by Dane Hartman
Callahan got back inside just as Big Ed Mohamid’s body was being carried down the hall to the morgue. Devlin wandered over to stand by Harry in the brightly lit cellar passage.
“I guess we’ll never know whether he was guilty or not,” Fatso said about the late black leader.
Harry considered telling Devlin everything. Just as quickly he decided not to. Harry had learned the hard way not to divulge dangerous information unless the listener was directly threatened by the danger. He had lost his fourth partner that way. Inspector Early Smith had been blown to kingdom come by a mailbox bomb after Harry filled him in on a vigilante force inside the police department.
“I guess not,” he said to Devlin.
The black man Harry had called Fish tore around his North Beach apartment, hurling things into an open suitcase on his living room floor. He wanted to take along only his necessities, but he couldn’t find them. The checkbook, the bank book, and his clothes were all there, but he couldn’t find his .32. The snubnose he usually kept behind the refrigerator was gone. The black man had stopped to think where he might have put it when the bathroom door opened.
Two of his brothers, who both had been in the Cadillac that night, burst out from the doorway and grabbed the black man by the sink. The gentle white man with the hair and cheekbones followed at a more leisurely pace.
The black brothers grabbed one arm each and pinned Fish to the front of his gas stove.
“Anthony did not report within his allotted time,” the gentleman said quietly. “We began to worry.”
The gentleman civilly reached down and turned on the gas for the burner directly below Fish’s head. The black man smelled the fumes as they rolled across his face.
The captor to his right grabbed his hair and pushed his face inches from the burner. The gentleman, meanwhile, had pulled out a pipe from his jacket pocket. He slowly packed it and damped it down while Fish choked and coughed. Finally he pulled out a boxed kitchen match. He lit it as well as his pipe. But he did not shake it out. The message was clear.
“Give me a reason not to kill you,” the gentleman requested.
C H A P T E R
S i x
Lynne McConnell was feeling good about herself. The way she should, about herself. She had signed up for five courses, including Independent Filmmakers’ Spectrum, went to five different apartment interviews, spent some time touring the campus, and just generally shook her bootie all over the place. It was what, in her experience, one might call a “Pepsi day.”
It was a good beginning to what looked to be a long stake-out. Although she had played the vivacious country girl, outgoing and guileless, during continuous conversations with whoever was around, she figured it wouldn’t be until she started taking the classes that Hinkle would notice her. But when he did, he only had to ask around or check her registration to get the fake story.
In the meantime, she had gotten a room at the Berkeley Inn Hotel until she heard from the landlords about the various available apartments. The handsome red brick building was a couple of blocks away from the campus. It was pretty drab but clean. It had telephones in the rooms but not a john. One had to go down the hall for that.
McConnell changed from her sweater and jeans to a slightly more revealing combination of a light plaid skirt and an elastic tube top with shoulder straps. She slipped on some medium-heeled cork sandals and prepared to go downstairs for dinner. She sat on the edge of the bed and wondered whether she should report in before or after she ate.
She looked around the room. No TV and hardly enough room to play solitaire. It was going to be a long night, she decided. She’d save her phone calls for later. She hopped off the sagging bed, pulled a light jacket out of her open suitcase on the chair, and left the room.
She passed an old washwoman halfway down the hall. The lady was toiling on the floor outside the ladies room. It made quite a picture. Lynne felt positively gothic in the declining hotel’s graying hall way lit by fading yellow bulbs. The old woman toiling on her hands and knees completed the image. She was suddenly very eager to get out, but figured she’d better visit the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” McConnell said to the maid as she skipped around her, pushed open the door, and entered the white tiled bath. She got a glimpse of streaked hair and looped earrings under the washwoman’s kerchief before she took in the rustic charm of the washroom. It was fairly classic. Two sinks on the right wall. Two enclosed toilets on the left wall. An old, pull-down window on the far wall, complete with chain, and a table behind the entrance door, outfitted with special makeup mirrors.
McConnell went into the bathroom, washed her hands, and sat down in front of the mirror to touch up her face. There was not much to do. Her mascara and eye liner had made it through the day. Perhaps just a touch more highlight on her cheeks and some lip gloss. She set about her work, just as the door opened and the washwoman pulled her pail, brush, and mop in. Without turning around, she too set about her work.
McConnell smiled mirthlessly at the washwoman’s back, comparing their respective duties. Well, she thought, turning back to the mirror, there, but for the grace of God, go I. As she touched up her cheeks, there was movement in the corner of her eye. Her peripheral vision picked it up, but McConnell didn’t see the washwoman lean down and pull a sponge out of a plastic bag next to her pail. She didn’t redly notice the washwoman mopping the front section of the floor so that she wound up directly behind her.
No, McConnell was too involved in making herself the most attractive target possible to feel the cross hairs on her. She stood up, pushing back the chair, and leaned over a few inches from the mirror to apply the lip gloss. She dipped the wand in the holder. She held the applicator up. And the washwoman pushed her forehead into the glass.
A sharp crack sounded in the washroom. A sharp crack broke across the mirror. A thunder clap and a lightning bolt of pain rifled into her brain. Her reflection disappeared under a heavy red curtain. She felt her legs give out. She felt her hands grab the edge of the makeup table. She tried to turn and fight.
The washwoman helped her. Suddenly tall and fast, the washwoman spun the groggy girl around, bent her backward over the table, jammed her knee up McConnell’s skirt and between her legs until the policewoman’s crotch stopped it, and clamped the sodden sponge over McConnell’s mouth.
As the pain on her forehead diminished and her vision cleared, a different sensation took over. For a split second McConnell could see the washwoman’s young face snarling with glee. She could see the washwoman’s muscular arm vibrating with pressure. She could see the craggy, soft thing over her mouth and nose. She brought her fists up only to feel them stop and float in midair. The white tile all around her began to grow fuzz. The washwoman’s face turned a deep orange then began to wash away.
She felt the small of her back against the edge of the table. She felt her feet slipping across the floor. She felt her arms drop. She smelled the sickly sweet aroma of the chloroform. The whole image of what was happening to her stopped and strobed. Then purple, exploding darkness.
The woman checked the outside hall. No one else was on the floor. She went to the door opposite the lavatory and knocked once. The gentleman flung it open. They both went back to the john, carried the girl to the room they had reserved that evening, and went to work on her.
Harry couldn’t wait anymore. He had had a tough afternoon. Between filling out the forms on Tony’s no-last-name arrest, checking with the vice squad to see if Lynne had reported, running to the hospital to see if the bald man had come out of his blood-loss coma, and filing to get a search warrant for Madame’s, Harry was doing a lot but getting nothing done.
When McConnell hadn’t reported in by five, Callahan figured he’d take a drive over to the campus on his own time. Maybe he’d drop by Emeryville on his way back for a quick drink. When the Emeryville exit came up on Route 80, however, Harry took it. He stopped by the nearest gas station, had the attendant fill the tank, and headed for th
e pay phone.
No, Harry thought. He couldn’t risk blowing McConnell’s cover no matter how much he’d like to see her. Dialing vice’s number, Harry cursed himself. Her femininity was affecting his job. He had been seriously considering doing something he never would have considered doing to a fellow male officer. When was the last time he had risked blowing a guy’s cover to join him for dinner?
Ron Caputo of Missing Persons answered. He had been on the case since Rose Ray had been officially reported missing.
“No, nothing yet, Harry,” he said. “The vice boys say it isn’t like her to wait this long.”
“How about her guardian angel?” Callahan inquired. “He report in yet?”
“Yeah, at about 4:30,” Caputo answered. “He said he was still waiting for her to contact him as to where she’d be staying the night.”
“Where’s he staying?”
“The Berkeley Youth Hostel on Harrison Street,” the Missing Person’s man replied. “He’s going under the cover name of Mike Porter.”
“Mike Porter. Got it,” Harry said. “Thanks Ron.” After he had hung up, Harry checked his watch. It was 5:45. Depression gnawed at him again. The case was slipping out of his control. He paced back to his car, cursing McConnell this time. Trust a woman to be unprofessional, he caught himself thinking. Once he had gotten behind the wheel, however, he realized McConnell would never have allowed herself to be late unless there was a good reason. She may not want to be one of the boys, but she had too much pride in herself to be unprofessional. Something had to be going on. Or something had to be wrong.
Harry got back on Route 80 and sped up to Berkeley like he had his siren on. He made it to Harrison Street in record time. The deskman at the Youth Hostel was impressed by the rugged-looking man in the brown tweed jacket. Usually they only got pimply-faced, bearded transients in the five-dollar-a-night crash pad. He pointed the tall man back toward the rear of the first floor dormitory.
“Popular guy,” the desk man commented as Harry moved away. “You’re the second one who asked for him tonight.”
Harry stopped in his tracks. “A woman?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” the deskman assured him. “A man.”
A chill swam across Harry’s shoulders. “What did he look like?”
“Oh, medium height. Brown hair. Gorgeous facial structure.”
“High cheekbones?” Harry pressed. “Did he look . . . gentle?”
“Positively angelic,” the desk man concurred. Harry turned away, his expression as set and ashen as rock. “Now, now,” the effeminate deskman called as Harry strode toward Porter’s bed, “no jealousy!”
The hostel was set up the same as many bowery flophouses. There was simply a row of bunk beds against each wall with an aisle down the middle. The second floor was the same, only reserved for girls. The third floor had a couple of rooms reserved for couples. Harry walked to the very end of the aisle. He looked back at the front desk. The man there pointed to the left. Harry approached the sleeping structure. There was a young man reading on the bottom bunk and another sleeping on the top.
“Mike?” Harry asked the reading one.
Without looking up, the reader motioned toward the top bunk with his thumb. Harry moved closer. The one on top was sleeping on his stomach with the pillow over his head.
“Mike?” Harry asked again. No answer.
Harry lifted the pillow. The undercover vice cop’s head was turned in his direction. Porter’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was scrunched against the mattress. He looked right through Harry. Callahan took hold of his arm and lifted. Sunday editions of both the Los Angeles Times and San Francisco Examiner were stuck between the corpse’s chest and the bed. They were almost completely soaked through with blood.
Harry put the man back into place. He moved silently back to the aisle, then slowly at first but with increasing speed, walked out of the hostel.
“Have a nice night!” the deskman called after him.
Harry ran down the one block to Telegraph Avenue and the campus. He raced into the Student Union to find a map. A different girl was behind the Information desk, but she told him how to get to the Registrar. Harry tried to figure out what happened on the way there.
Somehow the slavers had discovered Porter’s presence on the scene. And if they had gotten to him, they must have known about McConnell as well. The only thing Harry couldn’t fathom was how. It was impossible unless there was someone on the inside. Harry ran across the street, past the Golden Bear Restaurant. On the window was a sign that read, “Fresh Vegetables, Freshly Baked Desserts, Fresh Fish.”
The face of a black man came into Harry’s brain. He nearly stopped when the pieces fell together, but when he realized the meaning of the situation, he ran even faster. The Registrar’s office was cooperative when they saw his badge. He just prayed that McConnell had put where she was staying on the college application. After too long a time to suit Callahan, a lady with lead-colored hair found Jo Frawley’s sheet. Harry grabbed it out of her hand. He skimmed down the page until he saw “Berkeley Inn Hotel.”
By the time he got back to his car, his chest felt like the inside of a Brillo pad. He pulled the door open, fell in, and pushed the key into the ignition. This trip he turned on his siren and stuck the flashing bulb up on the roof. He turned onto Haste Street seconds later, driving right up onto the hotel’s lawn. He took in the street scene completely as he ran toward the lobby. Parked cars, a van, a carpet-cleaning truck, and a lot of motorcycles.
Harry stormed into the oak-paneled lobby with his gun out. He vaulted over two couches and grabbed the deskman by the collar.
“Lynne . . . I mean Jo Frawley,” he shouted. “Police business!”
The desk man had lived through the student riots of the sixties. He took orders very well. He gave Harry a number on the third floor.
Harry took the steps two at a time, his legs beginning to feel like cooked macaroni. He went up to Lynne’s door and kicked it open. The room was empty. He was about to spin around when he heard a loud engine roar into life below her window. Harry jumped over the bed and threw up the glass.
Below, on the street, he saw the carpet-cleaning truck rev its engine. In the back of the truck he saw two figures in overalls loading a large, rolled-up green carpet.
“Hold it!” Harry shouted out the window. “Freeze!”
The motor was too loud for him to be heard from so high up. He pointed his weapon out the window. He stopped just before he pulled the trigger. The carpet men didn’t know he was there yet. If he fired, they’d either assume it was another vehicle backfiring or he’d give himself away prematurely.
Instead he turned and headed back down the stairs, grabbing the banisters in both hands and swinging down the flights one half at a time. He raced across the lobby shouting at the deskman as he went.
“Call the police! Carpet truck pointed north on Haste!” Harry didn’t care whether the hotel man responded or not. He’d take care of it as soon as he got into his car.
His adrenalin keeping his weary limbs pumping, Callahan dashed around the side of the building. The carpet truck was pulling out into the road. Instead of trying to catch up on foot, Harry sprinted to his vehicle on the lawn. He was in with the motor running before the truck had even gotten to the corner. Harry backed off the grass, ripping off huge divots as he went.
The truck rumbled slowly off to the north. Harry whirled his car to the east. He screamed around the corner parallel to the truck, almost wiping out three motorcyclists in the process. He wrenched the wheel to the side, narrowly missing the helmeted trio. Two screamed by him on one bike, the driver’s girlfriend clutching him tightly around the waist. Harry saw his own reflection in the full head gear they wore. The second bike swerved onto the sidewalk to give Callahan’s car plenty of room. The second driver shook a fist at him as he screeched down the remainder of the street.
He took his first left, his car veering all the way acro
ss the road. He pulled it back straight and located the rear of the carpet truck barreling down a hill a block away. Harry tore down the almost deserted college street, passing what cars there were with reckless abandon.
Harry went through the stop sign at the intersection where the carpet truck had turned left. Another car was trying to get through. Harry spun his wheel to the right, but it wasn’t enough. He was slammed into the dashboard and his unmarked police car got a mark all the way down the side. The other car’s headlights were smashed off and it spun sideways, blocking Haste Street. Harry jammed down the accelerator and kept going.
He catapulted off the top of the hill going sixty miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. All four wheels left the concrete for two seconds, then he crashed back down, his shocks singing with the pressure. The big police car waffled across the line, then straightened.
Harry saw the carpet truck at the bottom of the hill. It had slowed for a red light that was turning green. Its right-hand blinker was on. Harry hauled out his .44 with his right hand, then slapped it into his left. He gripped the steering wheel with his knees and slapped his right hand on the horn. The car shrieked down the hill while Harry took aim.
He was fifty feet away when he fired. The right rear tire on the carpet truck blew just as it was taking the corner. Harry threw his gun to the seat and grabbed the wheel with both hands. He turned the car right for the sidewalk corner. Before the truck could accelerate even with the flat, Harry’s car had jumped the curb, smashed into a crowd of garbage cans and skidded broadside in front of the six-wheeler.
Harry propelled himself out the open window, his Magnum in hand. The burly truck driver was getting out of the cab, his mouth on automatic, when he saw Harry’s gun. He threw himself back against the fender, his hands up. Harry grabbed him by the shoulder, whirled him around, and threw him toward the rear of the truck.