Yet if Williams had listened to a radio or seen the TV or read a newspaper today, he was already warned. All day the media had been featuring the Masked Man. At that moment Williams could be a thousand miles away, running hard. If the “mastermind” theory was correct, the letter writer could have recruited one hit man for each job, then gotten him out of town immediately after the job was done. But, playing the odds, we had twenty of the Detective Bureau’s best men on the stakeout.
We were parked twenty-five feet from the building’s entrance. In the front seat, Canelli slumped down behind the wheel, surreptitiously speaking into his walkie-talkie, asking for position checks from Williams’ apartment, the neighbors’ apartment, the hallway, the roof, both fire escapes and the porno shop. For the fiftieth time, I focused a small penlight beam on our copy of Williams’ picture. The picture had been taken two years ago, and portrayed an utterly average Caucasian male: muddy-eyed, weak-featured, nondescript. If anything about his appearance had changed since the picture was taken—if his hair was longer, or he’d grown a moustache or he now wore glasses—I’d never recognize him.
Canelli echoed my thoughts: “These mug pictures sure don’t help much making street identifications. I don’t see why they don’t show the guy dressed the way he really dresses.”
“Styles change, though.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean.” Canelli sighed, resettling himself behind the steering wheel—all the time with his eyes on the street. His assignment was to watch for Williams approaching the apartment from the east. In the back seat, I was watching through our car’s rear window for an approach from the west. Across the street, Halliday and another man from Intelligence also watched, backing us up. Halliday was using a van, disguised as a TV repair truck. We were using Canelli’s car, a dilapidated Ford station wagon cluttered with miscellaneous camping gear, boxes of tools and auto parts. All of us were dressed casually. This stakeout, I’d ordered, must be flawless. Our plan was simple: we’d let Williams get inside the building, then go in after him, taking him somewhere between the downstairs lobby and the upstairs hallway, converging on him.
At seven-thirty in the evening, Ellis Street seemed strangely quiet, perhaps because the day had been overcast, threatening an unseasonable October rain. I’d been on the stakeout since four-thirty. I’d stay for another two hours, then go home for some sleep. Friedman had offered to take the duty from nine-thirty until two or three in the morning, probably the most critical time. In the Tenderloin, the action didn’t begin until midnight, and didn’t end until morning.
“I wonder if Williams is still pushing,” Canelli said.
“Apparently he is, according to Intelligence.”
“Well, if he is, then I wonder why he hasn’t shown. I mean, usually those pushers are in and out, all day long.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have his stash in his apartment. Maybe he works out of his car.”
“Yeah.” Plainly Canelli was doubtful.
“Or maybe he’s quit pushing. If he killed Bates, it might mean that he’s gone into another line of work.”
“Contract killing, you mean.”
“Maybe.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Canelli said. “According to his jacket, he’s sure mean enough to kill for money.”
I tried to shift into a more comfortable position. My eyes burned, my throat was dry, my voice was rough and hoarse. Last night I’d had less than four hours sleep. During the day, as word spread that a gunman could be stalking Chief Dwyer, the Hall had pulsed with a kind of grim, uncompromising energy that demanded more with each passing hour. Voices were pitched to a lower, more purposeful note. A laugh or a smile was quickly suppressed. Everyone moved faster, worked harder. Remarking on the change, Friedman had said that, somehow, each of us felt threatened.
At first I’d been caught up in the tension, and was sustained by it. But now I felt numbed by fatigue as I watched the hookers and the pimps and the hustlers slipping from Ellis Street’s garish bars to its shadowed doorways, then back again, always in furtive search of prey. It was a constant, inexorable flow, as immutable and formalized as night stalking in the jungle—just as silent, just as deadly. As I watched, my eyes repeatedly began to close. But I couldn’t take a pill, or I wouldn’t sleep that night. And I couldn’t …
A half-block away a figure was walking slowly toward us from the west. He wore blue jeans, a leather jacket and boots under the jeans. He weighed about a hundred sixty; he was about five feet ten inches tall. Hands in his pockets, he sauntered into a pool of golden neon glare from a sign that promised bottomless girls. His hair was dark brown, cut ear-lobe long.
“This could be him,” I said. “Don’t turn around. Alert all positions.”
As Canelli surreptitiously raised the walkie-talkie, I cautiously turned, facing the subject more fully as he came slowly, steadily toward us. Another swath of neon, this one a reddish blue that spelled “Massage,” revealed dull eyes set deep in a pale, nondescript face.
“It’s him,” I said. “Don’t move. Let him come.”
On the radio, Canelli relayed the message. Williams was twenty-five feet from the rear of our car—fifty feet from the entrance to his building. After nine hours of surveillance, we’d come down to seconds. I realized that my hand was on the door latch. My other hand was unzipping the poplin jacket I wore. My heart was beating faster.
I heard Canelli say, “Oh, oh.” He wasn’t speaking into the walkie-talkie; he was talking to me.
Still with my eyes on the suspect, I whispered over my shoulder, “What’s wrong?”
“Here comes two uniformed men—the regular patrol. But it’s a new shift.”
For security reasons, we hadn’t alerted Central Station to our stakeout. Instead, we’d talked to the first shift on the street, warning them off. We’d intended to warn the second shift, on their first round.
Less than a hundred feet separated the uniformed men from Williams. They would meet at about the doorway of the apartment building. At their shape-up, the patrolmen would have been shown Williams’ picture. Every cop in the city was hoping to collar the suspect. And the Tenderloin detail knew they had the best chance.
Still walking steadily, Williams was within fifteen feet of our car. He was apparently unconcerned, looking idly around him as he walked. But now he took his hands from his pockets, freeing them. It was, I knew, a reflex action, responding to the appearance of the two patrolmen. If Williams had a gun, it would be tucked in his belt. Cautiously, I tripped the door latch, allowing the door to come a half-inch open.
“I’ll let him get just past us,” I said, “then I’ll get out of the car and fall in behind him. If he spooks, I’ll grab him. If he doesn’t spook, I’ll follow him inside. Advise all units. And remember, I don’t want him killed. I don’t even want him shot, if we can help it.”
“Yessir.”
All day long, we’d reminded our men that Dwyer wanted Williams alive, for interrogation. Even if it meant risking an officer’s life, Dwyer wanted Williams alive.
As the suspect came within a few feet of our car, I was half-turned in the seat, pretending to stare into the window of the porno shop. I saw Williams turn his head to glance at me—then look away. Now he was staring directly at the two uniformed officers not more than twenty-five feet away. Following Williams’ glance, I saw one of the patrolmen suddenly stiffen as he came close enough to recognize Williams. The suspect was even with our car; another few feet and I could get behind him, in position. With my revolver in my hand, still staring fixedly at the porno shop, I waited for Williams to take five more steps. As I heard Canelli speak into the walkie-talkie, I looked toward the approaching officers. I saw the first officer say something to his partner, at the same time moving his hand unconsciously toward his gun.
Instantly the suspect turned, colliding with a black hooker. As the girl sprawled on the sidewalk, Williams staggered, fell to one knee, then regained his footing. He was running back down the sidewa
lk. As he ran, he tore open the leather jacket, drawing a short-barreled revolver. I was fifteen feet behind him, running hard. Behind me, I heard Canelli shouting, “Don’t shoot. We’re inspectors. It’s a stakeout. Don’t shoot him.” Across the street, the van’s door slammed; Halliday and his partner were angling across Ellis Street, dodging through traffic. Ahead, Williams was lengthening his lead, almost to the corner of Ellis and Taylor. Without breaking stride, I raised my revolver, firing once into the air.
“Police. Halt.” I dodged a hustler, purposely blocking my path. A spaced-out whore, wildly laughing, threw herself in front of me, arms spread wide. I dropped one shoulder, caught her solidly beneath the breasts, sent her flying into a bar’s plate-glass window. Ahead, at the corner, Williams turned, danced a half-step, raised his gun. As he fired, a woman screamed behind me. Head lowered, I ran harder, gasping for breath. Other running footsteps were close behind me, coming fast. As I came to the corner, I looked back. One of the uniformed men was almost even with me, running like a miler. A car was angled across Ellis Street; a man sprawled face down on the pavement—Halliday’s partner, motionless. As I turned back toward the suspect, the patrolman sprinted past me, gun in hand.
“Don’t shoot him,” I called. “We can’t kill him.”
Head down, legs pumping, the patrolman didn’t acknowledge the command. He was turning into Taylor Street. Ahead, Williams turned, danced again, fired once more. Two shots were gone; four were left in his gun. I saw Canelli coming like a charging hippo, ahead of all the others. A second uniformed man and a half-dozen detectives followed Canelli, scattering the wild pedestrians as they came down the sidewalk. In the street, Halliday was bent over his fallen partner. Both arms churning, Canelli carried the walkie-talkie in his left hand, his gun in the other hand. I turned into Taylor Street, running again. Ahead, the patrolman was gaining on the suspect. Taylor Street was dark, almost deserted—deadly dangerous. I was sobbing for breath, stumbling, slowing. Would Canelli overtake me, too? Would they all catch me? Would they …
Suddenly Williams was in the middle of Taylor Street, angling toward the next corner. I saw him look over his shoulder—saw the faint gleam of his frightened eyes. Another block, and the patrolman would have him. Williams leveled his small revolver. I quickly raised my own gun, fired close over the suspect’s head. I couldn’t let him set himself, aim at the nameless patrolman. Williams flinched, faltered, turned away, once more running. He’d almost made the next corner—Eddy Street, another tract of neon jungle. Skeletal scaffolds and cranes crowded the night sky at the corner. A hotel was under construction—a Holiday Inn, someone had said. A plywood construction fence surrounded the site. A steel-banded bundle of sewer pipes was stacked against the fence. Again Williams hesitated, executing his curiously delicate pirouette, balanced on his toes. The patrolman plunged ahead, shouting at the suspect. Facing us, Williams was momentarily immobilized. Then he thrust the revolver into his belt, turned toward the stack of pipe, clambered up. The patrolman awkwardly holstered his gun, still running. As Williams leaped for the top of the plywood fence, the patrolman dived for the suspect’s legs. Stumbling, I struggled to holster my own revolver as I ran. Now the patrolman was sprawling across the pipes; Williams was astride the fence, kicking up his dangling leg …
Gone.
Moments later, each one fighting for breath, ten men were clustered around the stack of pipes. Ten more men were pounding down Taylor Street.
“Spread out,” I shouted, furiously flailing my arms. “Surround the perimeter.”
But I was only croaking. I couldn’t shout, couldn’t breathe. Yet they were moving—obeying, running in opposite directions, around the eight-foot fence. I leaned against the plywood, motioning for Canelli to give me the walkie-talkie as I momentarily closed my eyes.
“Can Central Station hear us?” I asked Canelli as he handed over the radio.
Breath rattling, head hanging helplessly, Canelli could only nod.
“This is Lieutenant Frank Hastings,” I said into the radio. “We have a six-twenty situation at Taylor and Eddy Streets. Shots were fired. Repeat—shots were fired. Send all your available units to surround the construction site at that corner. I want you to call the Hall for at least four floodlight trucks. I want a helicopter over the construction site. Do you read me?”
“Yessir,” came the answering voice. Then: “Is it Cat Williams, sir?”
“It’s Cat Williams. But I want every unit notified that Williams is wanted unharmed. Repeat, unharmed. That’s a direct order from Chief Dwyer. Acknowledge.”
Already patrol cars were arriving. Headlights and spotlights blazed across the pile of pipes and the plywood fence, emblazoned with the words “Sinclair Construction Company, Since 1934.” I handed the walkie-talkie to Canelli, drew a deep breath and stepped forward. It was time to take command.
As I pinned my badge to my lapel, I surveyed the fence. Twenty feet to my right, I saw a padlocked door. I gestured to a uniformed traffic sergeant, pointing to the door. “Break that padlock open, but don’t open the door.”
“Yessir.”
To Canelli I said, “Make the perimeter of this fence. See that it’s secure—that he hasn’t gotten out. Then report back.” I turned to Halliday, just arrived in his van. “How’s your partner?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Unconscious.” Halliday shook his head.
I swore, then motioned to the fence, in the opposite direction from the way Canelli had gone. “You go this way, Halliday. If we’re lucky, he’s bottled up in there. Find out if anyone saw him get out. Tell everyone to keep his head down—tell them to take it slow and easy. When you’ve made the circuit, I want you to post yourself on the far side of the fence. You’ll be in command of the perimeter.”
Nodding, Halliday trotted away, pinning on his badge as he went. Momentarily more units were pulling up. Using tire irons, the traffic sergeant and another man pried at the padlock, finally snapping it free. As I walked to the plywood door, I ordered the traffic sergeant to disperse the newly arrived men around the fence, illuminating the area with all available lights.
Slowly, I pushed open the door—then realized that I was brightly backlit, a perfect target. I stepped quickly through, pulled the door shut, then moved silently to my left. I stood motionless, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.
As the long, silent seconds passed, substance separated from shadow, shapes slowly sharpened. The pale light from a three-quarter moon fell on a ghostly catacomb of interconnected concrete forms laced with an intricate lattice of spidery reinforcing rods. The building’s foundations were being poured. The excavation was very deep—bottomless in the darkness. If the suspect stayed in the shadows, he’d be invisible. And, searching, someone could die, ambushed from the shadows. I couldn’t send men inside without the option of firing in self-defense, answering Williams’ first shot, before he could get off a second.
So I couldn’t order a conventional search.
I had only two choices: find him with a few men who wouldn’t shoot, or wait until morning, when we could search without risking a shot from the shadows. The time was now 8 P.M. In October, dawn wouldn’t come for ten hours.
I pushed open the door, crouched, stepped quickly outside. Canelli was standing beside the closest patrol car, a walkie-talkie in one hand, a microphone in the other hand. He was using his walkie-talkie to communicate with our other positions while he used the car’s radio to keep in touch with the Hall.
“What’s it look like?” I asked.
“Well,” Canelli answered, “if he climbed the fence on the other side and got away, he’d have to’ve been fast. But that’s not saying he couldn’t’ve done it.”
“You’re betting he’s still inside, then.”
“Yessir.”
“Did you get Lieutenant Friedman?”
“I just talked to him. He’s on the way. Culligan, too. They were both still at the Hall.”
“When they get here, I think t
he four of us should go in after him.”
Canelli blinked, then nodded. From overhead came the pulsating throb of a helicopter flying low and fast. I took the microphone from Canelli, ordering him to put me on the copter’s frequency. As I waited for Communications to make the connection, I saw Friedman and Culligan shouldering their way through a crowd of officers. Watching, I realized that I’d never before seen policemen confined behind their own barricades. As if to answer my question, Canelli said, “A lot of off-duty guys are here. From all over the city, I guess.”
The helicopter’s observer came on the air, asking for instructions. I ordered him to circle over the excavation site, using both searchlights.
“Right.” The helicopter’s searchlights came on as the pilot dropped down and began his slow, thrummering circles. I handed the microphone to Canelli, then turned to Friedman and Culligan. As quickly as possible, I explained the situation.
“As you say,” Friedman said, “we can’t shoot him. But he could be a nut. We might have to shoot him. I think we’d better take shotguns. And a Communications man.”
I agreed, and gave the orders. Less than a minute later, carrying shotguns, the four of us were inside the fence, together with a uniformed patrolman carrying a revolver and a big multichannel walkie-talkie. The helicopter was over the far end of the site. Its twin searchlights transformed the right-angled geometry of concrete forms and crosshatched reinforcing rods into a moving montage of triangular incandescence and mismatching shadows.
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 6