“Does the shoe fit?”
“Uh, oh….I get the scenario. I saw Pete walk through with that hot tamale from the dispatcher’s office awhile ago. That it?”
She replied dismally, “Go to hell, Sergeant.”
“That’s it, yeah. He must be off his rocker, with something like you waiting to soothe his frustrations.”
“Who the hell says I’ve been waiting?”
“You practically threw me out of the place awhile ago,” he said with an expanding smile. “And don’t try to bullshit me, Rebecca, it has been very obvious—to me, anyway—that you have been feeling something for me.”
She cried, half angrily, “That doesn’t mean I’ve been wanting to leap into your bed, Lance. Jesus….”
He replied soberly but with the smile lingering, “Sure about that?”
She said, “Dammit, of course I’m not sure about that. What am I, a rock?”
“Okay, so you’re human. Isn’t that what you were telling me earlier?
So guess you’ve just joined the club, too. No big deal. So why are you so pissed at Pete? What has he done that you haven’t wanted to do?”
She replied with a hint of frustration, “Don’t talk logic to me at a time like this.”
“Don’t get hung up on storybook endings. It’s all an illusion anyway. Real life doesn’t work that way. I’m sure you’ve been around long enough to realize that.”
She sighed and got to her feet. “Thanks for the lesson on human relationships.”
He said, “Thanks for yours. Sit down. I’ve got some stuff here for you.”
She had noticed the papers nestled beside him, in which he had been obviously engrossed. “What stuff?”
“Sit down and have some coffee and dessert with me, I’ll tell you about it.” He was already signaling the waitress.
She ordered tea and a strawberry tart. Powers waited until they were settled into their dessert before he told Rebecca, “I dug out some old stuff on Martin that I had not included in my package to Chief Walsh—didn’t seem at all relevant at the moment—but I think I just might have something for your ‘psychological profile.’ Interested?”
She gave him a pert smile and said, “I’m all ears.”
He was thumbing through his papers as he told her, “This stuff goes back a long ways. These are my notes from the pretrial motions, competency hearings, etc. You rang a bell when you were asking me about Martin’s family background. I was wrong about his aunt living in Arkansas—used to, but following his escape from prison, she had moved over to Raleigh, North Carolina. I interviewed her at the time but she had not seen or heard from him in years and it looked like a dead trail so I didn’t pursue it any further.”
“So what did you get?”
“I told you, I got nothing.”
“So why are you bringing it up now?”
“Thought you might want to interview her, yourself. I have the number. If it’s still good after all this time.”
She said, “I’ll follow that up, sure, thanks.” She copied the information from his notebook. “I’ll try anything.”
“I have some other stuff here…. This may not be important but I recall that the defense called a witness for the sanity hearing—a psychiatrist, and I don’t have his name right on tap but we could find it. I remember that his big suit was a so-called ‘split personality.’ You know how that goes, takes a highly skilled lawyer to make something like that stick, and this one was not successful. But he was trying to sell the idea that Martin could have long periods of entirely rational social behavior until being ‘triggered’ by some emotional upset. This guy was trying to lay the entire cause and effect on Martin’s mother, whom he painted as a prostitute and totally wanton woman.”
She said soberly, “This is very interesting. I had wondered myself about—”
He interrupted to explain, “The court did not buy that defense so—”
“So nothing, I don’t want to rehash an old trial. I’m trying to get a “ticket” on this guy that could help us understand his moving forces. I don’t give a damn about the legal technicalities. I want to end it, for good and all.”
“Blow him away, then.” He slid the file over to her and said, “Take this with you, something may jump out to pump your brain a little. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. There is no cure for what ails this creep and obviously no jail secure enough to guarantee that he will never do it again. Blow the man away, Rebecca.”
She showed him a smarting smile and said, “Gee thanks for reminding me but I may never get that opportunity again.”
He replied quickly, “I didn’t mean to rub salt. I know that you acted properly this morning and I’m sure that now the entire country knows it. I was just saying….”
“Do it better next time, huh?”
“Not even that. I’m just saying do it if you ever get the chance again.”
“Well, if I could go through it all again….”
“I know what you’re thinking, and what you’ve been thinking all evening. Look, it’s life, every cop knows it—Myers knew it—it just happened, that’s all, and no one is to blame except Robert James Martin.”
“I know that. Thanks. You’re a nice guy, Lance.”
“Uh, keep all your options open. If Pete isn’t good for you, find one who is. And that’s no advertisement for the self.” He grinned with a compelling charm. “But I’d never kick you out of my bed, Rebecca, and you can bank on that.”
She wondered if Lance Powers had any idea how close she was to just letting it all hang out and going up to his room with him. In fact, she knew without any doubt that she had better get out of there right away. And she did, but with the greatest reluctance.
He had been so right; she was as human as any cop, with the same emotional stresses and needs—and yes, many of the same weaknesses.
Dammit, when you got right down to it, the female of the species was not that different than the male, cop or not. She knew now that she was entirely human…and maybe, after all, that was Pete’s only sin.
But, God!—was she really just like him? If so, what did any of it mean?…and how did any of it matter?
Okay, yeah, it did matter, all of it mattered—and it mattered what a creep like Robert Martin was doing to the city of San Remo. She was going to nail the son of a bitch…or die trying.
She did not, of course, realize at the moment that she could be setting up a self-fulfilling prophecy. But she was.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was developing into the most violent storm system to have entered the Southern California area in more than a decade. It had taken even the meteorologists by surprise since a spring storm of this magnitude was highly unusual. The local mountains were being blanketed by snow under a deep trough sliding up through Baja, Mexico and the entire region was receiving heavy rainfall and occasional gale-force winds. San Remo seemed to be in the “eye” of this very unstable system, with no relief expected before late morning.
Rebecca had been thoroughly drenched by the pelting rain while running between her car and the apartment. She still had a couple of hours for a short rest before setting out again for the morning briefing at the P.D. She got out of her wet clothes, quickly dried her hair and fell into bed.
She was up and on her way by shortly after four o’clock and arrived at the P.D. to find an unusual air of tension and excitement permeating the place.
Lieutenant Morgan made a bee-line for her and announced in his usual unemotional tones, “The bastard is at it again already. We got an ‘officer is down’ alert at the Holiday Inn a few minutes ago.” He hastened to add tensely, “No, no, it’s not Pete. The other Oklahoma cop, Powers—he stopped a bullet. Don’t know how bad; he’s being transported to Community Hospital. Pete is with him.”
She dropped into a chair, stunned and momentarily speechless.
The Lieutenant added slowly, as though giving her time to catch her breath, “The damn storm isn’t helping any but we should be g
etting a report from the hospital most any minute.”
A shivery chill went up her spine as she recalled her earlier words of caution to Lance and the ominous feeling that preceded those words.
Then another thought shivered her. “Pete is with him?”
“Yes, he was on the scene at the time and he accompanied the transport.”
“My God,” she moaned and was on her feet immediately.
Morgan ran after her. “Where the hell are you going? There’s a storm out there and we roll on the Woody Heights stakeout shortly.
There’s nothing you can do over there.”
“I have to go. I’ll explain later.”
“I can’t let you go out there, Rebecca.”
“Just watch me,” she said firmly. “I’m not on duty yet. I’ll be back for roll-call.”
Like it or not, there was nothing the Lieutenant could do to stop her. And it was not only Lance Powers on her mind. Pete, too, was on her mind. And she wanted the facts on this shooting while all the details were crystal clear. A “shooting” did not seem to fit the usual M.O. of Robert Martin. But it was not all that uncommon for a cop to shoot another cop—especially in a fit of jealousy.
She hoped she was wrong. Dear God, please let her be wrong.
Rebecca found her husband cooling his heels in a small private lounge just off the emergency room and he quickly filled her in on the details of the incident.
It seemed that it was purely a fortunate coincidence that Peter Storme was on the scene immediately following the shooting of the Oklahoma officer, Lance Powers. His presence may have saved the other officer’s life. Though Powers had sustained only a wound to the right shoulder, the bleeding was intense and could have resulted in severe trauma without immediate attention. Storme had quickly instituted first aid and used his official radio to summon emergency medical help.
Therefore he was hurt and dismayed when confronted with Rebecca’s almost accusing questioning of the event, as though she suspected his own complicity in the crime.
“What exactly went down here, Peter?” she asked him coldly.
He explained, “I get it that Powers was walking toward his car near the restaurant of the Holiday Inn when the guy rose up from nowhere and fired without warning. Powers didn’t even see the guy that hit him. Just bang, and he was down.”
“What kind of gun?”
“He didn’t see the gun and the round has not been recovered yet.”
“He couldn’t identify the shooter?”
“I told you, dammit, that he didn’t see him.”
She asked soberly, “So how did you get into this action?”
“I heard two shots fired as I was leaving my room. If I had been outside a second earlier, I would have witnessed the whole thing.”
“So how many shots hit Lance?”
Sergeant Storme did not miss the apparent intimate sound of that “Lance.” He growled, “Only one caught him but it hit an important artery near the shoulder. They took him right into surgery, apparently he’s doing fine. What is this, Rebecca?—sounds like you’re pulling a shooting review, or something.”
“I’m just trying to understand what happened, Peter.”
“What’s the mystery? It’s the second Oklahoma cop to be attacked in the past few hours. I don’t buy the theory that these attacks involve a grudge or hatred. I think Martin is running scared and hoping to silence these two.”
“What would that buy him?”
“Time. Obviously this asshole has an agenda of his own and he’s found happy hunting grounds. Or….”
“Or what?”
“I’ve been working with the thought that Martin has found himself a home here somewhere in the area. Hell, maybe in Woody Heights. And maybe he’s simply protecting his turf.”
Rebecca was warming to this theory, perhaps because she had been thinking along that same line herself. “So he’s hoping that he can hang tough and ride it out?”
“That could figure, sure. The only ID we have on this guy is based on mug shots from years back. You have suggested, yourself, that he is thinner and tougher now. Shit, who knows what’s behind that ski mask. He could have dyed his hair, changed the style—hell, he could have undergone plastic surgery for all we know. So maybe that’s what he’s protecting.”
“Maybe you’re onto it,” Rebecca said with a flash of interest. “So if Martin cuts and runs at this point, someone who is close to him may wonder why. If he does not, the law is too close to him for comfort and he is not in any rational frame of mind that would allow him to simply lay low for a better opportunity.”
Sergeant Storme said soberly, “Pure speculation, of course, but it has a ring, doesn’t it?”
She said, “It sure does.”
“Okay. So why am I in the dog house again, if I’m so brilliant?”
Rebecca had never been one to “suffer in silence.” She usually called her shots as she saw them. She told her husband with solemn eyes, “I heard you and Vivian Escalante in your room tonight.”
“So?”
“So that hurts like hell, Pete.”
“No reason why it should. You should also have heard Mike Rodriguez, same time and place. That’s the only time you could be thinking about. Mike and Vivian stopped by for a few minutes.”
Still holding her ground, Rebecca said, “I’d love to believe that. But someone told me that you and Vivian were seen walking into the Holiday together. Said nothing about Mike.”
“Well, rest your mind. Mike had stopped to make a call from the car. So your informant didn’t see it all.”
He was not getting off quite that easy. She told him with a smirk, “You guys sure know how to cover for each other, don’t you.”
He replied with deliberate patience, “Nothing personal against Vivian but I have better taste than that. She’s too easy for me—and half the guys on the force know just how easy.”
She gave him a sober smile. “Someone referred to her as a hot tamale.”
“You should hear what they call you, Rebecca. Hey, I’ve got the hottest number in town. Or, that is, I’m trying my best to keep her. Why the hell would I…?”
She asked quietly, “Anything wrong with your sex drive, Pete?”
He turned a bit red. “Not so’s you’d notice, if I can ever get up to speed. Seems like every time we have a chance for each other, either I’m working all night or you have a million other interests that defeat me. Hey, these guys screwing around with Vivian or the other quick perks are not in it for anything but that. I don’t want a quick roll in a squad car with you, Becky. I’d like to think that I’m in for the long haul and that kind of commitment can be hard to work into the routines that go with these badges we wear. I’m not screwing around on you, Becky.”
She had tears in her eyes. “Damn, I really want to believe that.”
“Believe it.” He smiled teasingly. “Just ask Vivian. She’ll tell you who she’s screwing this week—she tells everybody else.”
“Is Mike’s wife in her confidence?”
He grinned. “You’ll have to ask Mike about that. Don’t involve me in it.” He asked with his best police smile, “By the way, what were you doing at my door tonight?”
“Well…I brought your favorite donuts and lots of coffee, hoped you were as lonesome as I was.”
“So what happened to the goodies?”
“Just before I vomited in the parking lot, I threw them in the trash.”
He said chidingly, “Rebecca…! Did your informant see that?”
“No, I’m sure he missed that.”
“So it was a he?”
“Oh, I never reveal the identity of my sources.”
“Seems he missed a lot. You ought to fire him.”
She smiled. “I’ll think about that.”
He said, “Think about a lot of things, will you?”
She moved closer and said, “Hug me, dammit.”
He pulled her into his arms just as a doctor in surgical gr
eens stepped in and announced, “He’s doing fine. We’re finishing up and he should be in recovery shortly. It wasn’t as bad as we’d feared. He’ll be a bit groggy for awhile. The nurse will let you know when you can talk to him, Sergeant, but make it brief.”
Storme thanked him and turned a relieved smile to Rebecca. “Glad he’s not going to be messed up,” he told her, “I like that guy.”
“I like him, too.” She did not believe in secrets between husband and wife but she knew this was no time to mention her own personal interest in the Oklahoma cop. Also, she was not entirely positive that her marriage was on stable ground at the moment.
She was not sure about anything.
Hopefully the looming developments in this exploding case would finally answer all questions and resolve a number of uncertainties.
For now, she needed to once again invade the threatening night.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Rebecca fought her way along the flooded streets and reached the police department moments after the briefing got under way. The Powers file on Martin would have to await a more suitable time for her review; she tossed it onto her desk, debating whether she should steal a few moments to attempt a call to Alice Caruthers, Martin’s aunt in North Carolina. This would be the ideal time to catch her at home, given the time difference between California and the east coast. The time factor won out; she scooped up the phone and placed the call.
Mrs. Caruthers sounded fragile and sweet, the southern accent that of a cultured woman, too nice to be rude with anyone yet obviously a bit confused by the unexpected “visitor” all the way from California.
“I have had very little contact with my nephew since his unfortunate adventures with the police in Oklahoma years ago. He was devoted to his mother, however, the poor soul, and he had tried to keep in close touch with her over the years even while he was in prison.”
Rebecca commented, “Oh, I understood that Mrs. Martin died some years ago.”
“Oh, no, not in the usual sense. Poor Dottie, bless her soul, had a medical problem.”
Roulette Page 17