Victims (18 page)

I found a spot on the sidewalk beside a cypress tree where I could see both the Kramer house and our cruiser. Because it was built against the side of the hill, the unique design of the house made surveillance simple. Whether he went on foot or by automobile, whoever left the house had to leave by the front door. Except for two front windows, also in plain view, there was no other way out of the house.

I leaned against a low stone wall and tried to look inconspicuous, concealed behind the cypress. Always, it seemed, detective work came down to this: standing, or sitting, or even lying in some unlikely place, watching and waiting—for hours, days, even weeks. Sometimes we knew what we were looking for, most of the time we didn’t. An anxious over-the-shoulder glance, an uneasy gait, a few furtive words exchanged in a shadowed doorway—often these were the detective’s most meaningful data, his only guide to possible guilt or innocence. So, inevitably, it came down to a gambler’s choice. Or, rather, a series of gambler’s choices, at least half of them wrong. A single detective on stakeout could—

The front door of the Kramer house was slowly opening. Bruce Durkin came out. He stood motionless for a moment, looking up and down the street. Then, carefully—cautiously—he closed the black lacquered door. He was dressed in jeans, jogging shoes, a beige colored waist length jacket. He carried a small duffel bag in his left hand.

Covertly, I gestured to Canelli, signaling for him to join me. I held my hand to my mouth and ear, reminding him to bring our walkie-talkie. I saw his answering nod, then turned back to face the townhouse. Durkin was descending the three steps to the flagstone walk. Now he turned right, toward the garage door. Because of the steepness of the hillside terrain, the house had only a single car garage. So Durkin was taking Marie’s car.

Why?

Was he running?

His furtive manner, the duffel bag, the fact that he obviously intended to take Marie Kramer’s car—everything suggested that, yes, Durkin was running.

If I was right—if he was running—then I was within moments of making a gambler’s choice.

He could back the car out of the small garage, wait for a break in the sightseeing traffic, then join the downhill stream of cars. Minutes later, he would be in downtown traffic, close to his choice of freeway ramps. And the freeways weren’t closely patrolled. Once on the freeways, his chances were odds-on of escaping into the gathering twilight.

I had two choices: Either block his car with mine, or get his car and its license number on the air. The second choice was the simplest, the one favored by regulations. If nothing went wrong, with plenty of manpower, units responding to my pickup order could easily take him into custody without unacceptable risk.

If
nothing went wrong.

If
the units in the area weren’t already responding to emergency calls.

If
the units responding could catch him before he got to the freeways.

I glanced back at Canelli. He was already out of our cruiser, walking toward me, trotting now. Had I time to run back to the car, start the engine, drive into position to block Durkin before he got clear of the garage? Looking toward the house, I saw the garage door lifting, automatically. Durkin was already inside the garage, out of sight.

Events were getting ahead of me. There might not be enough time to get into my car and work my way through the uphill stream of sightseeing cars before Durkin backed Marie Kramer’s car out of her garage and got underway, escaping downhill.

Time was working against me now. Time had tilted in Durkin’s favor.

My only hope of blocking the suspect was the stream of tourist cars itself.

The house was about five hundred feet ahead, up the hill. I began running, dodging between slow-moving cars, crossing the street to the opposite sidewalk, on the same side of the street as the Kramer house. From inside the garage, a silvery shape emerged: the trunk of a Mercedes convertible. The car was across the sidewalk now; Durkin was waiting for a break in the traffic. Certainly he would back into the street, then turn downhill, toward me. If he drove uphill, into the closed circuit of sightseeing cars, he would trap himself.

With two hundred feet still separating me from the Mercedes, I slowed to a walk, unwilling to risk attracting Durkin’s attention. Ahead, three pedestrians were on the sidewalk, hopefully screening me. Now the automatic garage door was lowering, barely clearing the Mercedes’ hood. Slowly, the big car was backing into the street, forcing its way into traffic. One horn blared, and another. Now the downhill flow of cars had stopped, waiting for the Mercedes. But Durkin must also back into the uphill flow, before he had room enough to turn the Mercedes downhill.

Three cars separated me from the Mercedes. In the seconds it took me to make a decision, one car passed me; only two remained. The first was a black pickup truck, the second was a red Porsche. I took my shield case from my pocket, flipped it open to show my gold lieutenant’s badge, and stepped out into the street, both arms raised. Inside the black pickup, I saw a man driving, with a woman beside him. I heard the man’s angry shout, saw the woman’s mouth come open. The car’s horn blared; its front end dipped sharply as the brakes caught. I stood motionless until the truck had completely stopped, only a foot from my legs. Close behind me, I heard Canelli’s voice.

“Is it Durkin?”

“Yes. Stand here, in front of the truck.” I stepped to the driver’s open window. The driver was young and swarthy, a Chicano.

“Hey, man, whadda you doing, man? I couldda—”

“Switch off your engine.” I put my hand through the window. “Give me the keys.
Now
.” As I spoke, I looked up the hill, beyond the red Porsche. The driver’s door of the Mercedes was swinging open.

“Hey, man, whadda you talking, give you the keys? I’ve no done nothing. You got no right to—”

“Either give me the keys, or you’re going to jail. Take your choice.”

“Christ, Remo, give him the goddam keys,” the woman wailed. “He’s a
cop.
Can’t you
see
?”

A brown hand took the keys from the ignition, handed them to me.

“Now stay there. Stay in the car. Roll up the windows, and lock the door.” Ignoring the driver’s protests, I pocketed the keys and my shield, then gestured for Canelli to join me as I walked between the pickup and the Porsche to the sidewalk. Less than a hundred feet separated us from the Mercedes, still standing with its driver’s door open on the downhill side, toward us. The car was completely blocking the sidewalk. Inside the car, I saw movement. Durkin was sliding across the front seat toward the passenger’s door, on the car’s uphill side.

“Has he seen us?” Canelli asked.

“I don’t know. You take this side. I’ll take the passenger side.”

“Right.”

Walking shoulder to shoulder, in unison, we unbuttoned our jackets, loosened our revolvers in their holsters.

Did Durkin have a gun? A knife? Would he—?

“Hey,” Canelli exclaimed sharply.
“Hey.”

On the far side of the car, the passenger door suddenly swung open. Durkin was out of the car. He was running up the sidewalk, away from us.

Dodging a casually strolling man and a young woman wheeling a baby in a stroller, I drew my revolver. I began running, shouting, “Police. Hold it there, Durkin.
Hold
it.”

Head down, arms pumping, legs driving like pistons, Durkin ignored the command. Beside me, running, Canelli was already panting. “Goddam,” he gasped, “he can
run
.”

“Use your walkie-talkie,” I panted. “Make a call. Then catch up.”

At the Mercedes, Canelli broke stride, stopped, switched on the radio. Ahead, Durkin suddenly dodged to his left—and disappeared. At the same moment, I heard a child’s voice, close beside me.

“
Hey.
What’d he do? What Bruce
do?”

Looking down, I saw John Kramer running beside me.

“Go back,” I gasped, returning my gaze to the spot where Durkin had disappeared. And now I saw two brick pillars that marked the beginning of concrete stairs leading up the hill. Seeing them, I remembered: Parts of Telegraph Hill were protected from real estate development with trees and underbrush as thick as a forest.

“Are you going to
shoot
him?
Are
you?”

I decided to save my breath, not answer.

“Are you?”
John demanded loudly. He was ahead of me now, running easily. Behind me, Canelli was shouting that he was coming. I was at the foot of the stairs, with the boy beside me. The stairs rose steeply for two flights, with a single landing between. Beyond the stairs, a dirt pathway curved to the right, disappearing among thick-growing scrub trees.

Two teenage boys, both Chinese, stood midway up the first flight of stairs. They were looking up the hill, toward the narrow, forested pathway. Climbing toward them, I took my shield case from my pocket. One of the boys turned, looked at the shield, looked at my gun, then nudged his companion with one hand while he pointed up the hill with the other hand. Like John, his eyes widened with excitement.

“He went that way,” the youth said. “Up there. Running like hell.” Then, puzzled, he looked down at John. Canelli was on the stairs below me now, puffing as he climbed.

“Listen—” I gripped the taller teenager’s arm, pointing down to the street below. “There’ll be police here in a few minutes. Backup. Tell them we’re up here. My name is Hastings. Lieutenant Hastings. Tell them I’m in pursuit of a fugitive. Hot pursuit.”

“Yeah. Right. Come on, Richard.” He grabbed his friend’s arm.

“And take him with you.” I pointed to John. Then I turned to Canelli, pointing up the hill. “He’s there. Up there. Off the pathway.” And to the teenage boy I said, “Did you see which way he turned?”

“To the right, it looked like. He followed the path, is all I could see.”

“It goes up the hill,” John piped. “Up to Coit Tower. I go up there all the time, up those paths.”

“All right—” I nodded to the taller teenager. “Go on—take him. Get him out of here. What’s your name?”

“Wayne. Wayne Gee.”

“Well, take him, Wayne, and don’t—”

“But I don’t
wanna
go,” John shrilled. “I wanna go with you. I wanna—”

“Listen, John—” I bent double, grasping his shoulder, hard. With my face inches from his, I said, “You’re not going with us. You’re going down to the sidewalk, with Wayne. Either you go with him, or you’ll spend another night in the Youth Guidance Center. And that’s a promise. Understand?”

Suddenly his face clouded—then stubbornly hardened. I’d seen that expression before, when he was making his mother obey his querulous demands. With Durkin escaping and darkness falling, I was wasting valuable seconds arguing with a spoiled child.

“Oh, Jesus—” I relaxed my grip. Pleading now: “Please. Go down the stairs. He could have a gun. You could be shot, if you go with us. You could be killed, for God’s sake.”

“Then I wanna stay here,” he answered petulantly. “Right here, on the stairs. Besides, you never showed me your handcuffs. And you promised.”

Desperate, I straightened, turned to the younger teenager. “You watch for our backup, down on the street, Richard. Tell them what’s happened, where we are. And you—” I turned to Wayne. “You stay here, with him.” Vehemently I pushed John toward the youth. “Keep him here. Hold him here. Any way you want, just hold him.”

“Right—” Wayne stepped closer to John. Wayne’s face was serious; his arms flexed purposefully.

I returned the shield to my pocket and started up the stairs, with Canelli beside me. Overhead, the trees grew thick. In seconds, we were on the path. Ahead, to the right, the path forked. The shadows around us were deepening fast.

“Jeez, Lieutenant,” Canelli said uneasily, “he could be anywhere up here, and we’d never see him.”

“I know.” At the intersection of the two leaf-strewn pathways now, I pointed to the steepest one. “Let’s try that.”

“Do you think he’s got a gun?” Canelli whispered.

“I didn’t see one.”

The uphill path was narrower, forcing us to walk in single file. Below us, I thought I could hear John’s voice, still protesting shrilly. I wondered whether Wayne was restraining him. Then I heard the sound of a police siren. I remembered the pickup truck, blocking traffic—and remembered the driver’s keys, still in my pocket. By now, Telegraph Hill’s closed-circuit traffic would be stopped cold. Unless the pickup had been pushed into a driveway, clearing traffic, our backup would have to walk the last half mile.

“Jeez,” Canelli breathed, looking apprehensively from side to side, “this is like jungle warfare, or something.”

With the light failing, it was impossible to see more than a few feet into the tangle of trees beside the path. As we continued uphill, I was trying to decide on my next move. If Durkin kept away from Telegraph Place and off the pathways, he could easily stay concealed on the forested hillside until darkness fell. Then he could walk out anywhere, join with other pedestrians. There was no way we could deploy enough men to seal off Telegraph Hill, even in full daylight. Durkin could—

From behind and below, from the direction we’d just come, I heard a thin, sharp voice: unmistakably John’s voice. Instantly, another voice joined his. Both voices were startled—then alarmed. Then frightened.

“That’s the kid,” Canelli said. “John.”

“Give it to me.” I took the walkie-talkie, described the public stairway where he’d left John, and called an emergency. As I talked, transmitting in the blind, I walked back down the hill, taking the lead. I released the radio’s “transmit” button, handed the radio back to Canelli. We couldn’t wait for an acknowledgment.

Fifty feet ahead, the narrow path we were using joined the wider path, which led downhill to our left, opening on the concrete pedestrian stairway.

Could we be seen from the stairs when we ventured out onto the wider pathway?

“Let’s take it easy,” I said over my shoulder. “Slow and easy, single file.”

“Right.”

As I spoke, I saw a young couple walking fast along the wide path ahead, going downhill. They’d heard the cries, and were going to help.