The Patrolman - 29

 

 

29.

 

 

 

It was six o'clock when he got back to his apartment. The self-service elevator was out again. He took the stairs to the second floor. The stairwell smelled of mildew and bad plumbing.

He stopped at the exit door. From above, the light patter of feet came scuttling down the stairs. Quick and hurried. He let go of the doorknob and looked up. A girl in a white nurse's uniform clambered down the stairs. She was a Latina. She was beautiful. She was around his age. Seeing her was like seeing his first one, full of color and alive. It excited him.

'Morning,' the killer said.

She climbed down the last flight and stopped to catch her breath. 'Some racket last night, huh? I could hear the riots from my place. Didn't think it would reach this far.'

'You new here?'

'Two weeks,' she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. 'I wouldn't've taken the place if I'd known the elevator was always out.'

The killer smiled. He told her his name and she told him hers, Allison Quevedo. He gestured toward the stairs and she made a polite smile. He followed her down. 'Off to work?'

'Another day at the hospital,' she said. 'I can't be late again.'

They reached the lobby. Full of cracked tiles and the recent smell of lye. She made a quick goodbye and dashed across the street. The bus took off as she got there. Typical. She threw her hands up.

The killer unlocked his car. 'They always leave a minute early.'

She checked both ways and crossed back. 'I didn't know you--'

'Hop in,' he said. 'Where to?'

'Good Samaritan,' she said. She got in the passenger seat next to him. 'They'd can me if I was late again. You're a lifesaver.'

The killer chuckled. 'No, you're the lifesaver.'

 

 

A quarter-hour later, he pulled up to the hospital. She reached for her purse. 'Thanks again,' she said. 'How much do I owe you?'

'On the house.'

'Are you sure?'

'Positive.'

'Well, if there's anything you ever need,' she said, one foot already on the sidewalk.

He took his shot. Right then. 'Dinner?'

She stopped, considering it. 'I guess I don't have plans.'

'Then it's a date,' the killer said. 'I'll pick you up from your apartment. Eight o'clock work?'

She hesitated, then nodded. 'Okay. Eight works.'

She bumped the door closed with her hip. Tight. Perfect. Like two cats fighting in a bag. He watched her go up the hospital stairs and couldn't believe his luck.

He rubbed his eyes, craving sleep. No rest for the wicked. The killer rolled down the window and pushed the flag down. He was back on duty. He smiled for a moment, thinking about what he'd do to her. He pulled his taxi into the slew of morning traffic and looked for a phone booth.

He had to make an important call to Jake Lacey.

 

 

 

'You look rough.'

Carruthers was standing over him.

Lacey peeled his legs off the chair and shrugged off the jacket he’d been using as a blanket. It had done the job. He pulled it around his shoulders with a wince. His back. Bending down to tie his shoes was even worse.

'What time is it?'

'Time you got a watch.'

Typical - Carruthers was sharp this morning, if not helpful.

He checked the wall clock. It was a quarter past six. He'd caught a couple of hours, three tops. He was still numb in that warm, half-asleep way. Dragging himself to the bathroom, he washed his hands and face. Twice. He dried off and caught sight of himself in the mirror. Carruthers had been generous - 'rough' didn't cover it.

His mind drifted.

After leaving the old vet behind in the hills, he'd followed Canyon Drive back down to Franklin. He found a police call box a block west and rang in. Hollywood Station sent a black-and-white to pick him up. He spent the rest of the night holed up in the squad room. He pulled female missing persons' reports. He narrowed them down to Latinas and didn't get far. The files led nowhere. There was a slew of teenage runaways across the City. Bad leads. He decided against heading home.

Lacey expected the killer to strike again.

Now, it was pushing six-thirty and there'd been nothing. Not a single call. But that was the point, wasn't it? Absence. That was the killer's thing.

He went to his desk. Carruthers was sitting on the edge, sipping coffee. He handed over the second cup.

'How'd it go last night?'

'What do you mean?'

'The hobo. Any luck?'

'You bet. Our boy's a cabbie.'

His brows knitted. 'He say that?'

'He saw a green car,' Lacey said. 'Described one of those Cahuenga Cab Company run-arounds.'

'Was he drunk?'

Lacey smiled - a real one. 'You sure you want to go down that road?'

Carruthers stared at him for a long moment, then let out a wry chuckle. 'Very good,' he said. 'Just thinking like the D.A.'

'It's thin, I know,' Lacey said. 'But it's a start.'

Carruthers nodded, half-impressed. 'Not bad, kid.' He told him he was heading to Maury's for donuts, somewhere off Sunset & Vine.

Lacey took a pull from his coffee. It burned his tongue. He set it down and stared at the squawk box. Waiting, hoping. There were no other detectives on call.

Come on, give me something. It's mine, he thought.

But it wasn't the box that erupted. It was the phone.

He grabbed it up, almost dropping it. He didn't hear the voice too well because he was holding the receiver upside down. He fumbled it back around and said his name into it.

'You're early,' said the voice.

The same voice - cool, oily. Even the alphabet would've sounded all wrong coming from him.

'I've been waiting for you.'

'Well, you won't be waiting long I'm sure. They'll find her soon enough. Some passer-by will come along. I didn't bother hiding her.'

'You didn't bother hiding any of them.'

'Maybe,' he said. 'Maybe not. We're almost there - the last act. My final piece.'

'What's it about?'

'You'll see,' the killer said. 'Well, you won't. But that's the point.'

'Absence,' Lacey said. 'Loss. That's what this is all about, right?'

'Hole in one, detective.'

'Someone walk out on you?'

The line went cold. Then: 'Careful, detective.'

'I'm not a detective.'

'Sure you are,' the killer said. 'You've come this far. Everyone roots for the little guy.'

'You should know,' Lacey said. 'I know what you do for work.'

'Oh?'

'You're a cabbie,' he said, knowing he had piqued his interest. 'One of those funny little guys, someone you see every day but never quite take the trouble to thank. Not like a mailman, not a regular and friendly face. You're the one they see after a night of hitting the bottle. When they're drunk, feeling vulnerable, when they're at their worst. One of those people. One they pray that doesn't remember them come morning. But you don't. You're invisible, the back of a head. That's your edge. You're the killer.'

The laugh that followed was hollow.

'Fine,' the voice said. 'Since you're so smart, here's a deal. I get off at two. Two o'clock this afternoon. When I'm done, I'll call you - right here at your desk. I'll ask you a question. If you get it right, I'll turn myself in. No trouble. If you get it wrong?'

A beat.

'I kill the next girl. Then the next. Then the one after that. I'll take off. San Francisco's beautiful this time of year. And I'll start again. Over and over. Until my time runs out.'

Silence.

'Fair deal? Answer right, you catch me. Answer wrong. . . I'll disappear. No little promotion, no chance to prove yourself, no chance to play in the big leagues. What do you say?'

Lacey sat still. He thought about it. Everything they had and everything they didn't. He'd never stop. He exhaled. 'You've got a deal.'

'Excellent,' he said, dragging it out, slick and strange. He caught the edge of something. A roll of the 'L'. Latino? Maybe.

'The clock's ticking, Lacey. Answer the phone.'

He hung up.

Lacey sat there and went on sitting there until Carruthers returned with the donuts. He took one look at him.

'What happened?'

He must've looked terrible. Before he could pry his mouth open to answer, the phone rang again. Not his - Carruthers'. He picked up and listened. Nothing changed in his expression, he nodded and listened. Something he never did. Then he set the phone back on the Bakelite receiver.

'There's been an attempt on June Hartsfield's life.'

Next stop: Lincoln Heights Jail.