L.A. Wars (11 page)

Melanie had crumpled back against the wall, her hands at her mouth, terrified.

The man had something in his hand. It was a gun. Slowly, almost as if he were enjoying it, he leveled the revolver at Hawker.

There was a tight smile on his lips.

“Present from a friend,” said the man with the red beard.

Hawker's hand swept under the pillow. Shots thudded into the bed behind him as he rolled onto the floor.

Hawker hugged the floor, waiting—the little Walther automatic cold in his hand.

As the man came around the bed, Hawker took the first target presented. He squeezed the trigger twice, and the man's kneecap exploded.

The man collapsed backward. His scream was more like a hiss.

Hawker stood, the Walther fused between his two big hands. Red Beard had one hand wrapped around his knee in agony.

In the other hand he still held the revolver. His eyes seemed to focus through the pain, and another shot smashed into the wall over Hawker's head.

Hawker didn't hesitate. He squeezed off one careful round. An ember-red eye suddenly appeared on Red Beard's forehead. The eye began to spout blood. Red Beard's hands quivered. The revolver fell heavily on the carpet.

Melanie St. John began to scream. The scream was like the wail of a siren.

Hawker went to her and shook her gently. “It's okay,” he said calmly. “It's over. He's dead.”

The woman shook herself, breathing heavily. “You … you
killed
him.”

“It seemed like the thing to do.”

“He's
dead.”

“Unless he's a hell of an actor, yes.”

Hawker helped the woman to her feet. He went to the kitchen, flipping on lights as he went. He brought her the water she had wanted, then sat her down on the bed beside the phone.

“Can you talk? Coherently, I mean.”

She couldn't take her eyes off the corpse. Hawker shook her again, “Hey, listen to me. I want you to call the police. Have the operator connect you.”

She buried her face in her hands and began to weep softly. Hawker stroked her hair. “Never mind,” he said. “I'll do it myself. But first I want to go out and have a look around. Our friend might have a partner.”

Hawker pulled on his running shorts and a pair of leather sandals. Carrying the Walther, he made two slow trips around the cottage.

The dark, indifferent sea still roared over the reef. A dog barked in the distance, and there was the sound of faraway traffic. Hawker found nothing.

He went back inside. Melanie sat on the porch. She had found Hawker's robe, and she held the collar tight around her neck. A bottle of Scotch sat on the table beside her. The tumbler she held was half full.

“No one out there. He was alone, I guess.”

“My God, it's like a bad dream.” She gave him a pathetic look of helplessness. “It's not a dream, is it, James?”

“No. I wish it were. But it's not. Did you know the guy?”

“No. I didn't know him.”

There was a moment's hesitation before she answered. Hawker didn't press it. He went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of beer, then picked up the phone.

The information operator offered him the LAPD emergency number. Hawker asked for the dispatch desk instead.

A man answered. Hawker asked to be connected with homicide. As the phone rang, Hawker heard the electronic beep which informed him the conversation was being recorded.

“Homicide. Lieutenant Detective Flaherty.”

“My name is Hawker, Lieutenant. A man broke into my rental cottage fifteen minutes ago. He shot at me, and I returned fire. He's dead.”

Hawker gave his telephone number and his address. He hung up and went out to the porch.

Melanie studied him for a moment. She held up the tumbler. It was almost empty. “My first drink in almost two months.”

“Tonight I think you can consider it medicine. A sedative. Maybe you ought to have another.”

She shook her head and turned the tumbler upside down on the table. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

“You have a will of iron, woman.”

She gave a derisive chuckle. “I acted like your typical hysterical twelve-year-old in there, James. You know it. I know it. And I'm ashamed. If it had been a movie, I'd have been in complete control. You would have turned to me, whimpering for support. After all the times I've played that role, I'd actually sort of come to believe it.” The bitter laugh slipped from her lips again. “Now I know just what a silly fool I am.”

“So you're human. Wait here while I call the
National Enquirer
. The world will be shocked and disappointed. For Christ's sake, Melanie, give yourself a break. Thankfully, very few people ever see another human being die violently. When it happens, most well-adjusted people go right into shock. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her eyes locked onto Hawker's. “You didn't. You didn't go into shock.” When he didn't react to the implied question, she continued, “But, then, most people don't keep guns under their pillows, either. You do, though. And you know how to use it, too. I watched you, James. I saw everything like it was in horrible slow motion. You knew exactly what you were doing when you shot him. Your eyes didn't even blink.” She stood and touched his face, looking deep into him. “Why won't you trust me, James? Are you still a cop? Hell, I don't care if you're a cop. I love you anyway. Are you in trouble? Maybe I can help.”

Hawker took her arms and swung her gently back into the chair. “I'm neither, Melanie. It's a long story, and maybe I'll tell you about it when we're both bored and have nothing else to do. But right now, from the sound of those sirens, I'd say the cops are about four blocks away. I want you to go home. Now. If you stay, they're going to ask you a lot of embarrassing questions, and the press is going to get wind of it, and you'll be in for a hell of a lot of bad publicity.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I'm staying.”

“Damn it, Melanie, I know about this stuff.”

“Damn it yourself, Hawk! I know a little bit about how things work myself. I'm no empty-headed blonde. I was an eyewitness, and having an eyewitness is going to save you a lot of time and trouble.”

Hawker smiled. “You're sure?”

Her voice was right out of a 1940s detective movie. “Just sit down and shut up, ya big lug. Leave everything to me. I'll twist those screws around my little finger.”

twelve

Lieutenant Detective Walter Flaherty, as Hawker soon learned, wasn't the kind of man easily twisted around anyone's finger.

He pulled up in an unmarked Ford behind the two squad cars, all three skidding to a halt on the sandy side street.

Flaherty was the last to get out. He wore a summer-weight tweed jacket and wrinkled slacks. He had the plain, benign face of a country priest. Thin brown, curly hair was visible beneath the woven Sussex hat that was pulled low—as if he expected rain. Flaherty had the overall appearance of a peaceful man on a European fishing vacation. He looked like a dull little clerk who wanted nothing more than to sit in some anonymous house and watch his children grow.

Except for his eyes. Hawker took one look at the man's eyes and knew he would have to tread carefully. They were gray-green prisms that reflected shrewdness and wit and bulldog tenacity. Hawker felt the eyes survey him as the uniformed cops brushed by them to check the corpse. Flaherty nodded, studied Melanie St. John until he seemed satisfied that he recognized her, then followed the cops into the bedroom.

Hawker stayed on the porch with the woman. She seemed nervous. Hawker caught her eye. “Just tell the truth,” he said.

“And what else would I tell them?”

“I have a feeling you've seen the guy who broke in here before, Melanie. No, don't argue, now. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong. But if you did lie to me—for whatever reason—don't lie to Flaherty. I've seen his kind before. He'll give you all kinds of rope—then come back a few days later and use it to choke you. Think about it.”

Flaherty had returned to the porch so quietly that he surprised even Hawker. He had both hands stuffed into his pants pockets, and he rocked calmly back and forth on the balls of his feet as he talked.

“Yes, the man is indeed quite dead. Nasty case of bullet in the head,” he said. “You're James Hawker? The gentleman who called?”

“That's right.”

“This is your house?”

“I'm leasing it.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Less than a week. I'm from Chicago. I'm thinking of moving to California.”

“The man broke in and you shot him?”

“I did. He opened fire on me first. I was very lucky. I still can't quite believe it really happened.”

Flaherty rocked forward on his toes, and pursed his lips as if about to whistle. “Yes,” he said. “A great shock to the average peace-loving vacationer, I suppose.” He looked at Hawker and smiled. “And to you, too, Miss Melanie St. John. Yes, I recognize you. And who wouldn't? I must admit to being a great fan of yours. Yes, it's true. In fact my dear wife, Irene, becomes quite jealous when I go to one of your movies—can you imagine? And me the father of four lovely daughters. Not a son to my name, but I couldn't be happier. I sometimes chide my daughters by referring to them as ‘my four misses.'

Immediately put at ease by Flaherty, Melanie's laughter was genuine. Hawker wanted to warn her once again to be careful. He didn't get the chance. “Mr. Hawker, would you mind if I questioned Miss St. John alone? I'd ask her to sit in the car with me, but the impropriety of that—what with Irene being already a bit jealous …”

Hawker stood. “I can go for a walk outside.”

Flaherty disapproved—but diplomatically. “It might be better if you waited in the cottage. Wouldn't want an accomplice to get you—ha ha. Oh, and close the door behind you, Mr. Hawker.”

Hawker found a book and read as the cops worked in the bedroom. They traced the outline of the corpse on the floor in blue chalk. They measured the distance between the dead man and the bullet holes in the bed and wall. The lab truck arrived, and they lifted a selection of fingerprints. Hawker's Walther and the dead man's revolver were dutifully placed in plastic sacks and labeled. They gave Hawker a receipt.

A coroner's wagon pulled up and they carted the body away. Hawker followed the gurney onto the porch and was surprised to find that Flaherty was alone, going over his notes.

“Ah, Mr. Hawker.” He smiled. “I was just about to call you. Miss St. John was very tired, so I suggested she go home and go to bed.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Lieutenant,” Hawker said wryly.

“Uh, oh. Something in your voice, Mr. Hawker, tells me I may have stood in the way of romance.”

“Not at all—”

One of the policemen interrupted, asking for instructions. Flaherty dismissed him with perfunctory orders about reports in the afternoon.

Hawker recognized it as a premeditated move to leave the two of them alone.

“Drink, Lieutenant?”

“Drink as in ‘alcohol'?”

“I've got some herb tea.”

“Ah, that would be very nice. One week out of every four I have to work the late shift, and I've always had trouble sleeping during the day. My wife says it's because of the coffee I drink. Irene would approve of herb tea. With honey, if you have it.”

Hawker put water on. He changed into a shirt and pants while it heated. He steeped the tea in mugs, and carried the mugs onto the porch.

Flaherty took it appreciatively. “So tell me, Mr. Hawker, how long were you a policeman? Or perhaps you still are?”

Hawker sat opposite him, trying not to look surprised. “Did Melanie tell you to ask that?”

“Not at all, not at all.” Flaherty sipped at his tea. “I get so bored when I work the late shift that I make myself play little games of deduction—to keep my mind alert, you see. I wasn't blessed with the quick wit some of my fellow officers have, so I must work at it.”

“I'll bet,” Hawker said dryly.

“No, it's true. But, all modesty aside, I really am getting quite good at it. I'll let you be the judge.” Flaherty straightened himself in the chair, as if about to recite in school. “Let's see if I can get it all straight. Yes. A stranger breaks into your house. He tries to kill you, but you kill him instead. Like a good citizen, you immediately notify the police. But do you call the emergency number? No.”

“Why tie up the emergency line?” Hawker asked in defense. “Someone really in trouble could have been trying to call. The man was dead. It was no longer an emergency.”

Flaherty held up one finger in exclamation. “Exactly. You called the main desk and asked to be transferred to homicide. Your statement to me was a model of clarity. Just the right amount of information in just the right order. No gasping and crying, no confused rhetoric about the horror of killing, and no feverish plea to believe that you had absolutely no choice—all of which one might expect from the common citizen.” Flaherty put his tea down and smiled. “Don't you see the many opportunities for deduction here?”

Hawker did. He said nothing.

The detective continued. “After our brief conversation on the telephone, I already knew you were familiar with police procedure—and that you were experienced enough not to be upset by the use of deadly force. Deduction: you were either a cop, a crook, or a police reporter. I took the liberty of running an NCIC check on you on the trip out. Results, I am happy to say, were negative—if you gave me your proper name. And if you didn't, we will find out soon enough. That left cop or reporter. I noticed your complicated-looking computer inside and, for a short time, I decided you were a reporter. But it's the rare reporter who can react quickly to armed assault. And I've yet to meet the reporter, thank God, who can make three perfect shots while under fire. Two in the kneecap, one through the brain. Final deduction: you, Mr. Hawker, are a cop. Or an ex-cop.”