Lee was suddenly uncomfortably aware that the wall she leaned against was nothing more than lath and plaster, covered with a floral pattern wallpaper. If Mikkelitz had the slightest notion they were outside, she thought, and he’d ever seen a movie about cops, he’d know they’d be standing to the side of the door. In that case, he was likely to empty a magazine on either side. In his place, she knew she would. Even the relatively low power .32 caliber slugs from his Walther would rip through the lath and plaster like wet paper. Then she recalled that Mikkelitz’s latest victim had been killed with a .38 and her flesh cringed instinctively. She realized that Jesse was waiting on her, frowning slightly, as if wondering what the delay was about. She shook herself, raised the Blackhawk and nodded.
He rapped lightly on the door. There was no need to prompt Mrs. McLaren. She called, after a second or so, “Mr. Murphy? I’ve got clean sheets and towels for your room. Are you there?”
Silence. No word from the other side of the door. They all exchanged a glance. Lee nodded at the door again and Jesse knocked again, this time a little more firmly. Responding to his cue, the landlady raised her voice a little as well.
“Mr. Murphy? Clean linen. Can I come in please?”
Again, nothing. Lee could feel her heart rate accelerating as the adrenaline began flowing through her body. Her breathing was faster as well, she was aware. Jesse seemed unaffected.
Seemed. He could feel his own pulse rate racing. No matter how many times you did this, he thought, you never got used to it. And Jesse had done it plenty of times in his days with the Denver PD.
Lee was motioning at him now, pointing to the doorknob and making a gesture that indicated she wanted him to try it. He shook his head. If Mikkelitz was in there, he’d be watching for just that movement. A turning knob would give him a signal that whoever was out here was ready to come in. Better to just kick the door in and go in in a rush, fanning out to either side, ready to shoot if necessary. The town could always buy Mrs. McLaren a new door.
Buying a new sheriff and deputy was a slightly more expensive matter.
It was time now to get the landlady back out of harm’s way. He touched her shoulder and, when he had her attention, pointed to the end of the corridor, making a shooing motion with his other hand that indicated she was to leave them now. She nodded, understanding and looking a little relieved to be able to get out of the way. He pointed for her to walk close to the walls, where there was less likelihood of loose floorboards squeaking. Again, she nodded, then walked away, moving carefully and quietly until she’d reached the end of the hallway. She glanced back at them, tension plain on her face. Jesse made the same brushing motion again and she reluctantly disappeared around the doorway at the end of the hall.
He hoped she’d have the good sense to get clear of the house but there wasn’t time now to go after her and tell her.
He checked Lee to make sure she was ready. He wondered if he should remind her that her gun wasn’t cocked, then decided there was no need. One thing Lee knew about was guns. She could cock that big single action and get off a shot in one smooth motion, he knew.
He stepped out into the doorway, bracing his back against the wall opposite. He signed to Lee that he would go in first, and move left. She would follow and go right. That way, Mikkelitz’s attention and focus would be split.
At least, that was the theory. There was always the chance that he would simply concentrate on the first person through the door, in which case, Lee would have no trouble nailing him.
Which would be damn little compensation to Jesse.
He took a deep breath, leaned back against the wall behind him, then sprang up and kicked, flat-footed against the door, as close as he could to the lock. There was a splintering crash as the softwood frame gave way and the lock tore loose. The door slammed open and Jesse was already through it, crouching and moving fast to the left, the Colt held in front of him, weaving side to side as he searched for a target. Behind him, a fraction of a second later, he felt rather than heard Lee enter the room and move right.
He didn’t look at her. There were still too many hidden places in the room. Places where Mikkelitz might be. Because he sure as hell wasn’t in any of the obvious ones. The bed was unmade and empty. The small, tub-shaped armchair beside it was unoccupied.
The curtains were pulled halfway across the window. Plenty of room there for a man to hide, and the bed blocked his view of the bottom of the curtains, where he might-might-have seen Mikkelitz’s feet. Lee was in his peripheral vision now, as she moved up level with him. She’d noticed the curtains too and took a pace toward them.
“Wait,” he said. His voice seemed higher than usual, he thought. His throat and his lips were unusually dry too. He reached behind him, found a heavy vase on the bureau and tossed it, underhand but hard, into the curtains on the left side of the window. It clunked against the wall behind the fabric. He was satisfied there was nobody there, repeated the action on the other side, this time tossing an alarm clock from the bedside table. The vase, made of thick, heavy cut glass, survived the operation. The alarm clock didn’t do so well. The thin glass of its face splintered as it dropped to the floor under the curtains.
“No one home,” said Lee. He glanced at her in admiration. Her voice was level, unaffected. His own throat was dry and constricted with tension. He knew if he tried to get more than one word out, he’d choke and stumble. He swallowed several times, then noticed that the bed was an old-fashioned brass type. Its high legs held it well clear of the ground and the covers, unmade, had been pulled back so that they draped on the side of the bed nearest him and Lee.
The concept of a man hiding under the bed might seem like something out of a Charlie Chaplin short. But when the man was a proven killer and armed with at least two handguns, it was hard to laugh at it too much. He gestured to the bed with the muzzle of his automatic. Lee caught on, raised an eyebrow, and swung the Blackhawk to cover the bed. Now, he heard the distinct double snick as she thumbed back the hammer. The sound seemed deafening in the room.
They edged apart, guns and eyes trained on the bed. Aware that they were totally occupied with it, he jerked his gaze away for a quick glance around the room, just to make sure Mikkelitz hadn’t suddenly appeared in the window, or that he wasn’t emerging from the closet.
Then, without warning, he dropped prone on the floor, right arm thrust out, pointing under the bed, breaking his fall with his left hand.
No one there.
Which left the closet. Lee was nearer to it. He regained his feet, waited a second for his breathing to return to something approaching normal and gestured for her to open the door.
She did so, springing to the side as the door swung open under her grasp. Jesse held the Colt in a two-handed combat grip. He was slightly to the side and had a clear view of the closet interior.
Which held everything you might expect a closet to. But not Anton Mikkelitz.
He let go of the breath he’d been holding. There was nowhere else in the room he might be. There was no connecting bathroom here. The communal bathroom and toilet were at the end of the hallway. As he realized it, he also realized that Mikkelitz might, just might, be in there. It had happened in the past, he knew. More than one criminal had been saved from a surprise raid by a sudden desire to take a piss.
“Looks like he’s a flown bird,” Lee said evenly.
“Maybe,” Jesse replied. “We better check the bathroom first. Outside chance that he might be in there.”
He wasn’t. Finally satisfied that he was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, Jesse let the hammer down on his Colt, snicked up the safety lock and slid the gun into his waistband.
“What now?” Lee asked him. He shrugged.
“Maybe he’s gone skiing,” he said. “Maybe he’s gone to the store. I guess the only thing we can do is stake the place out and see when he comes back.”
She nodded. “I’ll get on the radio to Felix,” she said. “Get some of his men up here. Then I guess we simply sit around and wait.”
He shrugged philosophically. The tension of the last few minutes was slowly abating, the adrenaline surge gradually dissipating through his system.
“That’s the way it usually goes,” he agreed.
She led the way back through the boardinghouse. By now, the other occupants were more than a little alarmed at the proceedings. They’d heard the crash of the door being kicked in, the thuds of the vase and the clock hitting the walls. They wanted to know what was going on. Mrs. McLaren, with the commercial instincts of a good landlady, wasn’t letting on. She had a pretty good inkling of what might happen if other guests found out they had a real honest-to-goodness murderer living under the same roof as they were.
Lee saw the anxious faces and hurried to forestall any questions.
“Just calm down, folks. There’s nothing to get excited about,” she said, as they surged forward to question her. “The situation’s under control and there’s no danger to anyone.”
There were subdued mutterings as they heard her. Before they could begin to discuss the matter, Lee continued. “However, we are going to have to ask you people to spend a few hours away from this house, I’m afraid.”
The muttering suddenly increased in pitch. One of the guests, an older man with a bald head, except for two white tufts of hair over the ears, stepped forward, frowning.
“A few hours? Just what do you mean by that, Sheriff.”
Lee smiled at him with what she hoped was a winning smile. It was a dismal failure. The man’s frown deepened and he shook his head, turning back to talk to his companions.
“Want us to move out without so much as a by-your-leave. I want reasons before I’m going anywhere. I want to know where I’m going and I want to know for how long.”
The other guests, three of them now, Lee noticed, chorused their agreement. Out of deference to Mrs. McLaren, Lee was trying not to alarm the other guests. But now she could see she was going to have to give them some details. Her main consideration now was to avoid being drawn into a long debate over the matter, particularly when Mikkelitz could return at any time. She turned to Jesse and indicated the department car.
“Get on the horn to Felix and let’s get a stakeout set up here. I’ll soothe the locals while you’re doing it.”
Jesse nodded agreement. She realized that he’d probably had more experience getting stakeouts organized than she had anyway, so it was the right division of labor. As he turned away to the Oldsmobile, she had a further thought.
“Oh, and Jess—” He stopped, half turned back to her. “Get Tom Legros to get hold of a minibus or something of the kind. We’d better provide transport for these people.”
“You’ve got it,” he said, and walked quickly to the car.
Lee took a deep breath, grateful that things were at least under way. Then, plastering the smile back on her face, she turned to face the knot of stubborn boarding house residents.
“Folks,” she said quietly. “It seems like we have a situation on our hands.”
FIFTY-SIX
L
ee glanced at her watch, yawned, and reached into the greasy brown paper bag of doughnuts that Tom had just delivered.
“How do you contain yourself amongst all this excitement?” she said.
She was sitting in the front bedroom of the Munsings’ house on Laurel. The Munsings were a middle-aged couple who ran the hardware store downtown. They were law-abiding, pleasant people. They went to church regularly. They contributed to worthwhile charities and, presumably, were kind to small animals and elderly people.
More importantly, their house was directly opposite the McLaren boardinghouse and Lee had commandeered it as a command post for the stakeout.
She’d positioned a Carver chair from the head of the dining room table close to the window. With the shades almost drawn, she was sitting, keeping watch on the street and the entrance to the boardinghouse. Jesse was across the room, out of the line of sight from the window, in one of those shell-like armchairs that people seem to place in bedrooms. His long legs sprawled out in front of him. The Cubs cap was tilted over his eyes. He didn’t move it as he replied.
“Patience is a virtue,” he said simply. She gave him a look of utter disdain. The effect was wasted, she realized, as he couldn’t see it.
“Still and all, I’d rather be out looking for him, you know?” she said. She shifted her position in the wide, wooden chair. It was comfortable enough, but not so comfortable that she was likely to doze off. She looked at her watch again, realizing that she hadn’t registered the time the last time she’d looked.
It was a quarter after ten. They’d been here for over fifty minutes. She had six men from Felix Obermeyer’s town police force as backup. Four of them were in two unmarked cars, positioned around the corner at either end of Laurel Street, where they could keep an eye on the approaches to the house without being obvious. They were wearing plain clothes and they’d been told to keep down and out of sight as they waited. The other two were in a house backing onto Mrs. McLaren’s. She and Jesse had taken the frontal position. The Munsings were already at work in their store and they’d been asked not to come home during the day but to check in with Tom Legros at the sheriff’s office in town if they needed to for any reason.