Heck, driving could make you a chief. Daryl Gates had started off driving for Saint William Parker. Then again, look where Daryl Gates had ended up, so maybe it was just the opposite and driving was really bad luck, a curse, a hex. This sure wasn't a good sign, he wished Sturgis would just stop having his heart attack, decide it had been gas, start breathing normally again-
Silence. Oh, no- “You all right?”
No answer. But Sturgis was still breathing, Beaudry could see the big belly heaving.
“It's all right,” he said soothingly. “We'll take good care of you, almost there.”
Sturgis's face screwed up tighter as he seized again and landed almost prone on the seat, sliding down. Thank God he had his seat belt on. Bucking and heaving… that wheezing-
Robertson, 1 mile. Beaudry checked the rearview and slid across all four lanes, raced down the exit ramp, which was thank-God clear, ran an amber-to-red at National, and jetted north. Cedars just a couple miles away.
Don't die here, man, at least wait til we get there- Pico, Olympic, another iffy amberoo, some cross-traffic that honked at him.
Forget you, I am allowed, I am the po-lice- Wilshire, Burton, here we go, here we go, here we go- Cedars, yes! Swing in on Alden, into the covered parking lot, up to the emergency entrance- no one there, Sturgis quieter- but looking worse- was he still breathing, oh, Lord, please give him just a few more breaths- CPR? No, no, no, of course not, not with all these doctors around…
“We're here, just hold on, man,” he said, slamming the car into park. “Help's right on the way.”
He left the engine running and track-starred into the E.R. reception area, yelled at the sleepy-looking clerk that an officer needed help.
The place was full of sick old people and accident victims, various species of lowlife. Before the clerk could answer, Beaudry ran past them and grabbed the first person in uniform that he saw- a nurse, Filipina- then a female intern in scrubs, the three of them hustling to the unmarked.
“Where?” said the intern, red-haired, looking maybe sixteen, but her badge said S. Goldin, M.D.
“Right here.” Beaudry threw open the unmarked's passenger door.
No one inside.
His first thought was that Sturgis had been gripped by another attack, had somehow opened the door, fallen out, crawled somewhere to die… He ran around the car to check, then looked under the vehicle.
“Where?” said the intern, now looking skeptical.
She and the nurse stared at Beaudry. Taking in his badge, the uniform, the two stripes, the Sam Browne loaded with gear, the nine-millimeter.
Figuring, he was for real but what the hell was his story?
Beaudry raced around the parking lot, looking over, under, between every damn vehicle, greasing up his uniform, soaking his tapered-to-the-muscle shirt with stress sweat.
When he came back, Intern S. Goldin repeated, “Where? What's going on, Officer?”
Now Beaudry was breathing hard and his own chest hurt.
Stand tall, show no stress.
“Good question,” he said.
So much for family advice. Driving was definitely a hex.
58
Newly retired police captain Eugene Brooker, thirty pounds overweight, slightly hypertensive, and a non-insulin-dependent diabetic, walked uphill.
Old man and the mountain; some image. When his daughters inquired about his health, he always said, “Feel like a kid.”
So, live the lie tonight.
Danny's surprise call- talking twice as fast as usual, from that consulate bathroom- had ended with, “It'll probably be nothing. Do what you can, Gene, but don't put yourself in danger.”
Sneaking a phone into the john? Why were Danny's own people doing this to him?
He trudged up Lyric, staying in the shadows when he could. He'd parked his car a long way down on Apollo, brought the only two weapons handy: the old service revolver, which he'd continued to clean and oil out of habit, and the nine-millimeter that he kept in his bedside nightstand. No long guns because all three of his were already packed away in the U-Haul and they were for quail, not people. Another reason: Rifles were too conspicuous. An overtly armed black man walking the hills at night was beyond a joke.
Up, up, and away… He forced himself to breathe slowly. How long had it been since he'd done real-life, break-a-sweat police work? He didn't even want to think about it.
Pathetically out of shape, but with the diabetes you had to be careful about your exercise- who was he kidding, since college football and walking a beat on Central, he hadn't done a damn thing, athletic-wise…
Climb every mountain, ford every stream, huff huff, the old Nikes nice and quiet.
He'd memorized the address on Rondo Vista.
Slow and steady, it wouldn't do to have a heart attack up here and end up roadkill or worse.
No reason to hurry, probably a quiet night, as Danny had said. Just a precaution for the shrink's sake.
Danny hadn't had time to give many details. The main thing was that a cop named Baker, whom Gene didn't know, might be part of it, so watch out for him, he drove a Saab convertible.
A cop behind all that blood? It could make the Rodney King case look like musical comedy. Beyond that, all Gene knew was that a crazy girl was also part of it and the shrink was on an undercover date with her.
Why a shrink for bait?
How had Danny and Sturgis put it all together?
He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight his job was to keep an eye on the house. If something looked treacherous for the shrink, pull some kind of distraction.
More, if necessary.
He made it to Rondo Vista nearly out of breath, wanting to clear his throat but the street was too silent for that kind of noise so he lived with the phlegm.
He'd made sure to eat an orange before leaving, keep the old blood sugar steady, he should probably test more often, but sticking himself was such a hassle.
As he stood there, searching for the house, he became aware of pounding in his ears. Like a fast tide, the high blood pressure. Luanne had died of a stroke- no, stupid to think about that… Lord, it was quiet up here.
Manson Family terrain; you could dismember someone in the middle of the road, no one would notice til sunrise… There was the house, small place, white with dark trim, gray or blue.
He studied the layout, examined nearby cars.
One in front, the Karmann Ghia Danny had given the shrink, and an old pink T-bird in the driveway that had to be the girl's.
Nothing else except the few vehicles he'd passed on the way up. Couple of compacts and one honey, a white Porsche 928, no doubt some hill-house guy's toy. Porsches and hill-houses went together, the old L.A. lifestyle he'd never much tasted…
Danny had said look out for three things: a Chevy van, it could be in the garage, Baker's Saab, and a Mercedes sedan owned by some other shrink named Lehmann.
What the hell was this all about?
He looked carefully. None of those were around. Maybe in the garage.
If he'd been official, he'd have run a make on every vehicle within a half-mile radius, the compacts, the white Porsche, but now…