Wohl got out of his car and started toward the diner.
"Hey, you!" a voice called.
It was the driver of the wagon. He had his pistol out, too, with the muzzle pointed to the sky.
"Police officer," Wohl said, and then, when he saw a faint glimmer of disbelief on the young cop's face, added, "Inspector Wohl."
The cop nodded.
Wohl started again toward the diner entrance and almost stepped on the body of a young person lying in a growing pool of blood. Wohl quickly felt for a pulse, and as he decided there was none, became aware that the body was that of a young woman.
He stood up and took his pistol, a Smith amp; Wesson "Chiefs Special" snub-nosed.38 Special, from its shoulder holster. There was no question now that shots had been fired.
"In here, Officer!" a voice called, and when Wohl saw that it was Teddy Galanapoulos, who owned the Waikiki, he pushed his jacket out of the way, and reholstered his pistol. Whatever had happened here was over..
Teddy hadn't been calling to him, and when he ran up looked at him curiously, even suspiciously, until he recognized him.
"Lieutenant Wohl," he said. It was not the right place or time to correct him. "Hello, Mr. Galanapoulos," Wohl said. "What's going on?"
"Fucking kid killed Captain Moffitt," Teddy said, and pointed.
Dutch Moffitt, in civilian clothes, was slumped against the wall. A woman was kneeling beside him. She was sobbing, and as Wohl watched, she put a hand out very gingerly and very tenderly and pulled Dutch's eyelids closed.
Wohl turned to the door. The cop from the paddy wagon was coming in, and the parking lot was filling with police cars, which screeched to a halt and from which uniformed police erupted.
"Put your gun away," Wohl ordered, "and go get your stretcher. The woman in the parking lot is dead."
A look of disappointment on his face, the young cop did as he was ordered.
A Highway Patrol sergeant, one Wohl didn't recognize, walked quickly through the restaurant, holstering his pistol. He looked curiously at Wohl.
"I'm Inspector Wohl," Wohl said.
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Alex Dannelly said. "There was two of them, sir. Dutch got the one that shot him. The other one, a white male twenty to twenty-five years old, blond hair, ran through the restaurant and out the kitchen."
"You get it on the air?"
"No, sir," Dannelly said.
"Do it, then," Wohl ordered. "And then seal this place up, make sure nobody leaves, keep the people in their seats, make sure nothing gets disturbed…"
"Got it," the Highway Patrol sergeant said, and went to the door and waved three policemen inside.
Wohl dropped to his knees beside the woman, and laid a gentle hand on her back.
"My name is Wohl," he said. "I'm a police officer."
She turned to look at him. There was horror in her eyes, and tears running down her cheeks had left a path through her face powder. She looked familiar. And she was not Mrs. Richard C. Moffitt.
"Let me help you to your feet," Wohl said, gently.
"Get a blanket or something," Louise Dutton said, in nearly a whisper. "Cover him up, Goddamn it!"
"Teddy," Wohl ordered. "Get a tablecloth or something."
He helped the woman to her feet.
Officer Francis Mason and Officer Patrick Foley ran in, with the stretcher from the back of Two-Oh-One. They quickly snapped the stretcher open and unceremoniously heaved Dutch Moffitt onto it. Wohl started for the door to open it for them, but a uniform beat him to it.
The sound of sirens outside was now deafening. He looked through the plate-glass door of the diner and saw there were police cars all over it. As he watched, a white van with WCBL-TC CHANNEL 9 painted on its side pulled to the curb, a sliding door opened, and a man with a camera resting on his shoulders jumped out.
Wohl turned to the blonde. "You were a friend of Captain Moffitt's?"
She nodded.
Where the hell do I know her from? What was she up to with Dutch?
"Why are they doing that?" she asked. "He's dead, isn't he?"
I don't know why they're doing that, Wohl thought. The dead are left where they have fallen, for the convenience of the Homicide Detectives. But, I guess maybe no one wants to admit that a fellow cop is really dead.
"Yes, I'm afraid he is," Wohl said. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"He was trying to stop a holdup," Louise said. "And somebody shot him. A girl, he said."
A portly, red-faced policeman in a white shirt with captain's bars pinned to the epaulets of his white shirt came into the Waikiki.
His name was Jack McGovern, and he was the commanding officer of the Second District. He had been a lieutenant in Highway Patrol when Peter Wohl had been a corporal. He had made captain on the promotion list before Peter Wohl had made captain, and they had sat across the room from each other when they'd sat for the Staff Inspector's examination. Peter Wohl had been first on the list; Jack McGovern hadn't made it.
McGovern's eyebrows rose when he saw Wohl.
"What the hell happened?" he asked. "Was that Dutch Moffitt they just carried out of here?" he asked.
"That was Dutch," Wohl confirmed. "He walked in on a holdup."
McGovern's eyebrows rose in question.
"He's gone, Jack," Wohl said.
"Jesus," McGovern said, and crossed himself.
"I think it would be better if you took care of the parking lot," Wohl said. "You're in uniform. You see the woman's body?"
McGovern shook his head. "A woman? A woman shot Dutch?"
"There were two of them," Wohl said. "One ran. Dutch got the other one. I don't know who shot Dutch."
"He said it was a woman," Louise Dutton said, softly.
Captain McGovern looked at her, his eyebrows raising, and then at Wohl.
"This lady was with Captain Moffitt at the time," Wohl said, evenly. He turned to Louise. "I've got to make a telephone call," he said. "It won't take a moment."
She nodded.
Wohl looked around for a telephone, saw the cashier's phone lying on the floor off the hook, and went to a pay phone on the wall. He dropped a dime in it and dialed a number from memory.
"Commissioner's office, Sergeant Jankowitz."
"Peter Wohl, Jank. Let me talk to him. It's important."
"Peter?" Commissioner Taddeus Czernick said when he came on the line a moment later. "What's up?"
"Commissioner, Dutch Moffitt walked into a holdup at the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Boulevard. He was shot to death. He put down one of them; the other got away."
"Jesus H. Christ!" Commissioner Czernick replied. "The one he got is dead?"
"Yes, sir. It's a woman, and a witness says she's the one that shot him. She said Dutch said a woman got him. I just got here."
"Who else is there?"
"Captain McGovern."
"Jesus Christ, Dutch's brother got himself killed too," the commissioner said. "You remember that?"
"I heard that, sir." And then, delicately, he added: "Commissioner, the witness, a woman, was with Dutch."
There was a perceptible pause.
"So?" Commissioner Czernick asked.
"I don't know, sir," Wohl said.
"That was the other phone, Peter. We just got notification from radio," Commissioner Czernick said. "Who's the woman?"
"I don't know. She looks familiar. Young, blond, good-looking."
"Goddamn!"
"I thought I had better call, sir."
"You stay there, Peter," the commissioner ordered. "I'll call the mayor, and get out there as soon as I can. Do what you think has to be done about the woman."
"Yes, sir," Wohl said.
The commissioner hung up without saying anything else.