Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Twenty-four

  I CHECKED THE TIME. “It’s two-forty. It’s been an hour since he was seen at the grocery store and a half-hour, at least, since he was spotted entering the park.” I scanned Fulton Street, where we’d parked. “We’re too damn far behind him.” I said irritably, “By now he could be a mile away, going in any direction.”

  “Do you want to cruise around?”

  “No. We’ve got plenty of manpower. What we need now is a break.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Canelli was absently shaking the walkie-talkie, banging it against his knee. “We’re only about five blocks from the Cross place,” he said, “but I can’t get Markham on this. These damn things are just about as temperamental as—as”—he frowned—“as anything.”

  “Hitting it won’t do any good.”

  “A radio repairman told me once that it did do some good, though.”

  “If there’re tubes, it’s possible. The right vibration can fuse a broken filament inside the tube. But walkie-talkies have transistors.”

  “Oh.” He looked at the radio with new vexation. “Well, maybe that’s the reason that…”

  “Inspectors Eleven.”

  I flipped the switch, acknowledging the call.

  “This is Inspectors Fourteen.” It was Sigler and Pass. “We’re located on a bridle path just south of the intersection of Thirty-fourth Avenue and Fulton. The path is about three hundred feet inside the park, running parallel to Fulton. We’ve found the boy’s yellow jacket. It’s got his name in it.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  As Canelli got under way, I instructed all units to form a half-mile semicircle around the location of the jacket, with Fulton Street, the park’s northern boundary, as the diameter of the half-circle. By the time I’d advised Friedman of the situation, we’d already arrived at Thirty-fourth and Fulton.

  “I want you to get four additional units stationed along Fulton,” I told Canelli. “Then I want you to stay in the car. If you want me on the walkie-talkie, use Channel Two.”

  “Yessir.” Canelli reached for the microphone as I got out of the cruiser. Inside the park, across a clearing, I saw Sigler waving. As I walked toward him, I surveyed the rough, forest-like terrain. If a fugitive were well concealed, and didn’t panic, he could remain hidden here for days.

  As I approached, Sigler turned, leading the way through a line of thick-growing cypress and sycamore. Two uniformed men stood looking down at the boy’s jacket, lying partially concealed approximately eight feet from the bridle path. As I stooped to examine the jacket, studying the duff-littered ground, I was waywardly wondering whether an Indian scout from a “B” Western could lead us from the jacket to the boy. Certainly none of us could do it. And glancing around the area, I surrendered to a feeling of blind, bitter frustration. Less than a half-hour ago the boy had been here.

  “Has anyone tried yelling for him?” I asked suddenly.

  Sigler and Pass looked at each other, then shrugged.

  “Have you got a walkie-talkie?”

  Sigler nodded.

  “Then tell everyone to yell for him. His name is David. Let’s tell him to come out—that we’re police and he’s safe.”

  A moment later the forest-in-the-city was echoing with our shouts, urging the boy to show himself, reassuring him. It was a grim, ominous-sounding parody of childhood hide-and-seek, offering safe passage back to base.

  “That’s enough,” I ordered. “Let’s listen.”

  Sigler relayed the order. We waited, silent.

  There was no response. We were rapidly collecting a crowd of rubberneckers. I detailed two men to keep back the curious.

  “Give it two more minutes,” I told Sigler. “Then have everyone converge on this point, searching. And I mean searching. Tell them to look behind every bush and every leaf. The kid could be—” I hesitated. “He could be injured.” I stood for a moment irresolutely. Then I decided to return to the car.

  Canelli opened the door for me.

  “Anything?” I asked, sliding into the seat.

  “Afraid not, Lieutenant. I’ve got three units here on Fulton, besides us.”

  “I said four units.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I thought you meant…”

  “Never mind,” I said shortly, looking up and down the four-lane thoroughfare. The time was exactly 2:50 P.M. Almost two hours had passed since the boy had been reported missing.

  Had Cross been the dark-haired man in the white Ford?

  Had the boy found him today—followed him?

  Had Cross seen David and led him down Balboa Street, away from the Fisher neighborhood, luring him finally into the park?

  Had the mother lied, not the boy? Had she…

  “Inspectors Eleven.” It was Friedman’s voice.

  I clicked the mike to “transmit.” “Inspectors Eleven.”

  “Any developments?”

  “I’m having the area searched, converging on the boy’s jacket.”

  “How’s the terrain?”

  “Terrible.”

  “I was afraid of that. Do you want me to come out there?”

  “Not until we get a line on the suspect,” I replied. “He could be anywhere.”

  “Is the suspect on foot?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “He might still be in the park, or making for home. Have you got his house staked out?”

  “Of course,” I answered, irritated. “Front and back. Culligan and Markham.”

  “How are the kid’s parents taking it?”

  “Not very well.”

  I heard him draw a deep breath. “The uncle,” he said slowly, “is just staring at the wall. I can’t get a peep out of him. Even when I told him that David was missing, he didn’t respond.”

  I realized that I was again experiencing the same sense of dull, inarticulate outrage I’d first felt Monday, interviewing the uncle and the boy. And finally I recognized the source of that irritation: the man and the boy were losers, both of them. They were first- and second-generation victim-types, the grist of a cop’s eight-hour day. All his life James had been beaten on. Now it was David’s turn. He could…

  “…you hear me?” Friedman was asking.

  “Yes. Sorry.” I took a moment to collect myself. I suddenly realized that I was bone-tired. “I’d better check with Sigler, in the park. I’ll get back to you.”

  As Friedman went off the air, I got Sigler on the walkie-talkie. He had nothing to report. They’d found no sign of either Cross or the boy. The search was finished, Sigler said. Everyone was standing around the area where the jacket had been found, awaiting instructions. I ordered six units to cruise the park again, leaving Sigler, Pass, and four uniformed men in the vicinity of the jacket.

  Beside me, Canelli was yawning, looking at his watch. “Maybe the kid just dropped his jacket,” he offered. “That’s what happens with kids. I remember my mother always used to say that—”

  “Inspectors Eleven.” It was the car radio—Tach Three.

  “Go ahead,” I replied, recognizing the voice as Culligan’s.

  “I’m in front of the Cross house,” Culligan said, “in the car. And I’ve just heard from Sergeant Markham, in the backyard.” Culligan’s voice was low, involuntarily tensed. “He says the suspect has just turned into the alley behind the house. The suspect is walking north from Fulton, approximately three hundred feet from the house.”

  Signaling for Canelli to get under way fast, I said, “We’re approximately seven blocks from you, proceeding east on Fulton, heading for the entrance to the alley. Are your walkie-talkies on Channel Two?”

  “Yessir.”

  “We’ll be there in approximately two minutes.” And addressing the six units cruising the park, I quickly outlined the situation, then said, “I want three units on Twenty-seventh Avenue between Fulton and Balboa, and the other three units on Twenty-sixth. Spread out, so the suspect is bottled up in the block he’s in now. Bu
t don’t move in on him, and stay away from the entrances to the alley. Code Two—no sirens. I don’t want the suspect spooked. I don’t think he’s armed, but I’m not sure. So use caution. Out.” I picked up the walkie-talkie. “Can you hear me, Markham?”

  “Roger.” His voice came through indistinctly.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “He’s about two hundred feet away. He’s walking slowly, looking around. But he isn’t stopping. He’s acting suspiciously.”

  “You might have to take him, Markham,” I said quietly. “We might not make it in time. I want you to go slow and easy. I don’t think he’s armed. If you can, prevent him from getting inside the house. And whatever you do, don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary. We still haven’t found the boy. If Cross can’t talk, we might never find him.”

  “I’ll take Cross in the yard,” came Markham’s voice, tenser now. “I’m concealed behind some shrubbery, so I should be able to surprise him. It won’t be long now. Out.”

  Canelli was swinging across the traffic, making for the alley’s entrance.

  “Park on Fulton,” I said hastily. “Don’t go into the alley. I don’t want him to see us.”

  As he swung into a nearby driveway, I got out of the car, loosening my pistol. Gesturing for Canelli to stay behind me, I peered around the stucco corner of a garage.

  I could clearly see Cross’s back. He was walking slowly—plainly tense, wary. Now he was hesitating, standing in the alleyway’s center, beginning to turn back toward us, pivoting slowly. With only half my face exposed, I didn’t move, confident that he couldn’t see me. His right hand was thrust into the pocket of his sports jacket. Did he have a gun? He was almost facing his own backyard, half turned away from us.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “You go along the far side of the alley.”

  “Right,” Canelli breathed, easing around me. He held the walkie-talkie in his left hand, his gun in the other.

  Moving slowly, taking advantage of every opportunity for cover, we advanced cautiously. From behind me, I heard the low, excited sound of children’s voices. I regretted not ordering the men still in the park to guard the alley entrances. I should have…

  Suddenly Cross turned toward us, full face. He looked first at Canelli, then at me. With guns drawn, our purpose was plain. For an instant all motion ceased; the suspect seemed suspended, jerked up by some invisible thread, then frozen in a grotesquely fragmented pirouette.

  “Hold it right there, Cross,” I called, stepping into the middle of the alley. “Don’t move.”

  The sound of my voice convulsed him into a spasm of wild, violent movement. As his head jerked toward Markham, on his left, Cross’s right hand came out of his pocket. I crouched, raising my revolver, aiming.

  The hand was empty. Both hands, in plain view, were empty.

  “Okay,” I shouted. “Let’s take him. Let’s…”

  Cross backed away, moving as if he were hypnotized. Markham was slowly advancing on him, pistol ready. Cross raised his right hand to Markham, gesturing in hesitant, begging protest, warding Markham off.

  Then, as Canelli and I began to trot toward him, Cross whirled, heedless of Markham’s gun, making for a wooden fence, clambering quickly over, gone. Canelli immediately stopped running, raising his walkie-talkie.

  “He’s in a backyard on Twenty-seventh Avenue,” Canelli said loudly. “About halfway up the block. He could be breaking out.”

  Sprinting toward the wooden fence, I called over my shoulder, “Tell them he’s unarmed, Canelli. No shooting.”

  Ahead of me, running across the alley, Markham first rattled a locked gate, then scaled the fence. Beyond him, I saw Cross scrabbling over a second fence, making for another backyard. Behind me, I heard Canelli excitedly shouting into the walkie-talkie. Culligan was running toward us, his topcoat flapping as he ran, all awkward arms and legs.

  “He’s in that yard, Culligan,” I shouted, pointing. “The one with the high fence.” Holstering my gun, I scaled the same fence Cross and Markham had climbed. As I went over, I saw Markham pulling himself to the top of the higher fence. I saw him hesitate. Now he was sitting on top of the redwood fence, one leg over, the other dangling on my side. It was at least six feet high—higher than I’d first thought.

  Panting, I was beside Markham now, drawing my gun to cover him. But Markham remained motionless. He was staring into the neighboring yard. His gun was holstered. He…

  A woman screamed. Immediately another voice joined the first—two women, screaming. Now a child’s cry sounded, terrified.

  On tiptoe, drawing myself up, I looked over the fence. Cross was sitting sprawled in a child’s sandbox. With one arm he clutched a squirming tow-headed little girl close to his body. With the other hand he held a child’s small metal sandbox shovel. Cross gripped the shovel like a hand ax, drawn back, aimed at the child’s head. Suddenly the fence was ringed with bobbing heads—uniform hats, felt hats, bare heads—all of them popping up and dropping back as strained arm muscles failed.

  “Go away,” Cross screamed. “Go away or I’ll kill her.” As he said it I saw the child wince. Her head was pressed tight against Cross’s chest; her long blond hair covered one of his shoulders. She was a preschool child, three or four years old.

  Behind me, Canelli was swearing softly. From inside the house next door, a woman was screaming “Jeannie” over and over.

  “Get down from there, Markham,” I said. And to Canelli: “Give me a leg up. Then go to the car. Call Friedman. Get a sharpshooter. Tell Friedman to come with the sharpshooter.”

  “Yessir. Here, how’s this?” He knelt, offering his pudgy thigh.

  “Good. Thanks.” As Markham lowered himself, I stepped up on Canelli’s knee and pulled myself to the top of the fence, then dropped down on the other side, moving cautiously, watching Cross constantly. His eyes followed every movement. If I went for him—startled him—he’d bring the sharp metal shovel slashing down into the little girl’s skull.

  I stood motionless, my empty hands limp at my sides. For a long, silent moment Cross stared at me. The child’s head obscured the lower half of his face, revealing only the dark, smoldering eyes.

  “Let her go, Cross,” I said quietly. “You’ve got enough trouble without this.”

  “Bring a car, Lieutenant. Bring a car and park it in the alley. I’m driving out of here.” His voice was low, choked. His eyes were ominously steady. He meant it, every word.

  “You’re walking out of here, Cross. With us.”

  He suddenly giggled in a high, hysterical falsetto.

  “Put the shovel down,” I said, “and get to your…”

  From my left, I caught a flash of movement. With an open door swinging wide behind her, a woman in a red-checkered apron flung herself into the backyard, running wildly. She stumbled, falling headlong on a flagstone patio, hitting hard.

  “My baby,” she was screaming. “Give me my baby.”

  “Hold it.” I moved quickly toward her, keeping my distance from Cross. But before I could reach her, the woman was on her feet. Her palms were bloody, and one knee.

  “Let him alone,” I said. “Let us handle it. Get back in the house.” I saw Cross standing erect, the shovel raised against the woman. With Cross’s arm clamped across her chest, the child dangled clear of the ground, legs helplessly twitching. She was whimpering.

  As I moved to get between them, I saw the woman lunge. Teeth bared, fingers talon-crooked, she was screaming incoherently. Cross fell back a single step. The shovel was raised higher now—poised, ready.

  “Cross,” I was yelling, gathering myself. “Don’t be a…”

  The woman was on him. The shovel flashed up, then down. I was hurling myself forward, leaving my feet. The shovel came up again. Twisting as I struck the surging tangle of limbs and bodies, I grabbed for the shovel, finding it with my fingertips, gripping it hard. The woman was beneath me. She faced the sky, screaming. Blood flecked her forehead. Momentarily
our faces touched. Then, still holding the handle, I rolled free, throwing my full body’s weight against the shovel, feeling it rip from his hand. Looking up, I saw blue-uniformed legs and flailing blue arms. I saw a fist crash into the side of Cross’s face and realized that I was clutching him by the hair. I felt him go slack.

  “That’s enough,” I panted. “No more.”

  On my knees, still holding the shovel, struggling for breath, I looked closely at the woman and child, wailing in each other’s arms. The woman’s scalp wounds seemed slight, even though blood flowed into her hair and down her forehead. She wasn’t stunned; her eyes were clear.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” the girl was crying. Just the one word, constantly.

  With three uniformed men holding him spread-eagled beside the sandbox, Cross glared up at me. He didn’t move—didn’t twitch, didn’t struggle.

  “Where is he, Cross?” I asked. “Where’s David Fisher?”

  Unwavering, he didn’t reply.

  Still gripping the shovel, I said, “Where is he, you degenerate sonofabitch? Tell me, or I’ll tear your eyes out of your head—with this.” I held the shovel hard against his cheek, an inch from his eye.

  He laughed at me. It was an animal sound, deep in his throat. He hardly blinked—didn’t wince. “That would be against the law, Lieutenant.”

  I moved the shovel, placing the blade a precisely calculated half-inch below his right eye. Blood smeared his cheek. It was the woman’s blood. “No one will ever know, Cross,” I whispered. “It could have happened while we were fighting.”

  Breath rattling, he didn’t speak. He wasn’t afraid. I stared down at him for another long, malevolent moment, then got to my feet. I turned to Markham and gave him the shovel. I stepped away from the group clustered around Cross, motioning for Markham to follow me. “I want you to get him in your car and take him to Fulton and Thirty-second Avenue, near where Sigler found the kid’s jacket.”

  “But we’re supposed to take him…”