound up. Any word from Gil Kaffey or Antoine Resseur?”

  “Nope.”

  “No idea where they are?”

  “Not a clue, but if they’re like most people at this time of night, they’re sleeping.” Marge paused. “Unless they’re dead. In that case, nothing’s gonna wake them up.”

  THE FIRST THING Marge did was check Joe Pine’s fingerprints against José Pinon’s school fingerprint card. When it was confirmed that Joe/José was the same person, Marge and Oliver steadied themselves for a long night. Watching from the video camera, they saw Pine go through a series of nonverbal gesticulations almost as meaningful as speech. There was the pacing, then plopping in the chair with the head in the hands, then laying the head on the table, then pacing again. There was one quick swipe at the eyes, wiping away tears, crying for no one but himself.

  Pine had on a lightweight nylon jacket over black jeans and a black T-shirt and the usual B and E ski cap. He was built on the small side, around five seven with wiry arms. His face was long, and his complexion was mocha with cream. His dark brown hair had been snipped a few millimeters shy of a crew cut. His round brown eyes gave him a boyish expression mitigated by a strong, masculine cleft chin.

  When Marge and Oliver came into the room, Pine was sitting, his eyes at his feet. He glanced up a
nd then looked back down. The room was around eight-by-six feet with a steel table pushed up against the wall and three chairs. Pine occupied the chair on the right side, the one farthest from the door. Marge took up the seat closest to him while Oliver sat opposite.

  “Detective Scott Oliver.” He placed a cup of water in front of Pine. “How’re you doing?”

  Pine shrugged. “Okay.”

  Marge introduced herself and placed her clipboard on her lap. “We’re a little confused,” she told Pine. “What was going on back there, Joe?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What we mean is we found you hiding in a closet with a gun.” Marge tried to make eye contact, but his focus was elsewhere. “What was that all about?”

  “No big deal.”

  Oliver nodded. “How’s that?”

  “Just what I said…no big deal.”

  Oliver said, “To the guy living there, it was a big deal.”

  Marge said, “Tell us why you were there.”

  “In the closet?”

  “In the closet in the condo that didn’t belong to you.”

  Pine said, “I heard you banging on the door and I knew you’d take it the wrong way. So I hid.”

  “Okay,” Marge said, writing down notes. She stopped and regarded his face. “How would we take it wrong? What way were we supposed to take it?”

  “It isn’t like you think. It was just a game, you know?”

  “A game?” Oliver repeated.

  Marge said, “Explain it to us.”

  “You know…a game.” Pine leaned his head against the wall until he couldn’t move any farther. Beads of moisture were forming on his forehead. “To get in with the right people, you gotta play the game.”

  “Which right people?” Oliver said.

  “My bros, you know?”

  “Which bros?”

  “In Bodega 12th.” Pine shrugged. “It’s all a big game.”

  Marge said, “I thought you were already a member of Bodega 12th.”

  “To move up.”

  Marge nodded. “How does that work? Moving up?”