L.A. Wars

by Randy Wayne White

  Flaherty rocked forward on his toes, and pursed his lips as if about to whistle. “Yes,” he said. “A great shock to the average peace-loving vacationer, I suppose.” He looked at Hawker and smiled. “And to you, too, Miss Melanie St. John. Yes, I recognize you. And who wouldn’t? I must admit to being a great fan of yours. Yes, it’s true. In fact my dear wife, Irene, becomes quite jealous when I go to one of your movies—can you imagine? And me the father of four lovely daughters. Not a son to my name, but I couldn’t be happier. I sometimes chide my daughters by referring to them as ‘my four misses.’

  Immediately put at ease by Flaherty, Melanie’s laughter was genuine. Hawker wanted to warn her once again to be careful. He didn’t get the chance. “Mr. Hawker, would you mind if I questioned Miss St. John alone? I’d ask her to sit in the car with me, but the impropriety of that—what with Irene being already a bit jealous …”

  Hawker stood. “I can go for a walk outside.”

  Flaherty disapproved—but diplomatically. “It might be better if you waited in the cottage. Wouldn’t want an accomplice to get you—ha ha. Oh, and close the door behind you, Mr. Hawker.”

  Hawker found a book and read as the cops worked in the bedroom. They traced the outline of the corpse on the floor in blue chalk. They measured the distance between the dead man and the bullet holes in the bed and wall. The lab truck arrived, and they lifted a selection of fingerprints. Hawker’s Walther and the dead man’s revolver were dutifully placed in plastic sacks and labeled. They gave Hawker a receipt.

  A coroner’s wagon pulled up and they carted the body away. Hawker followed the gurney onto the porch and was surprised to find that Flaherty was alone, going over his notes.

  “Ah, Mr. Hawker.” He smiled. “I was just about to call you. Miss St. John was very tired, so I suggested she go home and go to bed.”

  “Very thoughtful of you, Lieutenant,” Hawker said wryly.

  “Uh, oh. Something in your voice, Mr. Hawker, tells me I may have stood in the way of romance.”

  “Not at all—”

  One of the policemen interrupted, asking for instructions. Flaherty dismissed him with perfunctory orders about reports in the afternoon.

  Hawker recognized it as a premeditated move to leave the two of them alone.

  “Drink, Lieutenant?”

  “Drink as in ‘alcohol’?”

  “I’ve got some herb tea.”

  “Ah, that would be very nice. One week out of every four I have to work the late shift, and I’ve always had trouble sleeping during the day. My wife says it’s because of the coffee I drink. Irene would approve of herb tea. With honey, if you have it.”

  Hawker put water on. He changed into a shirt and pants while it heated. He steeped the tea in mugs, and carried the mugs onto the porch.

  Flaherty took it appreciatively. “So tell me, Mr. Hawker, how long were you a policeman? Or perhaps you still are?”

  Hawker sat opposite him, trying not to look surprised. “Did Melanie tell you to ask that?”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Flaherty sipped at his tea. “I get so bored when I work the late shift that I make myself play little games of deduction—to keep my mind alert, you see. I wasn’t blessed with the quick wit some of my fellow officers have, so I must work at it.”

  “I’ll bet,” Hawker said dryly.

  “No, it’s true. But, all modesty aside, I really am getting quite good at it. I’ll let you be the judge.” Flaherty straightened himself in the chair, as if about to recite in school. “Let’s see if I can get it all straight. Yes. A stranger breaks into your house. He tries to kill you, but you kill him instead. Like a good citizen, you immediately notify the police. But do you call the emergency number? No.”

  “Why tie up the emergency line?” Hawker asked in defense. “Someone really in trouble could have been trying to call. The man was dead. It was no longer an emergency.”

  Flaherty held up one finger in exclamation. “Exactly. You called the main desk and asked to be transferred to homicide. Your statement to me was a model of clarity. Just the right amount of information in just the right order. No gasping and crying, no confused rhetoric about the horror of killing, and no feverish plea to believe that you had absolutely no choice—all of which one might expect from the common citizen.” Flaherty put his tea down and smiled. “Don’t you see the many opportunities for deduction here?”

  Hawker did. He said nothing.

  The detective continued. “After our brief conversation on the telephone, I already knew you were familiar with police procedure—and that you were experienced enough not to be upset by the use of deadly force. Deduction: you were either a cop, a crook, or a police reporter. I took the liberty of running an NCIC check on you on the trip out. Results, I am happy to say, were negative—if you gave me your proper name. And if you didn’t, we will find out soon enough. That left cop or reporter. I noticed your complicated-looking computer inside and, for a short time, I decided you were a reporter. But it’s the rare reporter who can react quickly to armed assault. And I’ve yet to meet the reporter, thank God, who can make three perfect shots while under fire. Two in the kneecap, one through the brain. Final deduction: you, Mr. Hawker, are a cop. Or an ex-cop.”

  “Ex-cop,” said Hawker. “Chicago.”

  “Chicago, is it? There’s a fine city. Why did you quit?”

  “Personal reasons.” Hawker smiled. “But why ask? Tomorrow, when you get into the office, you’ll make a phone call and have the Chicago department feed you a complete dossier.”

  Flaherty chuckled. “Why wait until tomorrow?” He checked his watch. “I don’t go off duty for another two hours. Dreadful schedule, eh? Anyway, I suspect I’ll have the information before sunrise.” He flipped his notebook shut and stood as if to go.

  “No questions about what happened?” asked Hawker, amused.

  Flaherty shrugged. “Miss St. John gave me a very clear statement. If she was telling the truth, I have no doubt your story would only be repetitious. If she was lying, you two had sufficient time to make sure you both told the same story. That, too, would be repetitious. So, until we get some data on the dead man, there’s little more to know. But you may be sure, Mr. Hawker, that I will be back if I have even the slightest suspicion that you killed the man for any reason other than self-defense.”

  “Never doubted it for a moment,” said Hawker.

  “Fine. Well, I’ll be leaving, then, Mr. Hawker.” Flaherty stopped to yawn in the doorway of the porch. “It’s been a busy night for both of us.”

  “It has been that,” said Hawker, suddenly alert. He sensed a trap.

  Flaherty flashed a disarming smile. “Of course, you were more delightfully employed than I—spending the whole of the evening with the beautiful Miss St. John.”

  “I wish that were true. Unfortunately, Melanie didn’t come by until very late.”

  “No? I could have sworn she told me she’d been with you all evening.” He held up one finger again, nodding. “Well, now I remember—I guess I just assumed you had been together. It’s the romantic in me. I pictured the sunset walk, the late dinner. My dear Irene wouldn’t like it, of course, if I allowed myself to speculate further.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Lieutenant,” Hawker said easily. “I spent most of the evening alone. I unplugged the phone and buried myself in computer books. It’s a hobby of mine.”

  “Is that so? And not a single soul stopped by to bother you, I suppose?”

  “Not until Melanie showed up. Of course, I was in bed by then.”

  “Of course, of course.” Hawker felt the detective’s prism eyes lock onto his. “Well, I am envious, Mr. Hawker. Quite envious. You could never guess how I spent the evening. Investigating more killings. Oh, it’s an ugly business, police-work. You were smart to get out of it. Yes, there’s been a terrible rash of killings in the Starnsdale slums. Street gangs, you know. Like a pack of animals. They’d cut your throat for a dime. But lately only the gang memb
ers themselves have been getting themselves killed. Strange, eh?”

  “We had a few street gangs in Chicago, Lieutenant. Nothing they did would surprise me.”

  “Oh? Well, you’re right. I suppose. They’re absolutely without scruples. The strange thing is, though, they usually blame the killings on another gang. But lately—you may find this interesting, Mr. Hawker—lately they’ve been blaming them on some mysterious red-haired man. Can you imagine? They seem absolutely terrified of him. After every killing he leaves his mark: the outline of a big bird of prey. An eagle, maybe”—Flaherty’s eyes bore into his—“or a hawk. Of course, they’re probably making it all up—consummate liars that they are. Even so, imagine my surprise when I arrived to investigate the fourth killing of the evening and found myself greeted by a red-haired ex-policeman named Hawker.”

  “Quite a coincidence,” said Hawker.

  Flaherty nodded. He walked down the steps into the yard before stopping. “Do you know what the hardest thing about investigating those killings is, Mr. Hawker?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me, Lieutenant.”

  “The toughest thing is making myself care. I’m sure, as an ex-policeman, you will understand. Every street-gang member killed had a record as long as your arm. They roam those slums like rabid dogs. No human being in the area is safe as long as they are allowed to go free. So I just don’t care if someone takes the risk of killing them. In fact I’m rather glad because—as I’m sure you found out—the courts are all too willing to see our hard-earned arrests go free.”

  “It’s frustrating,” Hawker agreed mildly.

  “Isn’t it, though? Yes, I’ve often thought the country would be much better off if the police were allowed to punish certain criminals right at the scene of the crime. Save the taxpayers so much money. Yes, like all cops, I suppose, I occasionally daydream about how nice it would be … how just it would be … to occasionally take the law into our own hands.”

  “Police work can push even honest cops to the far right.”

  “Worse than that,” said Lieutenant Detective Flaherty. “Now I’ve got to hunt this mysterious red-haired man down—this benefactor of citizen and policeman alike—and see to it that he goes to prison. Not a pleasant task, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I don’t envy you,” said Hawker.

  Flaherty pulled the hat down low over his ears and studied the dark morning sky, as if looking for rain. “Take care of yourself, Mr. James Hawker. Walking a tightrope is a dangerous business at best.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hawker. “And I will.”

  thirteen

  Hawker spent the next three days performing the innocent ceremonies of a man vacationing in California.

  He was being followed. And he damn well knew it.

  Hawker dutifully put in some dull afternoons as a tourist. His only satisfaction was in knowing that Flaherty would find it even more boring than he did.

  The only things he did that were less than touristlike were to attend two Hillsboro watch meetings and the funeral of Julie Kahl.

  The neighborhood watch meetings went without incident. Even the mountainous Sully McGraw seemed resigned to Hawker’s leadership role—even though he was still less than friendly after the beating Hawker had given him. John Cranshaw said McGraw had decided to stay in the group because one of his pawnshops had recently been broken into—probably by street-gang hoods—and he was determined to get revenge.

  The progress the group was making was impressive. The rape and murder of Virgil Kahl’s daughter had unified the men as nothing else could. They worked with a brutal intensity toward one common goal: to throw off the shackles of fear which hobbled their community.

  Julie Kahl’s funeral was held on a summer-bright Monday morning. Hawker hated funerals, but he felt his presence was required. At Melanie St. John’s insistence Hawker had given her a heavily edited account of his reasons for being in California. She was anything but dumb, and it was obvious he wasn’t in L.A. looking for work. Hawker decided she deserved a more reasonable explanation, so he told her he was a private detective who was doing a favor for a friend. He said he had come out to investigate Julie Kahl’s murder.

  It was almost the truth, and Melanie accepted the story with a promise to help him if she could.

  Hawker said she could start by going to the funeral with him. She agreed, and seemed to be as touched as Hawker by the number of teenagers and adults who came to pay their last respects.

  Close to tears as they lowered the casket into the ground, Melanie had whispered in his ear, “Oh, James, I’m just realizing what a dirty town this is … and what an awful business I’m in.”

  “It could happen anywhere, Mel—and does. And Julie Kahl had nothing to do with the film business. She was just another victim.”

  “But her father’s in it … and I think I’ve seen her around the lot.… Oh, hell, I don’t know what I mean. The business seems to be cursed with tragedy, and it seems to rub off on everyone. I’ve almost decided to quit, James. Maybe quit and move to some quiet midwestern town and marry some good man and raise fat babies.”

  Hawker felt her hand slip into his. He squeezed her hand and said nothing.

  But aside from those two meetings and the funeral—all of which could be explained innocently—Hawker strictly played tourist.

  The shrewdness of Lieutenant Walter Flaherty was not to be underestimated.

  So he drove to Hollywood and matched handprints on the sidewalk of stars (and was surprised to find that Melanie had recently been immortalized there). He paid the admission price and toured Twentieth Century-Fox studios at Century City. He visited the Farmers Market, the La Brea tar pits, and took a bus tour of the homes of movie and television celebrities.

  At Marina del Rey he lost Flaherty by strolling into the marina office, then running out the service entrance. He circled back to the black Ford and tapped Flaherty on the elbow.

  “What? Oh!” Laughing, Flaherty touched his chest, startled. “What a turn you gave me.”

  “Just wanted to say good afternoon. Lieutenant.”

  “And a good afternoon to you, Detective Hawker.” Flaherty grinned. “You see, I did contact Chicago and get your dossier. And I must admit that I am impressed. Yes, indeed, quite impressed. I suspected you were a cop, but I had no idea you were one of the most decorated cops in Chicago’s history. Medals for heroic service. Citations for bravery. Wounded twice in the line of duty. Founder of the Chicago SWAT team. Why, it’s an honor to be following you.”

  “How’d you like the tar pits, Lieutenant?”

  “Ah, all those poor animals. It fairly melts my heart to think of the poor dumb brutes sinking into the mire—even if it was a million years ago.”

  “I’ve got a soft spot for reptiles myself.”

  Flaherty held up an index finger in characteristic exclamation. “Two curious things have happened since I started following you, Detective Hawker.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes. And those curious things are: one, the killings in the Starnsdale slums have stopped; two, yesterday I received a package in the mail from an anonymous source.

  “The package contained what appears to be a folder from someone’s file. A very interesting file it is, too. Sloppily done, and hard to understand in some places, but it seems to be a record of illegal transactions by one of our beloved street gangs. Strange that a street gang would keep files, eh? It almost suggests some strong organizing force behind them, doesn’t it?”

  “Like I told you, nothing they did would surprise me—speaking from my experiences in Chicago, anyway.” Hawker didn’t add, of course, that he had sent Flaherty the file.

  “Quite right, too,” Flaherty agreed. “At any rate, this mysterious file mentions one very surprising name. Several times, in fact. It would be inappropriate for me to give the name to you—quiet, peace-loving vacationer that you are—but I will say that we are having the individual
followed.”

  “Hope this person is enjoying it as much as I am.”

  “And one more bit of news, Detective Hawker. The man who broke into your cottage was a smalltime drug dealer by the name of Conor Phelan. He was also suspected of being a PCP manufacturer. Angel dust. Ugly stuff that has turned more than one adolescent’s brain to jelly.”

  “Conor Phelan? Sounds Irish, Lieutenant.”

  “A shame it is, too. And the rest of us have done so well as crooked union leaders and politicians—”

  “And cops.”

  “Yes, and crooked cops, too.” Flaherty checked his watch. “Will you be killing anyone for the next hour or so, Detective Hawker?”

  “I don’t have any immediate plans.”

  “What good news that is. I like to eat my lunch in peace.”

  The next day a different car followed Hawker. Hawker wondered if Flaherty was giving up, or if he just had something more important going.

  It was his fourth day as a tourist, and he was getting antsy. He decided he could get a little work done under the guise of tourism, and maybe even rig it so he could slip out that night.

  Hawker stopped at a custom T-shirt shop and drew the design he wanted on a piece of paper. The girl at the counter became instantly solicitous when he pulled two one-hundred-dollar bills out of his pocket and paid in advance.

  Yes, sir, the shirts would be ready tomorrow. Yes, sir, they could certainly be delivered. Thank you, sir, and please call again.

  Hawker had smiled and said he would—knowing full well he wouldn’t.

  His work was almost done in California. For that he was glad. He had come to associate the acid smell of Los Angeles with the profiteering stench of his enemy.

  He would be glad to leave both far behind.

  He would miss Melanie St. John. But he planned to get in touch with her later, maybe have her meet him in Chicago. Or Florida.

  As he drove toward Hollywood, Hawker tested his own emotion electrodes, wondering how much he really felt for the actress. She had said that she loved him. But love, he had found, was a very cheap word in the film industry. As he drove, Hawker amused himself with the proper wording of another of his social truisms: