Dirty Harry 03 - The Long Death (17 page)

The washwoman helped her. Suddenly tall and fast, the washwoman spun the groggy girl around, bent her backward over the table, jammed her knee up McConnell’s skirt and between her legs until the policewoman’s crotch stopped it, and clamped the sodden sponge over McConnell’s mouth.

As the pain on her forehead diminished and her vision cleared, a different sensation took over. For a split second McConnell could see the washwoman’s young face snarling with glee. She could see the washwoman’s muscular arm vibrating with pressure. She could see the craggy, soft thing over her mouth and nose. She brought her fists up only to feel them stop and float in midair. The white tile all around her began to grow fuzz. The washwoman’s face turned a deep orange then began to wash away.

She felt the small of her back against the edge of the table. She felt her feet slipping across the floor. She felt her arms drop. She smelled the sickly sweet aroma of the chloroform. The whole image of what was happening to her stopped and strobed. Then purple, exploding darkness.

The woman checked the outside hall. No one else was on the floor. She went to the door opposite the lavatory and knocked once. The gentleman flung it open. They both went back to the john, carried the girl to the room they had reserved that evening, and went to work on her.

Harry couldn’t wait anymore. He had had a tough afternoon. Between filling out the forms on Tony’s no-last-name arrest, checking with the vice squad to see if Lynne had reported, running to the hospital to see if the bald man had come out of his blood-loss coma, and filing to get a search warrant for Madame’s, Harry was doing a lot but getting nothing done.

When McConnell hadn’t reported in by five, Callahan figured he’d take a drive over to the campus on his own time. Maybe he’d drop by Emeryville on his way back for a quick drink. When the Emeryville exit came up on Route 80, however, Harry took it. He stopped by the nearest gas station, had the attendant fill the tank, and headed for the pay phone.

No, Harry thought. He couldn’t risk blowing McConnell’s cover no matter how much he’d like to see her. Dialing vice’s number, Harry cursed himself. Her femininity was affecting his job. He had been seriously considering doing something he never would have considered doing to a fellow male officer. When was the last time he had risked blowing a guy’s cover to join him for dinner?

Ron Caputo of Missing Persons answered. He had been on the case since Rose Ray had been officially reported missing.

“No, nothing yet, Harry,” he said. “The vice boys say it isn’t like her to wait this long.”

“How about her guardian angel?” Callahan inquired. “He report in yet?”

“Yeah, at about 4:30,” Caputo answered. “He said he was still waiting for her to contact him as to where she’d be staying the night.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“The Berkeley Youth Hostel on Harrison Street,” the Missing Person’s man replied. “He’s going under the cover name of Mike Porter.”

“Mike Porter. Got it,” Harry said. “Thanks Ron.” After he had hung up, Harry checked his watch. It was 5:45. Depression gnawed at him again. The case was slipping out of his control. He paced back to his car, cursing McConnell this time. Trust a woman to be unprofessional, he caught himself thinking. Once he had gotten behind the wheel, however, he realized McConnell would never have allowed herself to be late unless there was a good reason. She may not want to be one of the boys, but she had too much pride in herself to be unprofessional. Something had to be going on. Or something had to be wrong.

Harry got back on Route 80 and sped up to Berkeley like he had his siren on. He made it to Harrison Street in record time. The deskman at the Youth Hostel was impressed by the rugged-looking man in the brown tweed jacket. Usually they only got pimply-faced, bearded transients in the five-dollar-a-night crash pad. He pointed the tall man back toward the rear of the first floor dormitory.

“Popular guy,” the desk man commented as Harry moved away. “You’re the second one who asked for him tonight.”

Harry stopped in his tracks. “A woman?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” the deskman assured him. “A man.”

A chill swam across Harry’s shoulders. “What did he look like?”

“Oh, medium height. Brown hair. Gorgeous facial structure.”

“High cheekbones?” Harry pressed. “Did he look . . . gentle?”

“Positively angelic,” the desk man concurred. Harry turned away, his expression as set and ashen as rock. “Now, now,” the effeminate deskman called as Harry strode toward Porter’s bed, “no jealousy!”

The hostel was set up the same as many bowery flophouses. There was simply a row of bunk beds against each wall with an aisle down the middle. The second floor was the same, only reserved for girls. The third floor had a couple of rooms reserved for couples. Harry walked to the very end of the aisle. He looked back at the front desk. The man there pointed to the left. Harry approached the sleeping structure. There was a young man reading on the bottom bunk and another sleeping on the top.

“Mike?” Harry asked the reading one.

Without looking up, the reader motioned toward the top bunk with his thumb. Harry moved closer. The one on top was sleeping on his stomach with the pillow over his head.

“Mike?” Harry asked again. No answer.

Harry lifted the pillow. The undercover vice cop’s head was turned in his direction. Porter’s eyes were wide open and his mouth was scrunched against the mattress. He looked right through Harry. Callahan took hold of his arm and lifted. Sunday editions of both the Los Angeles
Times
and San Francisco
Examiner
were stuck between the corpse’s chest and the bed. They were almost completely soaked through with blood.

Harry put the man back into place. He moved silently back to the aisle, then slowly at first but with increasing speed, walked out of the hostel.

“Have a nice night!” the deskman called after him.

Harry ran down the one block to Telegraph Avenue and the campus. He raced into the Student Union to find a map. A different girl was behind the Information desk, but she told him how to get to the Registrar. Harry tried to figure out what happened on the way there.

Somehow the slavers had discovered Porter’s presence on the scene. And if they had gotten to him, they must have known about McConnell as well. The only thing Harry couldn’t fathom was how. It was impossible unless there was someone on the inside. Harry ran across the street, past the Golden Bear Restaurant. On the window was a sign that read, “Fresh Vegetables, Freshly Baked Desserts, Fresh Fish.”

The face of a black man came into Harry’s brain. He nearly stopped when the pieces fell together, but when he realized the meaning of the situation, he ran even faster. The Registrar’s office was cooperative when they saw his badge. He just prayed that McConnell had put where she was staying on the college application. After too long a time to suit Callahan, a lady with lead-colored hair found Jo Frawley’s sheet. Harry grabbed it out of her hand. He skimmed down the page until he saw “Berkeley Inn Hotel.”

By the time he got back to his car, his chest felt like the inside of a Brillo pad. He pulled the door open, fell in, and pushed the key into the ignition. This trip he turned on his siren and stuck the flashing bulb up on the roof. He turned onto Haste Street seconds later, driving right up onto the hotel’s lawn. He took in the street scene completely as he ran toward the lobby. Parked cars, a van, a carpet-cleaning truck, and a lot of motorcycles.

Harry stormed into the oak-paneled lobby with his gun out. He vaulted over two couches and grabbed the deskman by the collar.

“Lynne . . . I mean Jo Frawley,” he shouted. “Police business!”

The desk man had lived through the student riots of the sixties. He took orders very well. He gave Harry a number on the third floor.

Harry took the steps two at a time, his legs beginning to feel like cooked macaroni. He went up to Lynne’s door and kicked it open. The room was empty. He was about to spin around when he heard a loud engine roar into life below her window. Harry jumped over the bed and threw up the glass.

Below, on the street, he saw the carpet-cleaning truck rev its engine. In the back of the truck he saw two figures in overalls loading a large, rolled-up green carpet.

“Hold it!” Harry shouted out the window. “Freeze!”

The motor was too loud for him to be heard from so high up. He pointed his weapon out the window. He stopped just before he pulled the trigger. The carpet men didn’t know he was there yet. If he fired, they’d either assume it was another vehicle backfiring or he’d give himself away prematurely.

Instead he turned and headed back down the stairs, grabbing the banisters in both hands and swinging down the flights one half at a time. He raced across the lobby shouting at the deskman as he went.

“Call the police! Carpet truck pointed north on Haste!” Harry didn’t care whether the hotel man responded or not. He’d take care of it as soon as he got into his car.

His adrenalin keeping his weary limbs pumping, Callahan dashed around the side of the building. The carpet truck was pulling out into the road. Instead of trying to catch up on foot, Harry sprinted to his vehicle on the lawn. He was in with the motor running before the truck had even gotten to the corner. Harry backed off the grass, ripping off huge divots as he went.

The truck rumbled slowly off to the north. Harry whirled his car to the east. He screamed around the corner parallel to the truck, almost wiping out three motorcyclists in the process. He wrenched the wheel to the side, narrowly missing the helmeted trio. Two screamed by him on one bike, the driver’s girlfriend clutching him tightly around the waist. Harry saw his own reflection in the full head gear they wore. The second bike swerved onto the sidewalk to give Callahan’s car plenty of room. The second driver shook a fist at him as he screeched down the remainder of the street.

He took his first left, his car veering all the way across the road. He pulled it back straight and located the rear of the carpet truck barreling down a hill a block away. Harry tore down the almost deserted college street, passing what cars there were with reckless abandon.

Harry went through the stop sign at the intersection where the carpet truck had turned left. Another car was trying to get through. Harry spun his wheel to the right, but it wasn’t enough. He was slammed into the dashboard and his unmarked police car got a mark all the way down the side. The other car’s headlights were smashed off and it spun sideways, blocking Haste Street. Harry jammed down the accelerator and kept going.

He catapulted off the top of the hill going sixty miles an hour in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone. All four wheels left the concrete for two seconds, then he crashed back down, his shocks singing with the pressure. The big police car waffled across the line, then straightened.

Harry saw the carpet truck at the bottom of the hill. It had slowed for a red light that was turning green. Its right-hand blinker was on. Harry hauled out his .44 with his right hand, then slapped it into his left. He gripped the steering wheel with his knees and slapped his right hand on the horn. The car shrieked down the hill while Harry took aim.

He was fifty feet away when he fired. The right rear tire on the carpet truck blew just as it was taking the corner. Harry threw his gun to the seat and grabbed the wheel with both hands. He turned the car right for the sidewalk corner. Before the truck could accelerate even with the flat, Harry’s car had jumped the curb, smashed into a crowd of garbage cans and skidded broadside in front of the six-wheeler.

Harry propelled himself out the open window, his Magnum in hand. The burly truck driver was getting out of the cab, his mouth on automatic, when he saw Harry’s gun. He threw himself back against the fender, his hands up. Harry grabbed him by the shoulder, whirled him around, and threw him toward the rear of the truck.

“Who’s in there?” he shouted.

“Nobody, nobody!” the driver swore. “Just Bernie and Les. I swear!”

“Call them out!” Harry demanded. The driver complied. The rear door swung open, the pair of movers cursing about the sudden stop.

“On your faces!” Harry shouted. “On the ground! Now!”

The three men dropped as if they had been decked by Mohammed Ali.

“Hands behind your head,” Harry instructed. They complied. “Don’t move.” The cop vaulted into the back of the truck, his gun at the ready. Inside there were steam equipment, vacuums, shampooers, vats of cleaning solution, and the green carpet.

It was big enough, Harry thought, looking at its rolled length. All they would have to do is knock McConnell out, wrap her up in the rag, and carry her out. They’d have to wait until the owner of the hotel had gone and the night shift had come on. Then they could have told the desk anything.

Harry kneeled down at the end of the carpet and looked down through the middle. Nothing was inside. No victim, no policewoman, no McConnell. The impact of the discovery was worse than looking down a hitman’s gun barrel. The realization made him sick at heart.

It was all a coincidence. A miserable coincidence. Harry visualized the black man on the autopsy slab. He had said that they had disguised Rose Ray as a boy and tied her up. Any group that imaginatively perverted wouldn’t have settled for anything as obvious as a carpet truck. Harry visualized the motorcyclists he had nearly run down. He remembered their helmets; all had black plastic visors that completely covered their faces.

He remembered the “girlfriend” of the first cyclist. How she clung tightly around his waist. He remembered the only part of her head he could see. Her hair. Her full, lustrous brown hair flying in the wind.

Harry jumped off the back of the truck. “Get up,” he told the lying men. They moved to their feet hesitantly. They all looked relieved as Harry put his gun away, and the sound of a siren came from down the street. The hotel man had called the cops after all.

“Tell them it was a misunderstanding,” Harry said to the driver. “Tell them to call Dirty Harry for an explanation.” Without waiting for a retort, Harry turned and walked through the gathering crowd of curious bystanders to his car.