I SLUMPED INTO THE passenger’s seat of the cruiser, and reached for the mike. The effort seemed enormous.
“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. As I spoke, Canelli got behind the wheel, grunting heavily.
“You got him, eh?” Friedman said. “Nice going. The governor, by the way, is expected to live. In fact, all of the victims—all four of them—are expected to live. How about the hostage?”
“He’ll live, too. He’s just shot in the leg.”
“How about Ramirez?”
“He’s still unconscious. He might have a concussion, but I don’t think his skull is fractured.”
“You sound tired,” Friedman said.
“I am tired.”
“Are you going to check out that Hoffman Street thing, or shall I tell Culligan to handle it?”
“Is he still waiting for me?”
“Sure. It’s only been forty-five minutes, you know, since I first called you. Time passes fast when you’re busy.”
I snorted, then shrugged. “I may as well check it out. It’s less than a mile from here. I’ll send Canelli downtown, to keep the chain of evidence.”
“Roger. Anything else?”
“No.”
“You done good, Lieutenant. Oh, by the way, your friend Ann Haywood called—my favorite schoolmarm. She phoned you, and Communications put her through because they know her. Anyhow, she somehow got plugged into Tach Seven, for God’s sake, and found out that you were busy shooting it out with a bad guy. So do you want me to tell her you’re okay?”
“She was in the net?” It was an outrageous possibility.
“Don’t try to cope with it, Lieutenant. These things happen. Shall I call her, or not?”
Ann …
“All right, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you in a couple of hours, eh?”
“Roger.”
I sank back in the seat, watching the tangle of official cars begin to clear the area. The ambulances were just pulling away.
Forty-five minutes …
Momentarily I closed my eyes, drawing a long, deep breath. “Did you order a squad car to stand by here?” I asked Canelli.
“Yessir.”
“You’ll have to get a ride down to the Hall. Report to Lieutenant Friedman.”
“Right.” He hesitated, then said, “Jeeze, it hasn’t even been an hour since we left the Hall. I can’t believe it. Man, I feel like I been through a war, or something. Is that the way you feel, Lieutenant?”
“That’s right, Canelli. That’s the way I feel.” I still lay back against the seat, again allowing my eyes to close.
“You know,” Canelli said softly, “when I was crouched down there in that stairway, waiting for Ramirez to come out, I started wondering how the hell I got there—what I was doing there. I mean—” He paused. “I mean, it just didn’t seem possible that it was me, waiting there to maybe kill somebody. Know what I mean, Lieutenant?”
I opened my eyes. “This is a tough business, Canelli. Didn’t they tell you that at the academy?”
“Yeah. But hearing it’s one thing. Doing it’s something else.”
“You’ll be all right, Canelli. You aren’t the best driver in the world. But I feel safe with you backing me up. And that’s what it’s all about—the crunch.”
“Well, thanks, Lieutenant. Thanks a lot.” His voice revealed both surprise and pleasure.
For a long, tired moment we sat in silence. Finally Canelli asked, “How’d you get to be a cop, Lieutenant? I mean, you been to college, and everything. And you even played pro football, I know. So …” He lapsed into a tentative, hopeful silence.
To myself, I smiled. “I got in through pull, Canelli. Captain Kreiger and I played football together at Stanford. But he was smarter than I was. He majored in police science, and then got into police work after college. I majored in football, although they called it business administration. So when my so-called football career ran out and my marriage went sour, I came back to San Francisco. And”—I shrugged—“and when Kreiger said that he could help me get into the academy, I went for it. I was the oldest rookie in my class. Luckily, though, I was in good shape. Physically, at least.” I sat straighter, glancing up and down the block. Only three cars remained, waiting for dispatch.
I said again, “You’d better catch yourself a ride to the Hall, Canelli. You and I are the chain of evidence. And I won’t be downtown for an hour or so.”
“Oh. Yeah.” He hastily got out of the car, then turned back, as if he were about to say something. Finally he half saluted, smiled uncertainly, and called to a black-and-white car.
I glanced at my watch. If Culligan had waited this long, I decided, he could wait a few minutes more. Again I settled back in the seat, allowing my eyes to close. At forty-three years of age, I’d finally learned the value of catnaps.
The oldest rookie in my class …
I could talk about it now—smile about it.
But I still couldn’t talk about failure. That would take another ten years—another decade. Canelli had sensed something missing in my story—some secret, essential component that would make the sum total credible. He probably didn’t suspect, though, that the component’s label was failure.
The failure component …
I’d coined a half-catchy phrase: Dale Carnegie, turned mockingly around. How to succeed as a policeman without wanting to be a policeman—or anything else, really.
Yet I’d wanted to play football. I’d tried hard. For a few years, I probably had the potential.
But I’d married an heiress: a tawny, predatory blonde, with a balding, predatory father. Jason Carlson, Detroit industrialist. When the Lions finally cut me loose, Jason had found a P.R. spot for me in his “organization.” He never referred to his business as a foundry. It was “the organization.” The executives were “team members.”
But the P.R. man, I soon discovered, was merely the team greeter, the golf partner, the drinking buddy, the chauffeur. Even the procurer, if the customers were horny enough—and important enough. Another “team member” took care of the publicity releases and the bad press notices. I took care of the customers’ libidos. The high-level pimping had been the final phase of my P.R. career, capping the grisly climax. By that time, in the line of duty, my cocktail hour began at noon and seemed to have no end. My wife, meanwhile, had found other drinking companions. My children had become …
“Lieutenant Hastings.” Startled, I straightened, opening my eyes, blinking. It was the walkie-talkie, lying on the seat beside me.
“What is it?” I looked toward the last remaining squad car, parked across the street, directly in front of the white frame house. This car would remain, securing the area.
A dark, dumpy girl stood beside the squad car. “I’ve got Angela Ortega here, Lieutenant. The occupant of the apartment. Do you want to talk with her?”
“All right. Send her over.” I got out of the car, moving heavily. The girl was crossing the street toward me. She walked with a slow, dragging reluctance. I opened my car’s rear door and motioned her into the back seat. She hesitated, searching my face with dark, darting eyes. Her arms were stiff at her sides, fists clenched.
“Get in,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
She edged past me, sliding into the car. She sat in the far corner of the seat, turned to face me. She’d been in a police car before.
“Do you know Carlos Ramirez?” I asked.
“Sí. Yo le conozco.”
“Talk English, Miss Ortega,” I said sharply. “If you cooperate, this won’t take long. If you don’t …” I let it go unfinished.
“Yeah,” she said heavily. “Yeah, I know him. Is he—” Her eyes widened. “Jesus. Is he the one who—who—”
“That’s right,” I said. “He’s the one. And his mother said that it’s your fault—that he did it because of you. You made him do it, she said.”
“Me?” She gaped. “Qué pasa—What’d you mean, me?” As she asked the question, her face registered first shock, then surprise, finally a kind of slack, speculative puzzlement. “What’d you mean?” she repeated, watching me avidly. “I’m not even here. All day long, man, I been downtown. I don’ come here all day. So you can’t say I—”
“What’s your connection with Carlos Ramirez, Miss Ortega?”
She frowned. “What’d you mean? What ‘connection’?”
“Were you lovers? Is that it?”
Her lip curled. “Carlos, he’s a—a nothing. Nobody. He never talks, never does nothing. He—he’s—” Her mouth worked as she struggled for the word. “He’s demente,” she said finally. She tapped at her forehead.
“Crazy, you mean?”
“Nada—no. Not crazy, so much. Just strange. He never does nothing, like I said. He just sits, man, and talks to himself sometimes. He’s twenty, but he’s a boy. Twelve. Thirteen.” She raised her palms, shrugging elaborately.
I looked her over, taking my time. Her face was round and lumpish, her eyes lusterless, her mouth slack. Her black hair fell in untidy tangles to her shoulders. She wore skintight jeans and a tight turtleneck sweater. Her figure, like her face, was thick and gross.
“What about the man in your apartment, Miss Ortega? The blond man. What’s his name?”
“Him?” I watched her expression change to one of dull-witted streetcorner guile. “You mean Frankie?”
I nodded. “The blond one. The one who’s living with you.”
“Yeah. Well, we’re just”—she shrugged—“you know, man, we’re just making it for a while. That’s all.”
“How old are you, Miss Ortega?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Do you work?”
“Sure, I work. Every day. Except today, I mean. Today’s my day off. Wednesdays. I’m a waitress, see?”
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Aw, man—” She sullenly lowered her eyes. Affirmative.
“How many times have you and Carlos made love?”
The transparently crafty expression returned. “Man, I don’ have to answer that. What’d you think, I’m estúpido?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Ortega. But Carlos Ramirez tried to kill the governor. And it’s my job to find out—”
“The governor?” Plainly, she couldn’t comprehend it. “El gobernador?”
I nodded, watching her. Then I glanced at my watch.
Suddenly she laughed. Soon she was laughing uncontrollably. I let her finish. At last, choking and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “Cristo, Carlos was a boy, you know. Not a man. You know what I mean? He—he couldn’t do it. Nothing. But now he shoots the governor.” She shook her head, still wiping at her mascara-smeared eyes. Then, blinking, she frowned, struck by a sudden thought.
“Hey,” she said slowly, “what you say a minute ago—that it’s my fault. You mean it’s my fault about the governor? You don’ mean Frankie? You mean the governor?”
“Maybe both, Miss Ortega. Maybe Carlos wanted to impress you—show you he was someone. So he tried to kill the governor.”
“Hey.” She was half-smiling, preening now. “Hey, you think so? You think that was it?” The slack, thick-lipped smile widened. “All I ever did with Carlos was—you know—tease him, because he couldn’t do it. We jus’—fool around, you know? I let him fool around, once in a while. But I was just having fun. That’s all I ever did—jus’ have fun with him. A little teasing, you know? And he never say nothing. Jus’ sorta smile when I tease him. Even last night. Jus’ last night, while Frankie was working. But Carlos jus’ smile, and don’ say nothing.”
I studied her for a last long moment, then deliberately reached across to open the door. “You can go upstairs now, Miss Ortega. But don’t go anywhere. We’ll want to talk to you again.”
I watched her swagger off across the street in her skintight, buttocks-bulging jeans. Then I turned the ignition key, starting the engine. Culligan would be waiting at the Hoffman Street address. On my way, I’d order Angela picked up as a material witness.