They could hear a woman crying. They looked at Keegan’s bullet ridden body. The top of his head had been shot off; then they edged into the ornate living-room.
Sheila was on her knees, sobbing and hammering with her clenched fists on the floor. When she saw them, she cried, “I’m a junkie . . . help me . . . I’m a junkie . . . please . . . please . . . help me!”
The black Thunderbird pulled up outside Police Headquarters. Nona Jacey jerked back the pistol grip handbrake and got out of the car. She walked up the worn steps and entered the Charge-room.
Sergeant Charlie Tanner, the desk sergeant sat behind his desk, prodding his teeth with a splinter of wood. He looked at the girl as she came in and his eyes lost their boredom. Nice looking frill, he thought. Probably she has lost her handbag or her dog, or some goddam thing somewhere and expects me to find it for her. Well, okay, when a frill has legs like these, I’ll find anything for her.
“Yes, miss?” he said, leaning forward.
“I want to speak to Captain Terrell,” Nona said quietly.
Tanner sat back and stroked his bulbous nose. He looked a little shocked.
“Is that right?” He shook his head sadly. “Well, miss, if everyone in this city thought they could walk right in here and talk to the Chief, he wouldn’t do any work . . . now would he? Right now, miss, the Chief is busy.”
“My name is Nona Jacey, and I want to speak to Captain Terrell.”
“I’m Sergeant Charlie Tanner,” Tanner said, beginning to enjoy himself. “I’ve been desk sergeant here for the past ten years and even I can’t walk in on the Chief . . .” His voice trailed away. He blinked, leaned forward and asked, his voice rising, “What did you say your name was?”
“Nona Jacey.”
Tanner gaped at her. The Army, the Police, the F.B.I, and the C.I.A. had been and were still searching for a girl named Nona Jacey.
“Now, look, miss . . . if this is a gag . . .” he began.
“I am Nona Jacey,” Nona said firmly. “I want to speak to Captain Terrell.”
“Sure . . . sure . . . just stay right where you are.” In a slight panic, Tanner looked around the deserted Charge-room, wishing there was another officer there. He grabbed hold of the telephone receiver.
“Chief . . . Charlie. I have a young lady here . . . claims she is Nona Jacey . . . wants to speak to you.”
Terrell’s voice was calm as he said, “Send her right up, Charlie, and send someone out for coffee.”
“There’s no one here but me, sir.”
He heard Terrell sigh.
“Okay, okay, send her up, and I want coffee when someone is there.”
“Yes, sir.” Tanner pointed to a staircase. “You go up there, miss, and it’s the door right in front of you. Okay?”
Nona nodded and walked up the staircase. Tanner watched her climb the stairs, then sat back and wiped his forehead. He was sure he had only to telephone the
Paradise City Herald
and he would be better off by at least three hundred dollars. What was he thinking? He could ask anything and get it. Nona Jacey walking into Police Headquarters was the biggest scoop any newspaper could buy. He put such ignoble thoughts out of his mind and began prodding his teeth again with the splinter of wood.
Terrell was standing in the doorway of his office as Nona reached the head of the stairs. He looked her over, recognized her description and then came forward.
“Miss Jacey?”
“Yes.”
“Come in.”
He stood aside and she walked into the small office. Sergeant Beigler, just back and slightly bug-eyed, was standing by the window. Seeing how white she looked, he hurriedly moved a chair towards her.
“Sit down, miss,” he said.
“This is Sergeant Beigler,” Terrell said, going around his desk and sitting down.
Nona nodded and sat down.
“What’s been happening to you, Miss Jacey?” Terrell asked as Beigler took a chair and opened his notebook. “We’ve been looking for you.”
Beigler thought this was the understatement of the year considering thousands of men had been combing the district and beyond for her for the past three days.
“I am not important,” Nona said. “I have been told by Dr. Forrester to come here and to say he wants to talk to Mr. Mervin Warren.”
“Where is Dr. Forrester?” Terrell asked, leaning forward.
“I know where he is,” Nona said, “but before giving you the address, I have to tell you the situation.”
“Sure . . . go ahead.”
“Dr. Forrester will see no one except Mr. Warren.” Both men caught the tremor in Nona’s voice. They looked sharply at her and both could see she was very tense and making a great effort to control herself. “He has a capsule of ― of cyanogen. He carries it in his mouth. If there is any attempt to arrest him, he will kill himself.” Tears began to gather in Nona’s eyes. Her voice began to shake. “Please understand this: he really will do it. He ― he just doesn’t seem to care . . .” Her face became waxy. She half started out of her chair, then before Beigler could reach her, she folded up on the floor.
“Get Maria!” Terrell snapped as he started around his desk. Beigler ran from the room. Terrell knelt beside the girl. He cursed the smallness of his office. Lifting her, he carried her along the corridor to the reception-room that smelt of stale sweat and disinfectant. He laid her on the old, battered couch.
Policewoman Maria Pinola, a heavily built blonde, came in. Beigler stood in the doorway, watching with interest.
Terrell said, Take care of her, Maria. Let me know when I can question her.” Then he returned to his office. He asked to be connected with Hamilton of the C.I.A. There was a long delay. While waiting, Terrell said, “Check there are no press men downstairs, Joe, and tell Charlie to keep his trap shut.”
Beigler nodded and took the stairs two at the time.
Jesse Hamilton came on the line.
“Nona Jacey has just walked in,” Terrell told him. “She knows where Forrester is. She says Forrester wants to talk to Warren.”
“You’re sure she is Jacey?” Hamilton’s voice shot up a note.
“I’m sure.”
“Let’s have it from the beginning.”
Terrell reported the conversation he had had with Nona, omitting nothing. He concluded: “She passed out, but I guess she’ll be ready to talk by the time you get here.”
“Okay, I’ll call Warren,” Hamilton said, “then I’ll be right over. Watch the press, Captain.”
I’m watching them,” Terrell said and hung up.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Nona was once again sitting in Terrell’s office, facing Terrell and Hamilton with Beigler in the background, ready to take notes.
“Dr. Forrester is at 145, Lennox Avenue,” Nona was saying. The apartment belongs to a friend of his who is in Europe.” She paused and looked at Terrell. “Please don’t go there. Dr. Forrester will only talk to Mr. Warren. He will kill himself if anyone but Mr. Warren goes to the apartment. He . . . he . . .” She broke off, her face working and she hunted for a handkerchief.
Terrell and Hamilton exchanged glances.
“Take it easy, Miss Jacey,” Hamilton said gently. “You’ve had a rough time. Tell me, do you think Dr. Forrester would take his life?”
Nona dabbed her eyes and nodded.
“Yes . . . I know he will . . . I’m sure he will. He ― he just doesn’t seem to care.” She shivered, then went on, “It’s horrible. He has this capsule in his mouth . . .”
“Did Dr. Forrester mention his formula?” Hamilton asked.
“Yes . . . he says he can decode it, but only on his terms.” Nona clenched her fists in an effort to control herself. “He told me to tell Mr. Warren that.”
Hamilton leaned forward.
“What are the terms, Miss Jacey?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Okay.” Hamilton got to his feet. “You have a lot to tell us. Suppose you come with me? There are details we must know. You’ll be more comfortable at an hotel where you can be looked after.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t tell you anything until Dr. Forrester has talked to Mr. Warren. I gave Dr. Forrester my word,” and then she began to cry again.
Hamilton looked at Terrell who got up, went to the door and beckoned to Policewoman Pinola who came in and put a protecting arm around Nona’s shoulders.
“You come with me, honey,” she said. “I’ll take care of you.”
When they had gone, Hamilton said, “Get that apartment block surrounded, pronto! Tell your men to keep out of sight. If Forrester shows, they are to tail him, but leave him alone.”
At Terrell’s nod, Beigler left the room.
“When will Warren get here?” Terrell asked.
Hamilton looked at his watch.
“Not before ten o’clock.”
“Do you think she was making sense?”
“Yes . . . I guess.” Hamilton rubbed the back of his neck. He looked worried. “We’re dealing with a nut . . . but a hell of a V.I.P. nut.”
The two men stared at each other while they thought, then Terrell said, “Do you think we should alert Dr. Hertz to stand by?”
Hamilton hesitated, then shook his head.
“We do nothing until Warren gets here.”
The telephone bell rang. Impatiently, Terrell answered the call.
Federal Agent Walsh told him that Chet Keegan had been shot to death and he had a drug-crazed girl in his hair. What the hell should he do with her?
Detectives Andy Shields and Frank Brock shared the day guard outside Thea Forrester’s bungalow. They had been on duty now for the past three days and Brock was sick of the sun, sick of sitting on the sand and sick of the assignment.
He was twenty-five, powerfully built with a bull neck, bulging muscles, a deeply tanned boxer’s face, and was not only proud of his beef and strength, but delighted with the impact he always made on various girl-friends he attracted to him the way a magnet attracts steel filings.
Detective Shields was cast in a different mould. He was lean, tough and ambitious. He had a knife scar along the side of his face and a broken nose, badly set. He was five years older than Brock and four times as experienced. He regarded all criminals as scum and women as the cause of most crime.
The two men were sitting in the shade of a palm tree, staring out to sea where they could see people swimming and enjoying themselves on the beach.
“This is a great life,” Brock said sarcastically, shifting his heavy weight and trying to make himself more comfortable. “We sit all day long here doing nothing when there is a piece in there longing for a man like me to give her the works . . . it’s against nature!”
Shields had been listening to this moan for the past two days. Brock bored him.
“Give it a rest,” he said. This is a job.” He got to his feet. “I’m taking a walk around.”
It was while he was walking in a slow circle around the bungalow that Thea Forrester opened the front door of the bungalow and surveyed the beach.
Brock caught his breath sharply. What a woman! he thought.
Thea was wearing a cotton wrap that just covered her knees. Her sable tinted hair, her emerald green eyes and her smouldering sex made Brock sweat.
Slowly, she turned her head and looked in his direction. Brock got hurriedly to his feet. There was a pause as they regarded each other, then she smiled. Brock looked to right and left. There was no sign of Shields. He walked quickly across the stretch of sand, up the path to where Thea stood, waiting.
“Hello,” she said. Her eyes moved lazily and suggestively over his powerful body. “Are you one of my bodyguards?”
That’s right.” Brock expanded his chest. “Some guard . . .” He looked her over with admiration. “Some body.”
Thea lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m learning fast.” She leaned a rounded hip against the doorway. “I always thought policemen were rough, tough and horrible.”
Brock grinned.
“They are . . . I’m the exception to the rule.”
“What’s your name, Mr. Exception-to-the-rule?”
“Frank Brock . . . my girl-friends call me Frankie.”
“Do they? Yes . . . I like Frankie . . . Do you want a drink, Frankie?”
Brock looked over his shoulder. This was risky. He didn’t trust Shields.
“Well, I guess, but I can’t come in. I’m on duty. Still . . .”
Again her eyes moved over him, sending an urgent wave of desire through him.
“Are you ever off duty, Frankie?”
“Sure . . . but not until six.”
“How about your friend . . . the one with the broken nose? He looks interesting.” Thea adjusted her wrap and Brock caught a glimpse of the swell of one breast.
“You can forget him,” he said. “He’s a square.”
“Is he?” Thea smiled. “Oh . . . I’ll get you a drink . . . beer all right?”
“Beer would be swell.”
She turned and walked down the passage while Brock studied her hip movement. What a woman! he thought. Boy! Could she and me . . . He felt something hard stab into his back and a voice snarl, “Make a move and I’ll blow your goddam spine to bits!”
Brock stood motionless. He remembered that he was supposed to be guarding this woman against a sudden attack from a maniac. Now here was a gun against his spine. Then he discovered something else. He realized he was frightened. He leaned forward, cowering, waiting, terrified of the death that might come to him.
The pressure of the gun suddenly went away and Shields said, “Just what the hell do you think you are doing?”
Rage and shame made Brock turn swiftly: made his right fist swing towards Shields’ scarred face. It was a good punch, delivered with all Brock’s massive weight and strength behind it, but Shields had had a lot of good punches thrown at him during his police career. He shifted his head and got his face out of Brock’s shooting range. Brock’s fist sailed harmlessly over his right shoulder. Shields smacked Brock across his jaw with his gun barrel, sending him reeling backwards.
A glass of beer in her hand, Thea regarded the two men.
She felt a hot rush of blood run through her. Men fighting because of her always moved her.
“You boys enjoying yourselves?” she asked.
Brock recovered his balance. An ugly red mark showed on his jaw. Shields backed away, watching Brock. Then seeing Brock wasn’t taking it further, he shoved his gun back into its holster.
“Get the hell out of here!” he said to Brock.