‘Oh, hell, I can manage,’ Stryker grumbled, but he was grateful for the company, and the protest ended there. They walked up the path and he handed his keys to Neilson, who unlocked the door and turned on the lights. ‘Thanks,’ Stryker said, and reached for his keys, but Neilson was already in, holding the door open for him.
‘I think the phrase is, nice place you got here,’ Neilson said, looking around. ‘I’m impressed.’ He ran his eyes over the mixture of comfortable modern and antique furniture, the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on the far wall, the paintings on the near wall, the polished floorboards, the rough-woven curtains that complemented the big bright rag rugs.
‘Thanks,’ Stryker said, wearily. He started toward the kitchen. ‘How about a beer?’
Neilson looked at him with exasperation. ‘No thanks. Listen, why the hell don’t you stop with this goddamn strongman act and go lie down, for crying out loud? I’m really getting bored with this stiff upper lip crap.’
‘That should read stiff upper lip crap, Lieutenant, sir,’ Stryker grinned.
‘Uh-huh. Downtown you get “sir”, here the best you can hope for is eye contact,’ Neilson said. ‘Sit down, I’ll figure things out for myself after I’ve used your john.’
Stryker sank on to the couch just as his legs began to shake. Neilson was right – kidding himself that a bullet wound couldn’t slow him down made no more sense than pretending he wasn’t going to go on investigating the case. Klotzman might say no, but he was going to do something. Anything.
Tomorrow.
Meanwhile, he was damn glad Neilson was here. Upstairs he could hear him moving around the bedrooms, then going down the hall to look out the back windows. He knew what he was doing. Checking things out. He nodded. Neilson was a bit of a smart-ass, but his instincts were sound.
And he was fast.
After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door close. He reached for the remote control and turned on the television, watched a cartoon for about thirty seconds, and then slid down on to the cushions and dozed off.
He woke up when the shotgun went off.
Jumping up from the couch in a blind panic, he took five steps and nearly tripped over Neilson who was lying on the floor and cursing.
‘Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.’
The television set was dead.
The screen was in shards, the innards flashing and sparking. Shaking, his head still throbbing from the burst of sound, Stryker knelt beside Neilson. ‘Are you okay?’
Neilson rolled over and took hold of Stryker’s arm, then wriggled with him back behind the safety of the sofa. ‘Of course I’m not okay,’ he muttered, peering around the end of it toward the kitchen door. ‘I go out to the kitchen to get us a beer and skid on that stupid rug. As I go down my hand hits the kitchen door, shoves it in, and a goddamn cannon goes off. My hair is singed, my suit is a mess, and my nerves are shot. Am I okay, he wants to know. Stay down, you stupid bastard!’ he hissed as Stryker started backing up on one hand and knees around the far end of the sofa.
‘I am staying down,’ Stryker said, in a shaky voice. ‘What was it?’
‘Sounded like artillery but probably a twelve gauge. Thing is, I don’t know if one barrel went off or two. Maybe he’s waiting with the other one.’ Seeing what Stryker was doing, he turned and started to crawl after him and get his gun out at the same time. As he wore it in the back of his trousers, his progress was erratic. A single pellet of the charge had caught him high on the forehead, and a thin trickle of blood ran down into his left sideburn.
Stryker, gun drawn, stood up against the wall and with his back against it began to slide toward the kitchen door, the edge of which was scarred and smoking. It was an ordinary swing door, no glass. With his back flat against the wall beside it, he reached out and pushed the door in, slowly.
When it was about half-way in, the shotgun went off again.
‘JESUS CHRIST ON A GODDAMN CRUTCH!’ Neilson shouted, ducking behind a chair. ‘WHAT ARE YOU, CRAZY?’
Having now taken two blasts, the television set began to bum quietly to itself. The smell of melting electrical components blended with the smell of gunpowder, singed paint, and scared men.
‘It was just one barrel that went off the first time,’ Stryker croaked, leaning against the wall. ‘Did you ever hear of a three-barrel shotgun?’
‘No. But I have heard of guys who carry two guns. Forget it.’ Neilson was up now, and had edged along the wall to stand beside Stryker. ‘How about calling for help? How about begging for mercy? How about, in any case, getting the hell out of here?’
‘There’s nobody in there,’ Stryker said, with a notable lack of conviction.
‘Do tell? Then, every time the door opens, who lets loose?’
‘Every time the door opens, it lets loose. It’s a setup, Harve.’
‘This is a theory of yours, is it?’
Stryker wiped his forehead with his good arm, nearly knocking Neilson in the eye with his .38. ‘Yeah.’
‘And you really feel confident about it?’
‘If he’s in there, he’s taking a hell of a long time to follow through,’ Stryker pointed out. He felt rather short of breath.
‘I, myself, am not big on theoretical police work.’ Neilson coughed. The smoke from the television set was filling the room. ‘Also I think maybe we are starting to bum the house down, over there, which your bank and your girlfriend are not going to like.’
‘She’s been wanting an excuse to change the drapes,’ Stryker said. ‘How about across the floor, out the front and around to the back door?’
‘I love the way you think.’
The shotgun was fastened to a kitchen chair and aimed at the kitchen door. An elaborate system of string and sticks ensured that the minute the kitchen door was half-open, whoever was on the other side would get blasted. Half a load from a twelve gauge at a range of four feet is sufficient to cause considerable mutilation, if not death.
‘Nice gun,’ Stryker said in a thin voice. He had been within two feet of opening the door earlier.
Neilson was throwing up into the sink. If he hadn’t tripped, he kept gasping between convulsions, if he hadn’t gone down on to his face before the thing went off . . .
‘Kind of a dumb set-up, seeing the way the door opens,’ Stryker observed, after a minute. He handed Neilson a towel from the rack. ‘If it opened out, a person would get the full charge. But it opens in. So why this door? Why only one barrel at a time? Why this whole thing?’
‘Somebody doesn’t like you,’ Neilson said, after rinsing his mouth, and washing and wiping his face. ‘I think it’s me.’
‘It could be,’ Stryker agreed, slowly.
Neilson looked at him over the towel. ‘I was joking, Jack.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Stryker said. He went over to the hall closet and began to look around for the fire extinguisher he’d bought years ago for just such exciting occasions.
NINETEEN
‘Are you crazy?’ Neilson demanded, when the television set had been successfully extinguished. ‘Of course we have to report this, Jack. Somebody set you up, tried to kill you . . .’
‘I noticed,’ Stryker said, drily. He was back on the couch, nursing his aching shoulder with a beer. Internal anaesthesia, an old Indian trick.
‘Forensic has to go over the gun, we need pictures . . .’
‘We need nothing,’ Stryker said. ‘Suppose we just let it all sit there for twenty-four hours – what harm will it do?’
Neilson stared at him. Slowly he sank down on the coffee table, wiping his face with his sleeve. The blood smeared but was not entirely removed. ‘It will give the bastard another twenty-four hours on the street, for one thing,’ he said. ‘Another twenty-four hours to finish you off and maybe somebody else, too.’
‘I want him,’ Stryker said.
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‘Great, sure, we all want him, Jack. And we’ll get him. But this time he’s varied his pattern and—’
‘No, you miss the point. I want him,’ Stryker reiterated.
‘Oh, shit,’ Neilson groaned. ‘Don’t give me that.’
‘Do me a favour – call the hospital, see if Tos is okay,’ Stryker said. ‘That much you can do, can’t you?’
Neilson stood up. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And then I call downtown.’
‘Just call the hospital, first.’
‘All right, all right, I’m calling the goddamn hospital,’ Neilson said, with the tone and expression of someone humouring a dangerous child. ‘Here I go – dialling away.’ After a muttered conversation, he replaced the receiver. ‘Tos is fine.’
‘Sure. Now call the hospital and make sure.’
‘But I just—’
‘Called Pinsky – now call the hospital, okay?’
Neilson stared at the back of Stryker’s head, visible over the back of the sofa that stood in the middle of the room. ‘You counted the clicks?’ he asked.
‘No – I read your lips. WILL YOU CALL THE GODDAMN HOSPITAL?’
‘Jesus – you sure get grouchy when people shoot at you,’ Neilson grumbled. This time he got through, verified that Toscarelli was still unconscious but perfectly sound otherwise, and relayed the information to Stryker. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Yeah – now put the phone down.’
‘Hell with that – I’m calling this in,’ Neilson said. Stryker stood up and turned to face him holding his revolver at waist level. ‘Put the phone down, Harvey. I mean it.’
Neilson stared at him, then replaced the phone in its cradle with a long, disgusted groan. ‘Oh, Jeeesus, Jack – cut it out.’
‘We’re going to wait for Ned. Sit down, Harvey.’ Stryker waved the gun toward the easy chair in the corner. The big soft one that was so comfortable – and so difficult to get out of quickly. ‘Sit down right there.’
‘I’d like to wash my face . . .’
‘Sit.’
Neilson sat.
About ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. They both went to answer it. Pinsky entered, saw Neilson’s bloodied face, Stryker’s drawn gun, and growled.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘This is the Psycho Ward,’ Neilson said. ‘He’s off his nut.’ Stryker waved them into the sitting room with his gun. Pinsky stopped in the doorway and stared. ‘What the hell?’
‘He’s been redecorating,’ Neilson said. ‘That’s what we’re supposed to pretend – that he’s been redecorating. What do you think of it, so far?’
‘It stinks,’ Pinsky said, wrinkling his nose. ‘Literally. Look, Jack – I haven’t had my dinner yet, I’m dead beat and—’
‘Sit,’ Stryker said. When they both just stared at him, he repeated it. ‘SIT DOWN, GODDAMMIT!’
They sat.
Stryker stood in front of them, gun still drawn. His face was white with weariness and pain, and his eyes sparked in the light from the low lamps. ‘I think a cop is doing this,’ he said.
They looked at each other, and then back at him.
‘You heard me,’ Stryker said, his voice rising. ‘A cop. I think it’s a cop. It has to be a cop.’ He waved the gun at Neilson, who almost didn’t flinch. ‘Who else could find out where any officer was at any given time? And that they were alone? Who would know habits, schedules, movements? Maybe he even put false calls through Despatch to draw them to where he could get them. Who else would have a radio to pick up the calls?’
‘Almost anybody with the money to buy one,’ Pinsky said, calmly. ‘You’re not making any sense. Put the gun down, Jack, for crying out loud.’
‘No, not until you promise to give me time to get the bastard. I want a twenty-four-hour guard on Tos, I want a driver who will do what I say, I want access to the computer, and I want—’
Pinsky stood up. ‘I don’t give a shit what you want,’ he said, angrily. ‘Put down the goddamn gun.’
Stryker began to back up. ‘I’ll shoot you, Ned.’
‘Like hell you will,’ Pinsky said. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Jack. Give me the gun and go to bed. We’ll handle all this. If it’s a cop, if it’s whoever – we’ll get him. Leave it to us.’ He waved down Stryker’s attempted interruption, and he kept coming. ‘Don’t you think we’re good at what we do? Didn’t you teach me all you know? Didn’t you?’ As he spoke he reached out a long arm and snatched the gun from Stryker’s hand. He checked the safety and it was on – as he knew it would be.
He put the gun in his pocket. Gently, he pushed Stryker backwards until he came up against the sofa. Then he pressed on his good shoulder and made Stryker sit down. ‘He’s just tired,’ he said to Neilson, as if that explained everything.
‘He’s nuts,’ Neilson said, annoyed with himself for not facing Stryker down. But goddammit, the son of a bitch was scary when he was mad.
‘Now tell me what happened,’ Pinsky said to Neilson. Neilson told him. Throughout, Stryker sat on the couch, head down, saying nothing – a man defeated before he’d begun.
When Neilson had finished, Pinsky went out into the kitchen and looked around, then came back in. ‘I’m phoning this in,’ he said, reaching for the phone.
‘No, don’t . . .’ Stryker said.
‘Sorry, Jack – you know it has to be done,’ Pinsky said, firmly. ‘Some rules I’ll bend, but not this time. It’s for your own good.’
‘Dammit, listen to me!’ Stryker shouted. He reiterated the things he’d said before. ‘What’s more, I think I know who it is. I think it’s Tim Leary.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Pinsky said. His hand was still on the phone, but the receiver remained in the cradle.
‘You didn’t think it was interesting before,’ Neilson reminded him.
‘He didn’t say it was Leary before,’ Pinsky said. ‘He only said “a cop”.’
‘Why should Leary go around killing police officers?’ Neilson demanded.
‘Because he hates the Department,’ Stryker said. ‘He hates all of us. You can see it in his eyes. You were in court, Ned. You were at the Bronkowsky trial. You saw how he looks at the rest of us, you must have seen the hate in his eyes. He wants to bring us down but they won’t let him testify, so he’s taking another route, he’s picking us off, one by one, and he’s going to go on doing it until somebody stops him.’
‘I’m not sure I buy that,’ Pinsky said, slowly. ‘Isn’t he under surveillance by IAD?’
‘No,’ Stryker said. ‘I phoned up and asked.’
‘Isn’t anybody watching him?’ Neilson demanded.
‘No,’ Stryker said.
‘Jesus – why not?’
‘You tell me.’
Pinsky and Neilson exchanged a glance. ‘Friends?’ Pinsky postulated.
‘He knows things?’ Neilson countered.
‘Take your pick,’ Stryker said.
‘And you think he did this?’ Pinsky asked, gesturing first toward the kitchen and then the gutted television set.
‘Who else could it be, for crying out loud?’ Stryker demanded. ‘I’ll bet if we track back we can find some connection between Leary and all the officers who’ve gone down. But he messed up with Tos and me. Twice with me, now. And he’s probably going to try again. He’s crazy – he must be, but he’s too smart to let it show.’
‘Then you and Tos should have protection,’ Pinsky said.
‘Tos, yes, but I don’t—’ Stryker began, then stopped. From outside there came the sudden sound of an approaching siren.
Neilson went to the window and looked out. ‘Looks like somebody on the block believes in the good neighbour policy. We got a black and white out front and two uniforms coming up the path.’
‘Damn, damn, DAMN!’ Stryker howled.
&
nbsp; Pinsky glanced at Neilson. ‘And just when things were going so well,’ he said.
TWENTY
The hospital room was dark and quiet, save for the hum and click of the machines monitoring the still comatose Toscarelli. Stryker, looking haggard and furtive, slouched across to the chair beside the bed, and sank into it. He looked at Tos’s profile, and sighed.
‘The thing is, no matter what Pinsky does, he’s not going to get anyone over here before morning, is he? That’s assuming he gets permission for anyone at all,’ Stryker said. ‘So the way it’s going to be is, I’m going to sit here until your mother comes, right? I don’t think anybody can get past your old lady and your sister, Marina. She may look like an angel, but she’s got bony knuckles. If I tell her the score even the nurses may have trouble getting to you.’
Tos said nothing.
‘And if Pinsky can’t talk Klotzman into detailing protection, then I’ll be back tomorrow night, again. Any objections?’
Apparently Tos had no objections.
‘The way I’m thinking at the moment, it looks like Leary,’ Stryker went on, conversationally. ‘And what I want is, I want to be loose, you know? You know how I like to be loose to move around, right?’
Tos knew.
Stryker told him about all the thinking he’d done, and the phonecalls he’d made, sitting in his office during the long afternoon, putting it together. And, finally, he told him about the shotgun. ‘So I did a number back at the house. When Klotzman came along after all the local precinct boys, and started doing his paternal act, I collapsed with the strain, right? It was pitiful. Neilson had to carry me upstairs. I was a wreck. And then Pinsky called my doctor, who is a very old friend, and he promised Klotzman he would send me to a nursing home out of town, where I’d be safe. That’s where I am now, at the nursing home near Philadelphia, resting easy and behaving myself. Look at my face – see how I’m enjoying myself?’
Tos wouldn’t give him away.
‘Now, tomorrow, I’m going after Leary for you. I’m going to tag on his ass until he can’t break wind without tarnishing my belt buckle. And I’m going to nail him. Godammit, I’m going to nail him good.’
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