Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 3

  “All right,” Friedman said calmly, “we’ve got everyone in position. Let’s block him at Army Street. That’s the last chance to.”

  “Hey,” Drager’s voice interrupted, “he’s taking a hard left, at Alvarado. He’s jumped the divider.”

  “All right, that’s good,” Friedman said, his voice still slow and deliberate. “He can’t make the freeway now. Let’s get that unit on Valencia Street U-turned. Maybe we can stop him at—”

  “He’s pulling up,” Drager said excitedly. “He’s stopped between Guerrero and San Jose.”

  “All pursuing units, converge on that location,” Friedman ordered. “Acknowledge.”

  Four units responded. I acknowledged last: “We’re at Guerrero and Fourteenth, Pete. We’ll be there shortly.”

  “All right, Frank. Take over. I’ll stand by.”

  “Roger. This is Lieutenant Hastings. What’s he doing, Drager?”

  “Nothing. He’s just sitting in his car. He’s bent over in the seat, but I can’t see what he’s doing. Shall we try to take him?”

  “No. Sit tight Just keep me—”

  “He’s getting out of the car, Lieutenant. He’s—Jesus, he’s our boy, all right. He’s got a rifle. It’s …” Drager hesitated. Now his voice sounded awed. “It’s an M-l, I think. A Garand, for God’s sake. He—”

  “… turning into San Jose,” a second voice said. “We can—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted loudly. “I don’t want to hear from anyone but Drager. All other units, proceed to the suspect’s location, code two. Use extreme care. Repeat: extreme care. The suspect is armed. Seal off the block. Take cover. I don’t want—”

  “Look out, black-and-white!” Drager shouted. “He sees you, at the far end of the block. He—Watch it!”

  I heard the sound of shots: three shots, rapid-fire. I flicked on the siren. “Hit it, Canelli.”

  “Yessir.” The car surged forward, careening around a huge moving van, missing a wildly wobbling bicyclist by less than a foot.

  “… running into a building,” Drager was saying. “He’s inside. I can’t see him now. He’s gone inside a two-story private dwelling.”

  I tried to keep my voice calm as I asked, “What’s the address of the building?”

  “One sixty-seven Alvarado.”

  “All right. I want you and your partner to cover the back of that building, Drager. Right now. Have you got a walkie-talkie and a shotgun?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay. Tune to channel one. We’ll be on the scene any second now.” I glanced at the street signs. We were at Twenty-first Street, three blocks from Alvarado. “Take off, Drager. Don’t let him get out the back way.”

  “Yessir. Clear.”

  “How many other units are on the scene now?” I asked.

  “Four,” someone said. Another voice answered, “Five.”

  “Whoever said ‘four,’ I want that team to help Inspector Drager cover the back. Understood?”

  “Yessir. We’re on our way.”

  “Everyone else, take cover,” I ordered. “Keep the civilians back. Check the roofs. We’re almost there.”

  A pair of motorcycle officers curved into Guerrero just ahead—as if they were escorting us. Alvarado was next. The motorcycles braked, hopped up on the divider, then down. We followed, too fast. As our car rocked violently, striking the divider, I fleetingly wondered about the tires and the tie rods. Everything held together. It was a short street, half the normal block length. I hurriedly counted four black-and-white cars, plus Drager’s cruiser, plus ours. Other sirens sounded close by, converging.

  “Get as close as you can,” I ordered Canelli. And into the open mike: “Pete.”

  “Yes. It sounds good.”

  “I don’t need any more personnel. Not now, anyhow.”

  “Roger. How’re you going to proceed?”

  Canelli was pulling to a jolting stop almost directly opposite 167 Alvarado. It was a dingy, paint-peeling, two-flat building with an ordinary peaked roof. The building was a row house, sharing a common wall with the house on either side. The suspect couldn’t escape over the roofs without being seen—and shot.

  “If the back is covered,” I said into the mike, “he’s bottled up. He’s got nowhere to go. We’ll take it slow and easy. We can probably smoke him out.”

  “Do you want a sharpshooter?” Friedman asked. “There’s one at the Civic Center.”

  “All right, send him over. How’s the governor?”

  “I haven’t heard. Shall I come over there?”

  “No. I—”

  A woman’s figure was suddenly running past our car, making for the white frame house. She ran grotesquely—as if she’d been wounded—and was staggering, about to pitch headlong onto the pavement. Her outstretched arms were raised wide; her graying hair blew behind her as she ran. Her skin was brown; she was Chicano. Her mouth gaped as she gasped desperately for breath. Her eyes were wild and rolling.

  “Cover me, Canelli. Put the word out: cover me.” I threw open the car’s door, at the same time drawing my revolver. The woman was crossing the far sidewalk, reeling toward the house’s twin front doors. She half fell, then caught herself. She was screaming, “Carlos, Carlos!” As I reached the sidewalk, she hurled herself against the right-hand door, beating her fists against the panels. As I sprinted the last few yards, I glanced up, searching the second-story windows for the movement of a rifle barrel. Nothing. Now the woman was fumbling wildly at the doorknob, using both hands. She was still screaming, “Carlos!” Just the single word, over and over.

  As she wrenched open the door, my last stride carried me onto the small porch. I was safe; the porch roof protected me—and the woman. The door was swinging open. Behind her now, I circled her thick waist with both arms, still gripping my revolver in my right hand. Bracing my legs, I pivoted, throwing my weight against the woman’s forward momentum. She was too heavy for me: a gross, awkward bulk, falling away. We were tumbling together into a small, shabby entryway. Cursing, I released her waist. I threw her flat against the inside wall, protecting her from fire from down the stairway. With my left forearm jammed across her chest, pinning her to the wall, I quickly looked up the stairway. Nothing stirred. But if he came down the stairs firing the M-l, I’d be in trouble, with only a pistol.

  “Mi niño,” she was screaming. Now I could feel her sagging against me. Her eyes were rolling up. She was going into shock.

  “Mi niño—my boy.”

  “You’re his mother?” I hissed into her brown peasant’s face.

  “Sí, sí. Su madre.”

  It was a hell of a time to conduct an interrogation in two languages. I glanced again up the stairway, exposing only half my face. It was still clear.

  “What’s his name?” I asked the wild-eyed woman. “His full name. What’s his full name?”

  “Carlos. Carlos Ramirez.” Her voice was a whisper now. Her mouth was gaping. She was sinking slowly, sliding down the wall. I let her slide into a splay-legged sitting position, crouching above her.

  “Do you live upstairs, Mrs. Ramirez?”

  She slowly shook her head. “It’s Angela,” she whispered. “Upstairs. Angela. He’s with her, the mujerzuela. She made him do it. Angela.” Her head fell forward on her chest. Her eyes were blank; her mouth gaped.

  Mujerzuela. Slut.

  I cupped my left hand beneath her chin, raising her head. “Which apartment, Mrs. Ramirez? Which apartment is hers? Tell me. Then I’ll get help for you. But you have to tell me.”

  “You—you will kill him. Asesinar him.”

  “No, Mrs. Ramirez. We aren’t murderers.”

  Her lips were gray, her eyes half closed. “Detras de,” she muttered.

  The back.

  Cautiously, I pulled the front door open. I could just see Canelli, crouched behind our cruiser. To his right, the riot wagon was pulling up, probably diverted from the Civic Center. The wagon carried emergency gear: respirators, str
etchers, everything.

  “Canelli,” I called softly.

  “Yessir.”

  “Bring three men, a stretcher, a shotgun and a walkie-talkie. Quick.”

  I watched him moving awkwardly from car to car, bent double. In thirty seconds the team was ready, all of them crouched down behind our cruiser, the closest. Each of the four men was lifting his face, stealing a last fleeting look at the upstairs windows. I saw Canelli swallow slowly. Beside me, Ramirez’ mother was moaning, retching.

  “All right,” I called. “Now.”

  The four men broke for the porch, all of them running crouched, zigzagging. Canelli carried his revolver in one hand, a walkie-talkie in the other. The patrolman with the rolled-up stretcher reached the porch first. Canelli was next. The third man held a shotgun. Holstering my pistol, I beckoned for the shotgun. I pulled the slide slightly back, checking on the cartridge in the chamber. I clicked off the safety, then stepped to my right, facing directly up the stairway, shotgun ready.

  “All right,” I said softly. “I’ll cover you. I want two of you to take the woman out of here on the stretcher. Canelli, you stay here. The odd man, too. I think the suspect is in the back apartment, so there’s no problem—yet.” I spoke over my shoulder, keeping the shotgun trained on the upstairs landing, ready.

  In a moment, the two officers were gone, staggering under the woman’s weight. Upstairs, nothing stirred. I drew a long, slow breath, again speaking over my shoulder: “Get Drager on the radio, Canelli.”

  “Yessir.” A brief pause. Then: “I’ve got him, Lieutenant.”

  “Hold the radio up so I can hear,” I said. And sidelong into the mike: “Drager?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant”

  “How’s it look back there?”

  “All quiet, Lieutenant.”

  “Is there any means of getting out the back way from the upstairs flat?”

  “Yessir. There’s an outside stairway.”

  “Do you think the suspect could’ve gotten out and down those stairs before you got there?”

  “I don’t see how, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay, then he’s still up there. Keep your eyes open. He could be coming your way.”

  “Yessir.”

  “How many men are with you?”

  “Three.”

  “Could you get a gas grenade in one of the upstairs windows, do you think?”

  “Probably.”

  “All right. The riot wagon’s here. They’ll get a grenade launcher to you. When you’ve got it, stand by. Let me know when you’re in position to get a canister inside. But keep your head down, meanwhile. Don’t forget, he’s got an automatic rifle. An M-l.”

  I heard him half snicker. “Don’t worry.”

  I listened to the walkie-talkie for a moment, until I was sure that a grenade launcher was on its way. The process seemed to take longer than necessary, but was probably accomplished in less than a minute. When I heard Drager confirming that he had the launcher and was ready, I told him to stand by, then handed the radio to Canelli.

  “All right,” I whispered, “let’s see what we’ve got. You two men cover me. But stay well behind me on the stairs, in case we want to get out quick.”

  Slowly, step by creaking step, I began climbing the narrow staircase. As my head came above the level of the upstairs hallway floor, I had a clear view of two doors, apparently leading to two separate apartments, front and rear. Both doors were closed. I could hear nothing.

  Had he slipped away—out the back, before Drager could intercept him? Had he climbed over the roofs? I stood perfectly still, my forefinger touching my lips, listening.

  From the rear apartment came the faint sound of voices.

  Silently, I handed the shotgun to the patrolman, gesturing for him to train the gun on the rear doorway. “The safety’s off,” I whispered, “and there’s a round in the chamber. So watch it.”

  He nodded. I held his eye for a last long, hard moment He looked young—and nervous. He would be behind me with a gun that could blow my leg off at close range.

  “Watch it,” I repeated. “Give me a chance to drop before you fire.”

  Again he nodded, swallowing hard. I turned away from him, drawing my revolver as I climbed the last four stairs. Now I could plainly hear voices, speaking in low, fierce undertones. I inched closer to the apartment door until I stood with my ear against the panel. My revolver came up even with my chin. Looking at the gun, I realized that I’d forgotten to draw back the hammer. If I had to shoot, I’d be shooting double-action, never accurate. But I didn’t want to risk two hammer-clicks.

  Someone inside was saying, “Take her, for Christ’s sake. She’s nothing to me. If you want her, take her. But don’t shoot me. She—she’s nothing to me. Nothing. I was going to move out of here. I swear it. This weekend, I was going to move. I been just—just hanging around until I got a little money. But, hell, me and her, we’re just—just shacked up for a little while. It’s no big deal. We just—”

  “You’re a dirty, crawling, lying bastard. You—”

  “Don’t. Please, please don’t.” The voice was fear-choked, hardly audible. “I—I’ll do anything you want. But please don’t—”

  “Shut up.”

  “All right I’ll shut up. But I—”

  “I warn you: don’t talk. Another word, and I’ll shoot you. I’ve shot others today—many others.” The voice was viciously accented with a soft, menacing Spanish sibilance.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then I could hear the accented voice say: “I killed them all. Four, five people. They all were falling, slipping in each other’s blood. The governor, when he died, was reaching up, like he was grabbing for the sky. I could see how his fingers were crooked. His hand looked like a claw—like a chicken’s claw. I—” Laughter suddenly burbled madly. “A chicken. Did I say a chicken?”

  “Yes,” the other voice answered eagerly. “You said—”

  “Shut up.” It was a low, hysterical scream-whisper. “I told you, shut up.”

  “All right, Ramirez. Jesus, I—”

  “When is Angela coming?”

  “I—I already told you, I don’t know where she went. I swear it. She went shopping, I think. Just shopping. I—”

  “Maybe I won’t kill you until she gets back. I think maybe I won’t. And then, maybe, I’ll kill you both. What do you think of that, you crawling bastard?”

  “No, no. Please, Ramirez. You can’t. You—”

  “For me, who have killed the governor, it don’t matter. It’s all the same now. It—” The hysterical laughter erupted again.

  Slowly I backed down the stairway, carefully feeling for each step, motioning the two men down behind me. At the downstairs landing, I stopped them. I took the shotgun from the patrolman.

  “Go get us three gas masks,” I ordered.

  “Yessir.” He turned quickly away.

  I set the shotgun’s safety, then turned to Canelli. I reached for the radio. “Drager?”

  “Yessir.”

  “See anything?”

  “No.”

  “Are you ready with the gas?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You’ve got to make the first shot good. I don’t think he’ll stand still for number two. He’s irrational, and he’s got a hostage in there.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The patrolman was back with three gas masks.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him, taking my mask.

  “Parker, sir.”

  “Well, you take the walkie-talkie, Parker. Wait down here, in the entryway. When I give you the signal—when I nod—tell Drager to shoot the gas. Then you put on your mask. But stay down here. I don’t want you on the stairway.”

  He nodded, a little shakily. He’d probably never faced a gun before.

  I slipped on the mask, tested it, then picked up the shotgun, Pointing the shotgun up the stairs. I clicked off the safety. I looked over my shoulder at Canelli, lifting my head inq
uiringly up the stairs. Canelli nodded. He was perspiring heavily.

  Once more I began slowly climbing the staircase. This time I stopped two steps from the top, giving myself room to swing the shotgun. I motioned for Canelli to stop three steps down from me, with his head just above the level of the hallway. He could fire through the banister spokes. Canelli cocked his revolver. He was ready. He seemed steady, cool. I looked down to Parker, and nodded. I heard him order the gas.

  Almost immediately I heard the sound of shattering glass, followed by the angry hiss of the C.S. gas. I nodded to Canelli. He returned the nod. I watched my left hand tightening on the shotgun’s forestock. Inside my gas mask, perspiration was stinging my face. In a moment, the faceplate would begin to fog. I’d have to …

  “No—no!” a voice screamed from inside. “Jesus, no!” The apartment door shuddered, struck a sharp, sudden blow. The doorknob was turning; the door was coming open. I crouched down behind the riot gun. I …

  A shot cracked; splinters flew from the door, close to the floor. Someone screamed. The door came fully open. A large man, blond, tumbled out into the hallway. He wore only undershorts. Blood streaked his thigh. His eyes were streaming. He screamed incoherently as he staggered to his feet. His arms were thrown wide with the wild, desperate groping of a blind man. From inside the apartment came three quick shots, then a fourth. Plaster exploded on the hallway ceiling; two holes appeared in the front apartment’s door. The blond man screamed again as he lurched against the flimsy railing. For an instant the railing held the man’s bulk. Then, slow-motion-splintering, the banister was coming down. The man was falling. His gangle-limbed body struck Canelli, hunched against the wall. He was tumbling down the stairs, smearing blood on the dingy paint of the side wall. Below, Parker’s mask-muffled exclamation seemed oddly petulant.

  I returned my eyes to the still-open door, with its single splintered panel. The sound of coughing came from inside the apartment. Yellow, floor-clinging tendrils of C.S. gas were eddying out into the hallway. They were …

  A shot cracked out—a single shot. Then nothing.

  I cleared my throat. “Throw the gun out, Ramirez. Right now. Then come out with your hands on top of your head.”