Goodnight, Irene (12 page)

“Detective Harriman, when you have testified against as many psychopaths as I have, you become cautious by habit. But how interesting! I would have thought the odds of the killer still being alive and in the area slim, but this is obviously not the case. When Miss Kelly told me Mr. O’Connor was killed, I considered it, but complications from such an old murder case seemed unlikely. It raises a number of questions.”

“We’re not sure it is in connection with this case, sir, but we are following up on any possibilities.”

“In that case, it is I who should advise you to be careful. Anyone desperate enough to kill a journalist won’t think twice about harming an officer of the law.”

We said good-bye again and walked out to the car. Frank tucked the box under one arm and fished in his pockets for his keys.

“For God’s sakes, Frank, don’t drop her.”

“That was quite an experience, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all what I expected.”

Frank started to put Hannah’s head in the trunk, then thought better of it. “She might roll around back there and get damaged. Let’s put her on the floor of the backseat.”

I was relieved not to have to hold her on my lap.

As we drove off, I looked at my watch. “We might get back in time for me to make deadline.”

“You think they’re going to want to print the pictures of her? It’s not as if this is really fresh news.”

“The murder itself is old news, but the pictures and the progress in identifying her are another story. Our readers have been seeing articles on this woman at least once a year for the past thirty-five years. I think they’ll be curious.”

“Something tells me your boss will want to save this up for one of those anniversary stories.”

“No, I’m going to write it up as a possible link to O’Connor’s murder. Maybe Wrigley will go for it. It won’t work as the kind of ‘help us find her’ story; too many years have gone by, and I doubt she was in Las Piernas for very long before she was killed. Otherwise, someone would have noticed she was missing.”

“Maybe you’re right.” For a moment he seemed distracted, glancing at the side and rearview mirrors.

“Somebody following us?” I asked, willing myself not to turn around.

He was quiet, concentrating on getting onto the Harbor Freeway, and subtly checking the mirrors again. “No, I guess not,” he said at last.

He looked over at me. “Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, just jittery, I guess.”

“Sorry.”

We rode in silence while I tried to find my gumption. We reached the 405, and Frank did the routine with mirrors again, and there went any nerve I was building.

I was beginning to wonder if two years in PR work had ruined me for being a reporter. Where was all that spunk I had shown in other crime cases? Okay, so I had never been a target, but you had to have a certain amount of grit if you were going to succeed in the business.

“It’s okay to be scared, you know. It keeps you from being foolish,” he said, looking over at me. I was going to have to give up poker if I kept showing everything I was feeling.

“I was just wondering if I am going to be able to cut it as a reporter. Maybe I’m getting too old for this stuff.”

“Well, Granny, hold off on the retirement party. Benefits are lousy when you’ve only put in one day and quit before you’re forty. Stop being so tough on yourself all the time.”

“How many pep talks a day are you geared up for?”

“Whatever it takes.”

After a while I settled down and started thinking about Hannah again. I kept coming back to one of MacPherson’s comments.

“Frank?”

“Mmm?”

“If the person we’re after is Hannah’s killer, why do you think he stuck around?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question. Assuming it is a ‘he’ — and this would not be the kind of action you’d expect from a woman, true, but we should keep that option open — anyway, I guess there could be any number of reasons and they’d apply to either sex. First and foremost, he or she got away with it, and is still a long way from being discovered, let alone convicted of anything. That in itself might keep him in the area. Second, he may have some job or position that requires him to be in Las Piernas — or maybe he’s dependent on someone here. Third, leaving might have attracted more attention than staying.”

“Something else,” I said. “If Hannah came from another city or part of the country, and it has always looked like she did, then her killer went to a lot of trouble to make sure no one could trace her back to her home. Maybe he can be connected to the same place.”

“Maybe. Woolsey’s behavior in all of this is damned odd as well.”

“All those years of O’Connor pestering him, and he was still holding back.”

Frank took the off-ramp at Shoreline, the street that runs along the cliffs by the ocean in Las Piernas.

“Taking the scenic route?” I asked.

“You might say that,” he said, looking in the mirrors again.

After three or four minutes, he said quietly, “Make sure your seat belt’s snug.”

I did, glancing at my side mirror long enough to see a big blue Lincoln two cars behind us.

“N
OW WHAT
?” I asked.

“Let’s see what they have in mind. Keep your eyes open for a black-and-white — we may want to attract some attention.”

He accelerated slightly, and began to work his way in and out of traffic. The Lincoln stayed with us.

“If I get a chance, I’ll try to get you out of the car. But I don’t want to make you a target if he’s got his gun with him.”

“Forget it, Frank. I’m not getting out of this car.”

“Goddamn it, Irene, you’ll do as you’re told.”

“That line only worked for my father, and he wore it out in less than fifteen years.”

He sat there clenching the wheel, seething and muttering under his breath. But soon he was concentrating on the Lincoln again, which was making a move to close the distance between us. I realized that traffic had fallen off — we were entering an industrial area near the harbor. Quonset huts and old brick warehouses lined the streets.

“Hang on.”

He floored the accelerator and pulled the car into a hard left. The wheels squealed in protest and the car fishtailed onto a short street that ran alongside the warehouses and away from the water. He made a sharp right onto an alleyway so narrow it didn’t seem we would fit. We didn’t — the car scraped along between two corrugated tin buildings on either side, metal screeching against metal, throwing sparks. Both side mirrors went flying off in the first few seconds. The doors grew hot, but the car kept moving. Frank looked up in the only remaining mirror.

The Lincoln had reached the alley, but was too wide to follow us. It roared off. Frank reached the end of the narrow passage and made a series of turns and came out on McKinley Road, which leads back into downtown. We were still going full speed. For a moment I thought we had lost them, but soon I heard the squeal of tires behind us — I turned around and saw that the Lincoln had found us again. There still wasn’t much traffic, but we were going faster than anything else on the road, and were weaving around cars that seemed to be standing still.

The street became less and less industrial as we swerved along it. We reached a flat stretch near some old houses, and the Lincoln began closing the distance between us. Within seconds, it seemed, it was right behind us. Frank took a turn up a curving hillside residential street. The Volvo cornered well, but the Lincoln had more power. It began to pull alongside us. Frank jerked the wheel hard to the left, bashing its back end into the Lincoln’s front bumper. Both cars swerved wildly, the Volvo recovering a little more quickly as we pulled ahead again. But within seconds the Lincoln had regained the lost ground.

Once again it pulled alongside us, this time the barrel of a gun clearly visible on the passenger side. Frank grabbed me by the neck with one hand, forcing my head down. I could see nothing, but felt the car veer from side to side. Suddenly a blast of shattered glass fell all around me as the gunman fired through the back windshield.

Frank took the wheel with both hands again, and I started to sit up, ignoring him when he shouted, “Stay down!” We reached the crest of the hill and began rocketing our way down the other side. That was when we saw the garbage truck.

Coming up the hill from the opposite direction, almost as if in slow motion, the lumbering white giant filled the road. There was no time to stop. Both cars were plummeting downhill side by side, heading straight for the truck. Frank gave a hard pull to the right, driving up onto the sidewalk. The car jolted as we went over the curb and mowed down a picket fence. We heard a sound like a bomb going off, the loud boom of the Lincoln hitting the truck. We kept going, Frank trying to regain control of the Volvo as it bounced wildly through front yard after front yard. The front windshield shattered as we came to rest with a bone-jarring halt in a large hedge. Beads of glass and sticks and leaves came flying at us, with Frank’s side of the car taking the brunt of the impact.

There was that eerie peacefulness that follows collisions. For a moment, it seemed all was still. I was a little dazed, but came around quickly. I became aware that my forehead was cut in several places and bleeding, but not too badly. I may have hit the dash. I was shaken up, but nothing seemed to hurt much.

Then I heard Frank moan softly.

He was slumped over the wheel.

“Frank?”

Another small moaning sound. Afraid to move him, I called his name again, without response. He was breathing through his mouth, as if he were sleeping. There was a streak of blood down the front of his shirt, but it all seemed to be from his nose and some facial cuts.

People from the neighborhood were starting to come toward the car. An elderly man reached us first. He spoke to me though the open windshield. “You okay, honey?”

“Yes, but please call an ambulance. And the police.”

“Already called ’em. They’re on the way. Is your friend all right?”

“I don’t know. He’s breathing. There’s some blood. He’s unconscious. I can’t tell how badly he’s hurt. I’m afraid to move him.”

“That’s all right, now. Shouldn’t move him. Can you open your door here? It’s pretty smashed in on this side.”

I tried, but it was no use. The trip through the alley had sealed us in.

Frank moaned again. I felt utterly useless to him.

“Don’t let that worry you, honey, he’s just trying real hard to come around. My name’s Charlie. What’s yours?”

“Irene,” I said. “This is Frank. Detective Frank Harriman,” I added, not really knowing why.

“Oh, a policeman? Well, it looks like you two had quite a chase. You came out better than the folks in that blue car. Those boys didn’t have a prayer.” I looked around, still in something of a fog. The garbage truck and what was left of the Lincoln seemed far, far away.

If it hadn’t been for that old man, I would have gone crazy. I couldn’t tell how badly Frank was hurt, I couldn’t get out of the damned car. But Charlie would see my face grow worried, and console me. “He’s going to be okay, Irene,” he would say, “I know you wish there was something you could do, but you can’t, you’ve just got to hang on for a little while. He’s gonna make it, it looks worse than it is. You listen to this old man; I know.”

I was calmed by his constant stream of conversation. His gravelly voice went on and on, telling me his life story, trying to distract me. Before I knew it, I heard the wail of sirens coming up the hill.

“There, now, you see?” Charlie said. “That didn’t take too long. They’ll have you out of here in no time. And they’ll get your friend fixed up, too. He’ll be all right. He just needs a little time to come around is all.”

As if he heard Charlie, Frank moved himself to a sitting position for a moment, eyes closed; he moaned, then slumped over the steering wheel again. His nose had been bloodied, his upper lip was swelling; much more I couldn’t see before he fell forward.

The paramedics arrived. They got a crowbar and went to work on the car doors, Frank’s side first. They got the door open and tried talking to him, checking him over and cleaning him up a little without moving him. He didn’t come to, so they gently strapped his back and neck to a support board. I watched as they carefully managed removing him from the car, taking no chances with his injuries. By this time, one of the other men had helped me out of the other side. I felt shaky and tired, but was okay. They cleaned my cuts out and bandaged my forehead, and made sure I could answer questions like “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Someone had called in a report of an injured officer, and more sirens soon howled their way to the scene. I was watching Frank get loaded into an ambulance, feeling afraid to see him taken away, when I heard someone say, “Miss Kelly?”

I looked over to see a short, dark-haired man in a suit. He introduced himself as Pete Baird, and told me he was Frank’s partner. He offered to take me over to the hospital, but would I mind answering a few questions on the way? Before we left, I walked over to Charlie and said, “Thank you isn’t enough, Charlie. I won’t forget your kindness.”

He looked genuinely bashful as I shook his hand.

As I passed by the remains of the Volvo, I suddenly remembered Hannah. To Pete Baird’s surprise, I got back in the car and crawled halfway over the seat. I picked up the box with Hannah’s skull in it and retrieved the papers from under broken glass. I opened the top flap of the box, and there was Hannah, grinning at me, unscathed by it all.

“What have you got there?”

“This,” I said, gently closing the box, “is the beginning of a long story.”

P
ETE LED ME
over to a black-and-white where two uniformed officers stood waiting. As Frank’s partner, Pete already knew about O’Connor’s notes and Frank’s conversation with Hernandez. As we drove to the hospital, I told him about the visit with Dr. MacPherson. I asked him if they could please have someone check on the professor. I thought of MacPherson’s last cautioning words to Frank — he was right, harming a cop was no big deal to whoever had come after us.