Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)
Page 20
“Are you telling me to stay holed up until you capture this broad? I’ll be there until the cows come home. No thanks.”
“Listen to the lieutenant,” Sam said. “Better to be safe rather than sorry.”
“We expect an arrest within 24 hours,” Jimbo said.
T.J. snorted. That’s the line he feeds the scribblers. He stood up. “I am going for a beer at Emrick’s and then I am going home,” he said. “The whole entire precinct can follow me if it wants. As for this evening, I will take the matter under advisement.” The intonation of the last sentence was a fair imitation of his father’s.
****
T.J. Flood looked out his hotel window at the gathering dusk. It had stopped raining and the air was heavy with mist. A few tendrils of fog floated lazily between the buildings on Geary Street.
“Nuts to this,” T.J. said aloud. I need some entertainment, and that doesn’t mean sitting here, listening to the radio. I can’t even call Indigo because she’s across the bay, spending the weekend with her sister. So I’m going to the movies and that’s final. Little Tommy Flood didn’t grow up to cower behind a locked door.
On the street, he saw one of his escorts fall in behind him, keeping a respectable distance. There were a couple of others, too, he knew. “Good luck with the tail job, you guys, if the fog gets any worse,” he muttered. He zipped up his windbreaker; the damp air was penetrating. There was still plenty of summer left, but this was San Francisco and the elements played by their own rules.
T.J. reached the Warfield without catching a glimpse of a grey cloak. The watchers hadn’t, either, he supposed, or there would have been a commotion – sirens wailing, brakes screeching, at the very least.
Relaxation came in the smoky womb of the darkened theater. T.J. became absorbed in the implausible adventures unfolding on the screen. He was chuckling at the antics of Charlie Chan’s Number One Son when the bright beam of the usher’s flashlight stabbed him in the face. Lieutenant Bracken slipped into the seat next to him. “She’s outside,” he said softly, “parked across the street in the Packard. C’mon, we’re going to get you out of here.”
In the lobby, T.J. was surprised to see his father standing quietly in a corner. “Pop!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
“I called you,” Sam Flood said. “I was going to suggest you stay with me in the big house until this blows over. It’ll be much more comfortable. When you didn’t answer, I called the lieutenant.”
“I’ll get one of the staff to show us the rear exit,” Bracken said. “She won’t catch wise to that.”
“No,” T.J. said quietly but firmly. “I’m not running and hiding from anybody. Where is she?”
“Across Market, up the block a little bit. We’re waiting for an armed team to get here—”
He broke off as T.J. headed for the outer doors and quickly followed. Sam fell in behind them. Bracken had parked right in front of the theater. “Get in the car,” he ordered. “I’ll get you out of here.”
“No bloody way, buster,” T.J. grated. “Let’s end this fandango right here.” His hand crept around to the Detective Special in its holster.
“There she is!” Sam cried. The fog had billowed away to reveal Miss Jane Brown standing on the streetcar tracks. Patrolman Blore’s revolver was in her hand.
“Get in the car!” Bracken repeated, and ran around to the driver’s seat.
Instead, T.J. stepped out onto the street with his pistol in his hand. Let’s do it, he thought, six-shooter versus six-shooter, just like in the movies. Buck Jones or Ken Maynard in a real-life showdown.
Miss Jane Brown pointed her gun at T.J. and started firing. Six shots in rapid succession. They all missed. T.J. could hear the popping of light bulbs in the marquee above the entrance. He raised his Detective Special, but suddenly Sam Flood’s hand closed around his son’s trigger finger.
“It would be murder,” his father said.
“Self-defense, pop,” T.J. said. “She started it.”
“She is deranged. She is a sick woman.”
A few seconds later, Miss Jane Brown was upon them, screaming. She wrestled T.J. to the ground. Sam grabbed the grey cloak and wrenched it loose. Miss Jane Brown rolled over and began crying and hugging herself. Without her cloak, she seemed defenseless. Then Bracken was there and it was all over.
****
The air in Sam Flood’s office had attained its usual rich texture. “The thing is,” Jimbo Bracken said, “Miss Jane Brown will probably never stand trial. Nutty as a fruitcake, in layman’s terms. She’ll be locked away in an asylum.”
“Dippy dame,” T.J. said. “I’d still string her up.”
Bracken ignored the younger Flood’s sally. It was just T.J. being T.J. “So now you boys can concentrate on helping Edwin N. Atherton tear apart the San Francisco Police Department,” he said.
‘Oh, Atherton’s dumped us,” T.J. said. “Says his funds have been cut off. So that little gig is over, too.”
“Yes, I believe I’ve heard some scuttlebutt in that regard, indeed I have,” Jimbo Bracken said. “The thing is, it’s not really over, not by a long shot. You boys are pretty tough, but you’ve got a whole lot of coppers mad at you. Better keep your eyes peeled, in case some vindictive flatfoot comes calling.”
Sam shrugged. “We know how lethal these streets are,” he said. T.J. yawned.
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