All units acknowledged the order.
“I’m going to lay back,” I added. “I’ve got on a business suit, and we’re showing an antenna. Youmans, I want you to make the decision on the identification, if we take him on the sidewalk.”
“Yessir.”
I turned to Canelli. “I want you to get in the van,” I said. “Sit in the front seat, like you’re the driver, waiting for someone to come back. I want you to help Youmans make the identification.”
“Right.”
I watched Canelli clamber awkwardly out of the back seat and amble down the narrow, littered sidewalk, passing a series of small, desultory storefronts, each painted to proclaim some doubtful ghetto business enterprise.
We were working two radio nets: our normal frequency connected us with Communications, while tach seven connected us to the four surveillance units. Slouched down in his seat, Culligan was using a small earphone to monitor Communications while I used another earphone, listening to the chatter on tach seven:
“Here comes Canelli, fellas. What do you say we give him the prize for the best costume?”
“Yeah, right. But where’d he ever find that rubber mask?”
“The same place he found the costume, jerk.”
“Canelli’s got a flair, no question. He should—”
“Hey, check that white van, slowing down. One of those dudes in the front looks like he could be our boy.”
Craning my neck to peer around the truck, I saw a dusty, dented Ford Econoline van angling toward the Connection.
“That’s him,” Youmans was saying. “In the passenger side. No question. Do we go, Lieutenant?”
“That’s him,” Canelli echoed softly.
The van was stopping at the red-zoned curb, directly in front of the Connection. I could clearly see two figures in the front seat—two black men. A dark curtain was draped behind the two men, concealing the van’s interior.
“Let him get out first,” I cautioned. “And let the van leave. Even if we have to let Royce get inside, I want to let the van leave the area before we take him. There could be men with guns inside. Clear?”
Four acknowledgments came quickly, tensely.
I reached for the radio, switching off our main channel and putting tach seven on the loudspeaker.
“Do you want me to help collar him, Lieutenant?” It was Canelli’s voice, hushed.
The van hadn’t moved; its passenger door hadn’t swung open. Its engine, I could see, was idling. I could dimly see Royce, looking up and down the block.
Did he suspect a trap?
Of the four vehicles we had on Third Street, only one—Youman’s—was headed in the same direction as the van.
I reached for the ignition key, twisted it, started the engine. Slowly, cautiously, I backed my cruiser until the bumper clanged on metal. At the same time I turned the steering wheel hard to the right, hopeful of gaining enough free space behind the truck so that I could turn into Third Street without backing and filling. But we’d traveled less than three feet backward; I doubted whether I could make it with one pass.
And, backing up, I’d lost the cover the truck offered.
A little more than a block separated my vehicle from Royce’s van. We were facing each other, Royce on the east side of Third Street, me on the west side. Youman’s Chevrolet, also on the east side, was parked two lengths ahead of Royce. Like mine, Youman’s car was locked in, improperly parked for a fast departure.
With my eyes on the white van, I cautiously lowered my head, at the same time bringing up the microphone. “I think he suspects something,” I said. “I’m going to pull out and get in the left lane. When we’re opposite him, I’m going to make a quick U-turn and box him in. When I do, I want all three units on Third Street to converge on the subject vehicle. How many men are inside our van?”
“Four, counting me,” Canelli answered.
“I want all of you to hit the pavement with shotguns,” I ordered. “We’ll take them quick and hard. The unit covering the Connection’s rear exit will be backup. Clear?”
Four voices acknowledged in a ragged chorus: “Clear.”
“All right, let’s see what happens.” As I said it, Culligan slipped over the front seat and dropped down on the floor in back of me. If I impacted the van, it would be on the passenger’s side.
I dropped the open microphone on the seat beside me and turned up the radio’s volume. I cramped the steering wheel to the left and accelerated—hard. Our fender crunched against the truck’s squared-off body, tearing the aluminum skin as we broke free. We’d needed another foot.
At the same moment, the van pulled away from the curb, heading toward us. Both the van and my car were in the right-hand lanes, both traveling at moderate speed, locked into traffic. Before I’d driven two hundred feet, I’d crossed the intersection of Palou and Third streets, exactly a block from the Connection. The van had already traveled half the distance to the same intersection, coming faster now. As the van passed Youmans, the Chevrolet was moving jerkily back and forth in its short parking place, struggling to get free. Canelli was just ahead of me, in our van. Neither Canelli nor I could make a U-turn in the heavy traffic.
Three hundred feet separated me from Royce—two hundred feet—a hundred.
Fifteen seconds—ten seconds—five seconds.
I glanced ahead, glanced in my mirror. I saw a break in the traffic. “I’m going to cut him off,” I said sharply. I turned hard to the right, crossing two lanes of traffic as I floorboarded the accelerator. Under full power, my car rocked, fighting for traction. I saw a close-by flash of white metal, heard the scream of tires on concrete—then felt the world shatter in a shock of grinding steel and a crash of exploding glass. Momentarily, the sky darkened around me. Sounds faded, shapes and figures fell out of focus. Then I was fumbling for the ignition key, to turn off the engine. Behind me, the back door slammed; my own door came suddenly open.
“Get out of there,” Culligan barked. “We could catch fire.”
In agonizing slow-motion, I moved to obey him. As I stumbled out of the car, the world began uncertainly to right itself.
“Are you all right?” Culligan asked. He was crouched behind our car, holding a shotgun that rested on the roof. The shotgun was aimed at the shatter-starred window of the van, on the driver’s side.
“I’m all right.” Crouching beside him, I drew my revolver.
Culligan turned to face the van, shouting, “Get out of there, you bastards. Come out slow and easy, with your hands on your head. Now.”
Blinking, I looked over the curve of our car’s roof. Inside the van, I could see two figures. The van was jammed between our car and a bright-red sedan with a black vinyl top. The two figures in the van were moving woodenly, like characters in a disembodied dream. The figures went out of focus. I blinked, trying to see them more clearly. As I watched, policemen with guns surrounded the van. Now I saw Canelli step forward to yank open the van’s door on the far side. The door shrieked on bent hinges as Canelli struggled with it. A patrolman stepped up to help. As the door finally swung open, I saw two black men stumble out of the van. Both men wore black jeans, black leather jackets, black turtleneck sweaters and black berets with a small red insignia sewn on the side. Staring at the ring of pistols and shotguns aimed at them, both men began to shake their heads in protest as they raised their hands.
As I holstered my pistol, the scene again slipped out of focus. I allowed my eyes to close as I felt myself sagging against the side of my car. My stomach suddenly began to churn. If I moved, I would be sick.
“You handle it, Culligan,” I said, speaking with great effort. “Get Royce ready for interrogation, downtown. Then you write the report. Clear?”
“That’s clear,” he answered, looking at me closely. Then, apparently satisfied, he sighed deeply. Culligan hated to write reports.
Fourteen
“LISTEN, ROYCE”—I LEANED toward him across the interrogation room’s small met
al table—“I’d like to simplify things for you.”
“Don’t do me no favors,” came the quick, harsh retort. “All I know is, you racked up my van and come up on me without any warning. Like, the first thing I know, I’m grabbing paint, with about fifty guns on me. And I’m telling you”—he leveled a forefinger at me—“my lawyer’s going to love this. I mean, he’s going to goddam love it.”
“That’s because he’ll be making his fee,” Friedman observed mildly. “Win or lose, the lawyers get theirs. Haven’t you figured that out yet, Royce?”
The prisoner turned to face Friedman, sitting at his ease in the metal armchair he’d had moved into the room before the interrogation began. Still dressed in his black jeans, turtleneck shirt and leather jacket, Royce could have been posing for a radical revolutionary poster. He was powerfully built, with a deeply muscled torso and bulging arms. His neck was thick and slightly bowed; his squared-off face was heavily boned, with a wide jaw, full lips, a flat nose and small eyes beneath prominent brows. It was a classic Negroid face, bordered by close-cropped hair and a short, spare beard. As he stared at Friedman, Royce’s eyes were uncompromising, defiant.
“Some lawyers,” he said, “have principles. Some lawyers believe in what the people are doing. They believe in the people, because they know what’s coming. They know the people are going to win.”
“Well,” Friedman said, “I’m happy to hear, for your sake, that your lawyer’s such a philanthropist. Because otherwise, by the time your lawyer gets through explaining all those guns in your van, he’d’ve run up quite a bill, I’m afraid.”
“What’re you doing, Royce?” I asked. “Are you starting your own revolution? Is that it? What’d you do—learn enough from the P.A.L. to set up your own shop?”
“Don’t talk to me about the goddam P.A.L.,” he said. “The P.A.L. is just a bunch of spoiled honky white intellectuals who’re exploiting the minorities for their own racist purposes—for goddam targets. That’s all the P.A.L. wants—just targets.”
“My, my.” Friedman shook his head in mock wonderment. “You’ve learned a lot of big words since our paths last crossed, as the saying goes. I can remember when you used to be just an ordinary hood down in the Fillmore, boosting hubcaps and doing a little mugging to make ends meet.”
Glowering now, Royce made no reply—except to contemptuously click his teeth.
“Some of those honkies are horny, too,” I said. “Jessica Hanley, for instance.”
He snorted, staring at me with elaborate disgust. “So what is it—dirty picture time? Is that it?”
“It’s show-and-tell time, Royce,” Friedman said.
“Tell what? About those guns?”
“Let’s start with those guns.”
“Yeah—well, for one thing, I was just transporting those guns for a couple of black brothers. And for another thing, every one of those guns was bought legally—with receipts and everything. And besides, those guns were in plain sight.”
“Not quite. The back window of your van was very, very dirty. And then there was that curtain. I don’t think the judge is going to think those guns were in plain sight, Royce. And for sure,” Friedman continued, “the judge isn’t going to like the idea of you carrying those guns, being that you’re a convicted felon and all.”
“Those guns are all shotguns and rifles. There ain’t no pistols—no sawed-offs. Nothing.”
“Where do you keep your other guns, Royce?” I asked. “Your pistols, for instance.”
“Man—what pistols?”
“Let’s start with a .45-caliber Colt automatic. The one you bought from Ferguson. Where’s that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But, answering the question, Royce’s small, intense eyes flicked warily between Friedman and me.
“Let me see if I can help you,” Friedman said equably. “It’s the .45 that was used to kill Dr. Gordon Ainsley, the other night. Sunday night, I believe it was. That’s the gun we’re really looking for, Royce. The others—the shotguns and carbines—they’re negotiable, you might say.”
Once again I drew the big .45 from my waistband and placed it on the small metal table.
“This is the gun we’re talking about, Royce,” I said softly. “Ballistics says this gun killed Dr. Ainsley. We found it in some bushes near the Ainsley homicide. And Ferguson said he sold it to you.”
“So don’t worry about those shotguns and rifles, Royce,” Friedman purred. “Don’t give them a second thought. Because, for sure, the state isn’t going to try you for alleged possession, or reckless driving, or whatever, when it can try you for murder.”
As Royce stared down at the pistol, his eyes narrowed. We’d finally gotten his attention.
“Where were you Sunday night, Royce?” Friedman asked gently. “What were you doing between, say, nine o’clock and midnight?”
Still staring at the gun, Royce remained silent. A small pink tongue tip was slowly circling his dark, thick lips.
“How about Wednesday night about nine?” I asked. “What were you doing then? And how’d you lay hands on that Browning automatic? How’d you—”
“That bitch,” Royce muttered. “That goddam no-good white bitch. That miserable, slab-sided honky slut.”
“Are you speaking of Jessica Hanley?” Friedman asked. “Is that who you’re talking about?”
“It’s her goddam gun. I bought it from Ferguson and gave it to her.”
“How nice,” Friedman muttered. “What was it, an engagement present?”
“It wasn’t any present. They were her guns. And it was her money, all along. Every goddam penny. And she knows it was her money that bought the guns from Ferguson. So what’d she say—that it was my gun? Is that what she said?”
“How many guns did you buy from Ferguson?”
“Never mind talking about how many guns I bought. Talk about how many guns she bought. Because that’s how it was. She put the money in my hand, and I did the deal. And then I gave the guns to her, that same day. And if that slut says anything different, she’s a blue-eyed liar.”
“Not according to Ferguson.”
“Screw Ferguson. He don’t like me, from a long time back. So screw him. And screw her, too. Both of them. They’re—Christ—they’re trying to set me up for murder.” Angry now, his voice was thickening, lapsing into a ghetto patois.
“It’s not them, Royce,” Friedman said. “They’re not your problem. It’s the .45. That’s what’s doing it to you. It’s like we said—that gun’s tied to a murder, so the murder’s tied to you. Because the gun’s tied to you. It’s simple logic. If A equals B, and B equals—”
“Then I’m going to untie it, right now,” Royce said, raising his eyes to confront Friedman directly. “You just said that the rifles and shotguns are negotiable. You’re after the Masked Man. Am I right? Is that what it’s all about?”
Friedman nodded. “You got it, Jimmy,” he said cheerfully. “That’s what it’s all about. See, the word around town is that anyone helps us on this thing, we’re not going to forget about him. Favors deserve favors. Right?”
“The only reason I’m doing this,” Royce said, “is that I want to get back at that bitch for what she tried to do to me.” He spoke self-defensively—righteously. I could guess at his thinking; I could imagine his conflict and how he resolved it. In the ghetto, you didn’t talk to The Man. But you couldn’t allow a whitey to set you up, either. One was as bad as the other. So, suspecting a setup, Royce would save himself, even if it meant informing.
“You check up on Chick Howell,” Royce said, speaking very distinctly. “Otherwise known as Charles E. Howell.”
Friedman and I exchanged a glance, simultaneously shrugging. The name didn’t register.
“You’ll have to give us more than that,” I said. “Is he local?”
“He’s local, all right,” Royce said grimly. “He’s the local son of a big-ass local dentist.”
“Is he black?”
> Royce bitterly snorted. “That’s the color of his skin. But that’s all that’s black about him. His goddam father got rich down in the Fillmore, putting gold filling in poor people’s teeth. So then old Chick, he decides he’s going to rebel against the old man, seems like. So Chick decides he’ll join the revolution, and at the same time climb into Jessica’s bed.”
“Are you saying that the .45 belonged to Charles Howell?” I asked. “Because if that’s what you’re saying, then you’re already changing your story. Just two minutes ago, you said Jessica had the .45.”
“I’m saying,” Royce said carefully, “that I took Jessica’s money and I bought three guns from Ferguson. One was the .45, one was an M-16 and one was an M-1. I’m also saying that Charles E. Howell got the .45. That was his piece, the last I heard.”
“You left the P.A.L. shortly after you bought the guns,” Friedman said thoughtfully. “So when you say, ‘the last I heard,’ we’ve got to wonder how much your information’s worth.” He said it with a note of regret, as if his valued association with Royce were threatened.
“That’s right, I left.” Royce nodded vehemently. “But I heard things. Lots of things. I mean, I still know what’s going on inside the P.A.L. Everything.”
“Okay.” Friedman gestured politely. “So let’s have it.”
“Well, it wasn’t more than about two weeks after I split that you guys busted Howell for robbery.” Royce paused, intercepting the glance of surprised apprehension that passed between Friedman and me with obvious satisfaction. “He was trying to liberate some funds for the revolution from a liquor store, and he got caught. It was his first time out, and he got flat-ass caught.” As he said it, Royce spoke with plainly malicious pleasure. “Which is the reason, see, that I know it’s Jessica that’s got to know what happened to that—” He gestured to the .45. “Because if Howell had it when he got busted, then it couldn’t’ve been the gun that killed Ainsley, because you’d have it. So, if you didn’t have it, then Jessica had it, the way I figure. Or, anyhow, she knows what happened to it. Because it’s like you said.” For the first time, Royce smiled, settling back in the metal chair, at ease. “It’s logic. Simple logic.” Now the lazy-lidded smile complacently widened. “A equals B, right?”
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 11