“Keep
me advised,” I said. I put the radio on the seat between me and
Martinez.
“Are
you pissed that Brenner didn’t come to meet him, sir?”
“The
night is young, Lita,” I said. “Whether he’s here or not, we’ll get
him.”
We
waited for a couple of minutes in anxious silence, until I heard, “Tango
One. He’s heading for the taxi stand.”
“Looks
like we’ll be following a cab,” I said.
“Whiskey
Two,” came a woman’s voice from the radio. “Subject is entering a Metroville
airport taxi, tag alpha-charlie-papa-romeo-one-zero. Cab number
one-seven-seven.”
I
picked up the radio. “Roger, Whiskey Two, I’ll be ready.” I turned to
Martinez. “Buckle up,” I said.
“I’ll
take a pass, sir,” she said. “Car this old, the seatbelt might not release
properly when I need to get loose.”
I
buckled my own belt. “It wasn’t a request, Martinez.”
She
scowled and made a show of pulling the shoulder harness across her chest and
buckling it. “Yes, sir.”
A
couple of cabs came down the ramp from the terminal. “There,” Martinez said.
“Far side.”
I
saw the cab. Though I couldn’t see the tag, the red rooflight on top of the
car and the 177 on the side behind the passenger door were clear in the
lights of the parking lot. I started the Buick.
The
cab was in line on the far end of the exit gates. I pulled into a line a
couple of gates closer and a car back. Through the back window of the cab, I
could see the shape of a head with a hat.
We
had just pulled up at the booth when the cab pulled away from the gate.
“Check what ramp he takes,” I said as I pulled out my wallet.
“Midtown
ramp,” she said a moment later.
I
handed the cashier a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change,” I said with a
smile, then stepped on the gas and steered for the midtown ramp.
As
I drove, I pulled the radio onto my lap and keyed the mic. “This is Welles,”
I said. “Subject vehicle has exited the airport parking area and is on the
midtown ramp. We do not have visual on him at this time.”
The
ramp opened up into the Midtown Expressway, built to get people from the
airport to the heart of the city in ten minutes. It had been a real
time-saver when it was built. Of course when it was built, a lot more people
were using the airport.
“There
he is,” Martinez said. “Middle lane.”
I
keyed the mic again. “This is Welles, we have visual on him. Midtown
Expressway. We are following.”
The
cab was traveling just below the speed limit, in the middle of the three
lanes. I hung back in the right lane until a couple of cars passed me on the
left, then eased into the center lane.
“I
can’t see him, sir,” Martinez said, her voice a little panicked.
“Relax,”
I said. “Just keep an eye on the right lane. I’ll do the same with the left.
If he doesn’t go into one of those lanes, he’s still in front of
us.”
A
couple of minutes later, one of the cars in front of us eased into the right
lane. Through the windshield of the single car in front of us, I could just
make out the taillights of the taxi cab.
“You
see,” I said. “Still there.”
“What
if he had sped up?” she asked. “He could be miles ahead of us by
now.”
“He’s
a cab driver,” I said. “Cab drivers don’t like tickets. They lose their job
if they get tickets. He’ll stay at or below the speed limit.”
“This
is Alpha Two-Zero for Welles,” I heard from the radio. Alpha Two-Zero was
the midtown detective lieutenant running the police side of the operation.
Her name was Tulley or something like that.
I
keyed the mic. “This is Welles.”
“Metroville
one-seven-seven is the missing cab from the incident this afternoon. It
wasn’t an airport cab, but Metroville says that’s the only one-seven-seven
in their fleet.”
Burlong
wasn’t inside a random cab. He was in the shooter’s cab. That meant it
wasn’t a cab driver behind the wheel. “Thank you, Alpha Two-Zero,” I said.
Then I laughed.
“What’s
funny, sir?”
“Everyone
makes these Special Collections guys out to be top-notch,” I said. “And
Brenner makes a dumb mistake, sends a cab the police are looking for out to
pick up his man at the airport.”
Still,
there was a certain logic to it. A cab was anonymous. And airport cabs had a
red rooflight, while regular city cabs had a yellow rooflight. No matter
what number was on the side, any city cop looking for the missing cab would
ignore those with a red rooflight. If the numbers matched, they’d assume it
was just a duplicate number for two different Metroville fleets. I
would.
Brenner
would also be security conscious. Even if he wasn’t under suspicion, he’d
want to keep his location known to as few people as possible. A taxi driver
could be trouble if he talked to the wrong person.
The
man driving the cab was another Special Collections operative, probably
Brenner’s shooter, maybe even Brenner himself. Not a cab driver who wouldn’t
be paying any attention to who was behind him. A trained observer. I backed
off on the accelerator, let the car in front of me and the cab get a little
further ahead.
“Watch
the right lane,” I said to Martinez.
A
few minutes later, we were entering the city, elevated on the raised
expressway above the eastside, my old stomping grounds. I could almost see
the old 83
rd
Street station, now shuttered as all police
operations moved to the Eastside District police station.
Interestingly,
the expressway ultimately merged with Regis Street, at almost the exact
location where the driver of the cab had fired at Heymann. As the expressway
narrowed to two lanes, I moved a little closer to the two cars in front of
me. Once we were in city traffic, I couldn’t afford to let the cab get too
far ahead.
We
crossed Fifth. A minute later, Fourth. Then Third. As we came up on Second,
the cab pulled into the left lane. I had to make a decision, fast. Move into
the lane and be directly behind him or stay in the right lane. If I stayed
where I was, and he made the turn on Second, I’d have to cross a lane of
traffic to follow.
I
slid into the left lane. Better to be another car behind him, one that he
hadn’t seen there before, than a car that makes an obvious panic turn and
still ends up behind him. That would be a little too obvious.
As
expected, his turn signal came on as we went through the northbound
intersection at Second. I followed him through the promenade between the two
lanes of the divided road. He turned south and immediately went into the
right lane as we approached Edgewood.
“Goddamn
it,” I muttered.
“What,
sir?”
“I’d
rather not be directly behind him any longer than necessary,” I said. “Two
turns is okay. If there’s just me and him, and he turns again, it gets
noticeable.”
I
stopped the Buick directly behind the cab at the red light at Edgewood and
Second. Burlong was still sitting calmly in the back seat, hat on his head.
And the driver didn’t seem to be looking back in the rearview or sideview
mirrors. Maybe I’d lucked out. Maybe they felt safe and weren’t paying a lot
of attention.
The
cab made a right turn on the red light and I moved to the intersection,
letting a couple of cars heading west on Edgewood go by before I turned and
followed.
I
keyed the mic on the radio in my lap. “This is Welles,” I said. “We are
westbound on Edgewood, approaching First.”
I
could just see the cab two car lengths ahead. He went through the
intersection at First, while one of the cars between us turned right.
According to the police, this was the route the shooter had taken after the
shot. Had he actually made a bee-line to Brenner’s new safehouse? It didn’t
seem likely, but here we were.
The
cab eased to the left and its turn signal came on. “This is Welles,” I said
as I moved behind the cab. “Turning south on St. Joseph.” And I was behind
him again.
While
we waited at the light, I glanced out the side window, trying to look
casual. Not interested in the cab. Not interested in the occupants. Just out
for an evening drive.
“That’s
a stupid looking hat that guy is wearing,” Martinez said.
“He’s
bald,” I said, glancing at her. “Maybe he’s self-conscious.”
“Nothing
wrong with bald,” she said. “Why hide it with a stupid hat.” She paused.
“Oh, and the light is green now, sir. You can go if you want.”
I
smiled and shook my head, making the turn. The short delay had actually
worked in my favor. While my attention was on Lita, a big car had gotten
behind the cab, a black prewar Cadillac. It was a nice car, but they were
hell on gas mileage. I know. I’d had one before the war.
The
driver of the Caddy must have felt like the cab was moving too slow. He
pulled into the right lane and accelerated past, leaving me behind the cab
again. I saw the Caddy’s brake lights a couple of blocks ahead as it
rocketed down St Joseph and made a left turn.
I
keyed the mic. “This is Welles. Continuing south on St. Joseph,” I said.
“Going past Jefferson, approaching Davis.”
I
don’t know what it was that made me look to the left as we entered the
intersection at Davis and St. Joseph. Maybe a chance to get a last look at
that Cadillac.
And
that’s exactly what I got. Only it wasn’t the tail lights I saw. It was the
front of the car, headlights off, as it accelerated toward me. I stomped
the accelerator. It probably saved my life, but wasn’t enough to get us out
of his way. He hit the back quarter panel of the Buick and we went into a
spin.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
I’ve
been in car crashes before. Probably the worst was when I was chasing an
armed-robbery suspect when I was still a uniform at the Tremont Avenue
station. I was running lights and siren, and as I crossed Fowler on
Rhinelander, somebody broadsided my patrol car and I rolled.
What
I remember most about the crash was the way my mind interpreted what my eyes
were seeing. I’ve heard people say that time slows down in that kind of
situation. For me, it was like a series of still pictures. A
slideshow.
I
was seeing that same slideshow as the Buick began to spin from the Caddy’s
impact. The cab making a u-turn on the street in front of us. Martinez, her
mouth open, pressed forward against the shoulder harness. The portable radio
suspended between the seat and floor as it fell.
It
only lasted a few seconds. Maybe three. When the car stopped spinning, we
were still pointed roughly south on St. Joseph. The cab had turned around
and was in front of us, pointing slightly to the northeast. Somewhere behind
was the Cadillac.
Martinez
leaned back in her seat. “Son-of-a-bitch,” she said.
“Are
you...” I didn’t get to finish as a burst of automatic weapon fire blew out
the windshield.
I
fumbled for the release on my seatbelt with my left hand while I pressed the
button on hers with my right. Then I grabbed her shoulder and took us both
down to the floor.
“Get
your gun out,” I said. I reached past her to the portable radio, pressed the
button on the side, and said, “Shots fired. St. Joseph and Davis.” I didn’t
know if the radio was even working, but it was worth a try.
Another
burst of automatic weapon fire thudded into the front of the car, followed
by two single shots from a pistol. Then another pistol shot from behind
shattered the rear window.
“Okay,”
I said, pulling my pistol from my hip. “We have to return fire and keep them
back. When I tell you, open your door, but stay in the car. I’m gonna see
what I can hit through the windshield.”
“Got
it,” she said.
“Go,”
I said. I heard her open the door as I came up, pistol raised. Both the
driver and Burlong were out of the cab, standing beside it. The driver with
a pistol, Burlong with a sub-machinegun. I fired three times, then ducked
again. It seemed like I’d hit Burlong with at least one of the shots. He
staggered, then raised the sub-machinegun again. My shot at the driver
wasn’t even close, but he wasn’t taking chances and dove to the
pavement.
Burlong
fired, the bullets thudding into the engine block. Two more shots came from
the back. The only thing keeping us alive at this point was the relative
darkness inside the car. Vees can see better in low-light than humans, but
it wouldn’t be enough to tip the scales this time. As long as they didn’t
get too close.
“Driver
is on the ground, Burlong is standing,” I said. And Brenner was probably
behind us, waiting for the kill shot. “Roll out and start shooting. Your
target is the driver. I’ll go for Burlong.”
“Right,”
she said. “Say when.”
I
took a deep breath. “Now.”
She
went low, I went high. I could hear her firing, but I concentrated on
Burlong as I crouched behind the open door and leaned around it to fire.
We’d only have a few seconds before Brenner came from behind to take the
easy shot.