The Patrolman - 39

 

 

39.

 

 

 

The engine roared to life at the touch of the starter. All twelve cylinders fired up. Its roar drowned out the jukebox blare behind them. Lacey checked his wristwatch. They had thirty minutes to get back to the station.

'Floor it,' he said.

Carruthers sent the Lincoln into a controlled skid. As the car swayed left and then right out of the parking lot, he resisted a glance back at the old roadhouse. The girl walked out onto the porch. The decrepit bar got smaller and smaller. Before it vanished into the distance, the girl waved both arms in the air.

Soon, they were back on 26th Street. They drove around Williams Ranch and headed south on Eastern Avenue. They looped west toward the viaduct. They cut through the industrial blocks north of Soto.

The Lincoln's whitewall tires kicked up dust on the road. They raced past the two industrial buildings on either side of the street and made a right at the plant.

That's when he made them.

On straightaways, the Lincoln's supercharged engine sent a high-pitched scream into the air. But it died when Carruthers made corners. That's when he heard them. The boom.

Two different cars, twice in one day. Carruthers must’ve had the most recognizable cop car in Los Angeles County. They couldn't afford to entertain it. They were running out of time. They needed to get back to Hollywood.

As they passed the creamery and turned right, the hot rod peeled out of a side street that ran behind a factory. Red and black, the car moved fast. It could've overtaken them if it had wanted to, but it didn't. The driver maintained a safe distance, for now. But Lacey could see at least two of them in the front.

Lacey boiled at the thought of the fix he was in. He thought about what the girl had said. What happened to her sister last summer bore all the similarities to what their guy was doing. Miranda Vasquez and José Gallardo Díaz had headed to Sleepy Lagoon to neck. This strange-o ex-boyfriend had turned up the night of the party and asked the little sister where she was. When he didn't get an answer, he either asked someone from the party or worked it out on his own.

He headed up there, either on foot or by car. This Thomas Emerson fella saw his ex with another guy and blew his top. He beat the guy to death. Miranda Vasquez must have died at Sleepy Lagoon or he’d strangled her somewhere secluded. Part of him wanted to go back and explain how unlikely it was that they’d bring their daughter home.

He didn't want to think about it. He had less than thirty minutes to get back to the station and stop this from happening to another girl. His mind raced as Carruthers steered the car northwest across the 6^th Street Bridge. Lacey kept alert, watching out for pedestrians.

It was then, on a stretch of the Garment District once they cleared the bridge, that it happened. Triple wind-horns screamed their banshee discord in his ear. The low-slung hot rod was gaining on them. Something happened in the car, and the Pachuco punks decided it was time to act. The machinery’s whine grated on his eardrums. Now he could see their eyes in the Lincoln's side mirror. They'd set off like a bat out of hell. Heading straight toward them. There was a clumsy shunk of metal and a clang. They'd rammed them. Something had come off the Lincoln or the hot rod. Either way, Carruthers didn't want to find out.

He shifted fast through the gears, and the policemen settled themselves in for the pursuit.

Carruthers pushed the revs up and up. The car hit forty, then sixty. As Carruthers whipped the car through the streets, Lacey thought about the name. Thomas Emerson. Who was he? What would he look like? Was this man, this bastard, open to reason? Could Lacey talk him out of taking another life? He didn't think so, but he would try to catch the phone call.

He listened to the Lincoln and decided the clang had come from the hot rod. There were no expensive noises coming from the Lincoln. The hot rod jumped lights. The deep note of its two-inch exhaust thundered back at him.

Tires screeched on the asphalt. Carruthers cornered better than their pursuers, but the hot rod ruled the straights. It had more horsepower than the Lincoln. But every bump in the road, every swerve, set the hot rod back. They were tempting fate, even with dwindling afternoon traffic.

Carruthers moved to Code 2, lights and sirens. Lacey couldn't hear a thing. The wind tore at his face. He removed his fedora and held it tight. He didn't want to lose it. His hair whipped and slapped against his skin.

They snaked up through the narrow lanes of Bunker Hill and caught Sunset past Figueroa. As though on cue, a black-and-white joined the pursuit, and then another. They were on home territory now. Fifteen minutes left. They'd make it.

They crossed La Brea.

'We're good,' Carruthers said, belting the words out at the top of his lungs over the roar of the siren. He aimed a finger at his rear-view mirror, and Lacey checked his mirror.

The hot rod was gone, and the two prowl cars had followed them.

He could see Highland up ahead.

Carruthers jerked the wheel. The Lincoln swung around the corner.

It came back screaming. Like a red-and-black bullet. A banshee shriek of revs.

It slammed into the Lincoln’s rear quarter-panel. Not hard enough to spin them out, but enough to throw Carruthers off course. The car jolted sideways, tires drifting. Carruthers fought the wheel, but the second hit came too fast.

Bang. A clipped rear axle. The Lincoln bucked, lurched, and jumped the curb. It skidded sideways into a stack of crates and straight onto the sidewalk.

They had mounted the curb in front of the Hollywood Bank & Financial Trust.

Steam rose from under the hood. Lacey flung open the door and staggered out. The neoclassical facade of the old bank loomed over him. Its columns blackened with soot.

Why here?

This was where it had happened.

December 7, 1941. The bank robbery. The man who fell from the second floor. The sirens that had kept him up for weeks.

He heard it again. The scream, the thud, the crack of the man’s skull hitting the sidewalk. Right where he stood.

The war had started that morning. For the country. And for him.

Carruthers slammed the steering wheel. ‘She’s done.’

Lacey peeled his eyes away from it. ‘I’ve got to go.’

 

 

It was almost two o’clock when he entered the phone booth on Hollywood Boulevard. He was across the street from Madre Jalisco’s. Grease and old fingerprints smeared the glass. Someone had carved a name into the side with a penknife — "Dottie" or "Dolly."

He closed the door behind him. It didn’t latch all the way. The booth smelled like a wet dog and stale Camels. He liked it. He dropped in the nickel and dialed the number from memory.

‘Hollywood Station.’

‘Officer Lacey, please?’ he said. ‘Homicide desk.’

‘Who can I say’s calling?’

‘He’s expecting me.’

‘Fine.’

The phone on the other end began to ring.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Nothing.

The cop from before asked if he’d like to call back later, but the killer declined. He said he’d hold.

He let it ring. He was patient when it counted. But his fingers twitched against the metal edge of the receiver.

The Negro girl left the club and went to cross the street. She looked both ways. He turned away and waited a moment. She wore a dark blouse with puffed sleeves and a flared skirt that danced around her knees. A single run on her stockings snaked down her leg.

He watched her through the foggy glass. She crossed the street, heading toward him, looking into his cab.

The phone kept ringing.

He tilted the receiver away from his ear for a moment and rested it against his chin. The girl was looking for the driver.

Then he looked back at the mouthpiece.

Still ringing.

The girl hailed another cab and took off.

That was close.

He brought it close again. Close enough to hear the static breathing down the line.

 

 

Carruthers said something he couldn’t hear. He was already running. His shoes pounded the sidewalk. Holding his fedora to his head. The station was a few blocks southeast, past Sunset and Wilcox. Hollywood was too busy.

He ran south on Highland, past gawking tourists and theatergoers. His lungs burned. His legs felt full of sand.

Car doors slammed behind him.

Shouting.

Then shooting.

Carruthers returned fire. A window shattered. A woman screamed from inside a corner bakery.

Lacey didn’t look back. Bullets snapped overhead, ricocheting off a trolley pole near him. Tires spun. The shooting got louder.

He ducked under a hotel awning, past a kid selling War Bonds on the sidewalk. He took a hard left onto De Longpre.

A Packard almost clipped him at Las Palmas, the driver leaning on the horn. He cut across the mouth of an alley and hurdled a stack of milk crates. Sweat poured off him. He panted, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. Somewhere behind, another gunshot cracked.

Someone cried out for the police. He cut through a hedge.

He hit Wilcox and turned north. The station was up ahead. His side cramped. His head pounded.

He saw the old brown-bricked building with the red roof tiles. He flung the station doors open.

The watch commander looked up.

He ignored him and bounded upstairs. Officers stood. Cursing followed him. Typewriters clacked. Phones rang.

One phone shrieked.

There was a long pause between the rings. He crossed the squad room, knocking papers off desks. He fell into the file cabinets next to his spot. His knees buckled as he reached for it. The receiver fumbled like Jell-O in his hand.

He caught it.

'I'm here,’ he said.

The caller laughed. 'That's no way to answer a telephone. Didn't your mother teach you?'

'Afraid not. Who taught you, Thomas?'

A beat.

Had Lacey rattled him?

'You got there,' he said after a moment. 'It took you long enough. For my understanding, please spell out my first and last names.'

'Thomas Emerson,' he started spelling it out, but the killer got his drift.

'Meet me at Union Station. Come alone. If I catch a whiff of your partner snooping around, the girl's dead,' he said. 'I promise you that.'

'Out of curiosity, what question did you plan to ask me?'

The killer said nothing.

Lacey could almost hear the creep smiling through the phone. Lips parting. Teeth widening.

‘Union Station,’ he said. ‘Thirty minutes.’