Robin wasn't satisfied. "That still doesn't explain why you came after us."
"Doesn't it? Look, Dr. Cameron, my career's been going down the shitter ever since the Valdez shooting. People are saying I've lost it. They look at me funny. They treat me like a has-been. And maybe they're right. Hell, I been spending more time at the dogfights and the bars than on the job."
"I don't see what this has to do with"
"With tailing you? I need a break. I need to get back in the game. Helping take down Gray would go a long way toward doing that. If you found him, I'd be there to assist in the collar. Then I'm not a burnout anymore."
"If that's true, why sneak around? Why not just accompany us?"
"You don't trust me, that's why. I'm not sure exactly what I said under hypnosis"
"It's not hypnosis."
"Whatever. I'm not sure what I said, but you were giving me a look I didn't much like. The kind of look you'd give a rattlesnake. What the hell did I say, anyhow?"
"That's not something I can discuss right now."
"Right. Because you don't trust me. So I kept my distance. Figured I could help out if you spotted Gray. Or maybe I'd even spot him first."
"It's not even your job to make an arrest. You're off duty."
"So's Lieutenant Wolper. Cops make arrests when they're off duty. Hell, it makes an even better story. 'Off-duty cop nabs serial killer.' Let 'em try to call me a burnout after that."
Robin was silent for a moment. "Why did you run?" she asked finally.
"I panicked."
"Why?"
"I thought you got a glimpse of me. And I figured amp; well, if you were suspicious of me already, you'd be twice as suspicious if you thought I was sneaking up on you."
"You were sneaking up on us."
"I was just keeping you in sight, so I could be part of the action if you spotted Gray. I had to stay close or I would have lost you in that mob scene."
"This is what you told Lieutenant Wolper?"
"That's his story," Wolper said.
"And do you believe him?"
Wolper hesitated, looking at Brand beside him, Robin Cameron in the rearview mirror. "I've worked with Sergeant Brand for a lot of years. What he says makes sense, I guess. And I patted him down. He wasn't carrying."
"He's got a gun," Robin protested. "He had it out when you were chasing Gray."
"Like I told you," Wolper said patiently, "a cop always carries a gun, even off duty. Standard procedure. What I meant was, he wasn't carrying a gun he could use if he wanted to get away with something."
"Is that what you were looking for?" Brand asked. "A goddamn throwdown? Saturday Night Special with the serial number filed off?"
"I had to cover all the angles," Wolper said.
"Some fucking shrink plays head games with a mind machine, and now you're frisking me? Jesus, this really sucks."
"Shut up," Robin snapped. "You don't have a right to complain. By your own admission, you were following us. You skulk around in the shadows, then act like a victim when you get caught"
"I wasn't skulking. I told you, I thought you might have a lead on Gray. Which you did. And here we are. We got him. So what's the problem?"
"The problem is, I don't know if he's the one who took my daughter. I don't know if he's the one who attacked me."
Brand turned in his seat. "You think I did that shit? What are you, fucking paranoid?"
"That's enough, Sergeant," Wolper cut in.
Brand ignored him. "Some shrink you are. You got your head so far up your own ass, you don't even know how to think straight when your kid's life is at stake"
"Enough," Wolper said.
Brand settled back in his seat with an explosive sigh. "Fuck."
There was silence in the car and outside, broken finally by a squeal of tires as a new vehicle parked behind Wolper's Sable. He glanced at the side-view mirror and saw Deputy Chief Hammond getting out with his entourage.
"No more worries, people," Wolper said. "Here's our fearless leader now."
Chapter Forty-four
Hammond was feeling very good about things. He had taken a risk, and it had paid off. Cowards like Banner might hesitate, but Hammond hadn't risen in the ranks by playing it safe. Now Gray was cornered, and it was only a question of playing out the endgame.
En route to the scene, he'd put in a call to Susy Chen. She was on her way over, and where Susy went, the rest of the media would follow. He would have a lot of cameras and microphones recording his triumph. Tonight's success might be enough to secure him the chief's job when a replacement was sought.
He got out of his car, followed by Banner and Lewinsky. He found the first officer and received a briefing. The suspect's car was a blue Firebird of the right model year, with a single male occupant who was refusing to come out. The plate number was wrong for the stolen car; it had been traced to a resident of the Hyde Park area near Inglewood. Presumably, Gray had switched the plates, a common ploy. Inquiries had been made at the Hyde Park man's address, but he wasn't answering his phone. A Seventy-seventh Street Area unit had been dispatched to that address.
"All right," Hammond said, ignoring the Hollywood officer and addressing Lewinsky, "this is a crisis-team situation. We need SWAT on the scene, negotiators, traffic control, a comm team. If we're lucky, we can talk Gray out of the car in time for the eleven-o'clock news. If we're really lucky, he'll surrender at eleven on the dot and we'll lead the news with live coverage of his arrest."
On cue, a news chopper appeared in the night sky, competing with the Air Support unit for airspace.
"And if he opens fire and SWAT has to take him out?" Banner asked. "That won't look so good on TV."
"Won't it?" Hammond smiled. "Wasting a serial killer might get the ACLU crowd riled up, but I'll bet it goes down pretty smooth with Ma and Pa Six-pack. Of course," he added piously, "I hope it won't come to that. Now let's get going on that SWAT call-up."
"Chief," Lewinsky said, "that may not be necessary."
Hammond saw his adjutant staring past him. He followed Lewinsky's gaze to the end of the street, where the door on the driver's side of the Firebird had swung open.
"Hell," Hammond said. "Except for the chopper, there's not a single news crew here. I don't want just aerial shots. The bastard gave up too soon."
Slowly, Justin Gray emerged from the car, head lowered, hands raised. The hovering police helicopter pinned him in its searchlight.
The Firebird's passenger door opened. A second figure emerged into the glare.
"Who the hell is that?" Hammond said.
"Maybe it's the girl," Lewinsky offered. "The daughter. We got ourselves a twofer."
It was a girl, but not Megan Cameron. This girl had the skanky, strung-out look of a habitué of the street. Her hair was a frazzled pile, her arms skeletal and blotchy, her thin frame clad in a micromini and tank top. Everything about her said whore.
The driver lifted his dazed face into the light. He was not Justin Gray.
"God damn it," Hammond whispered.
He knew what had happened, of course. Some bozo from Hyde Park, the actual owner of the Firebird, had been cruising Selma Avenue, where the strawberries hung out ever since they'd been chased off Hollywood Boulevard. He'd picked up a hooker, and he'd been driving her somewhere, maybe to a motel, when a squad car had fallen in behind them. The John had panicked and tried to flee, leading Hollywood's finest on a pointless chase.
"I don't get it," Banner said. "The patrol units reported the driver alone in the vehicle. No passenger."