“And Brewster,” I said. I felt as if I would never leave the chair I was in. As if I were slowly fossilizing, the living part of me dwindling deeper and deeper inside. All my energy was focused on listening to Samuelson. “Franco try to shake him down?”
“Yep. Needed the dough, I suppose, to get out of here and away from Zifkind and us.”
“And Brewster figured Candy was getting too close?” I said.
“Yeah. He didn’t believe she was as taken with him as she acted.”
“So he got Simms, and maybe somebody else-anybody else?”
“Yeah, soldier named Little Joe Turcotte. We’re looking around for him now.”
“So he got Simnxs and Little Joe to go out early and wait for Franco, and when Franco showed up, they gunned him. One of them used an automatic.”
“Turcotte,” Samuelson said.
“And they killed both of them while I was wandering around in the oil field.”
“Don’t make you happy, I guess,” Samuelson said.
“Nope. I haven’t been right since I got here.”
“Can’t see how you could have done much better,” Samuelson said.
I didn’t say anything.
“She was going to keep at it,” Samuelson said. “No way you could have kept her from it.”
“The thing is,” I said. My voice didn’t seem to be very closely connected to me. I paused and tried to think what I wanted to say. “The thing is,” I said, “that she did what she did because she didn’t want to be just another pretty face in the newsroom, you know. Just a broad that they used to dress up the broadcast. She wanted to prove something about herself and about being a woman, I guess, and what got her killed-when you come down to it-was, she thought she could use being female on Brewster. When it came down to it, she depended on-” I stopped again. I couldn’t think of the right phrase.
“Feminine wiles,” Samuelson said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Feminine wiles. And it got her killed.”
Chapter 30
THE PHONE RANG on Samuelson’s desk. The clock in the squad room said twelve twenty-five. I sat almost insentient while Samuelson listened to the phone. He said “Mmm” two, maybe three times, then listened some more. Then hung up without saying anything else.
“D.A.‘s office wants to prosecute you,” Samuelson said.
I nodded.
“Charges include resisting arrest, assault and battery on the Oceania security people, and being a bushleague fucking hot dog.”
“They been talking to your chief of detectives,” I said.
“They were toying with a kidnapping charge, but since the two guys you held were murder suspects, they don’t think it will stand up. But they also got some new hostage laws they want to try out, and they’ll probably charge you under one of them.”
“Good chance for them to practice,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We were quiet. The squad room behind us was nearly empty. Samuelson rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand.
“They want me to bring you down and book you.” The air conditioner under the window behind Samuelson cycled on with a small thump and a sound of air blowing.
“You got an airline ticket?” Samuelson said.
“In my wallet.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We went out of his office. He shut off the lights and closed the door carefully behind him. We walked through the squad room and out of the corridor and took the elevator down to the first floor.
“This way,” Samuelson said.
We walked out the front door and down the steps. The rain had stopped but the dampness still hung in the air. The night was hot and steamy. And you knew it would rain again soon. We walked around the corner and got into an unmarked Chevy sedan. Samuelson drove. We went onto the Harbor Freeway and headed south.
I had my head back against the seat, almost asleep. “You going to book me in Long Beach?” I asked.
“No.”
We turned off the Harbor Freeway at the Santa Monica Freeway and went west.
There was no traffic and Samuelson drove fast. In a few minutes we were in West L.A. We turned off the Santa Monica and onto the San Diego Freeway around a big involute cloverleaf. We went south toward the airport.
It was ten of one when Samuelson headed down Century Boulevard toward the L.A. airport.
“What airline you got a ticket for?” he said.
“American.”
The airport was brilliantly lighted, the lighting making an orange-yellow blur in the mist that seemed to hover over it about twenty feet up. It had the feel of a bright emptiness that a shopping mall has after hours. A single yellow cab rolled past us, going toward L.A. Two airline types in uniform waited at a bus stop in front of the international terminal.
SamueIson parked in front of American and we went in. There was a flight at I:20 for Dallas/Fort Worth that connected for Boston. It was boarding at Gate 46. Samuelson showed his badge to the cop at the security check, and they didn’t make a fuss when the metal detector buzzed at Samuelson’s gun. Mine was back somewhere in a drawer at the homicide bureau.
At Gate 46 Samuelson said to me, “Get on. Go to Boston. When it’s time to testify, I want you back.”
“I thought you were supposed to book me,” I said.
“You escaped as I was bringing you down,” Samuelson said.
“This won’t get you promoted to captain,” I said.
“I flunked the captain’s exam twice already,” Samuelson said. “Just be sure to come back when it’s time to testify.”
“I’ll come back,” I said.
“Yeah,” Samuelson said. “I know.”
I was swaying slightly as we stood there. It was one fifteen. I put out my hand. Sarnuelson shook it. “You did what you could for that broad, Spenser,” Samuelson said. “Including what you did at Oceania afterward.”
I nodded.
“D.A. don’t understand that,” Samuelson said. “Neither does the chief.”
I nodded again.
Samuelson said, “Nobody’s perfect.”
“That’s for goddamn certain,” I said.
I was asleep in my seat before we took off. Except for a half-conscious plane change in Dallas I slept straight through to Boston and dreamed of Susan Silverman all the way home.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 6310078a-6c7b-4874-86ef-7e74e7350812
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 6.8.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Robert B Parker
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A Savage Place s-8 Page 16