Kate took a stiff drink. "I remember every second of that afternoon," she said, a faraway look in her eyes. "It was Christmas. Carols were being piped through the loudspeakers, kids were skating at the ice rink, and the mall was packed. We were supposed to meet Clarence in front of a camera store. There were shoppers all over the place: a pregnant woman with her child, a Hispanic family, a cute, blond kid about twelve in a baggy Spider-Man sweatshirt.
"Clarence appeared out of nowhere and our guys moved to surround him. Watching from the doorway of a record store across the way were two black teenagers in Oakland Raiders gear. I was window-shopping, next door. As soon as they spotted Clarence they pulled out automatic weapons."
Kate shook her head slowly.
"I shot the first one in the chest. He fell sideways into the guy on his right, who had his finger on the trigger of an Uzi. I shot the second guy. He stumbled forward, spraying bullets into the crowd. A mother and daughter went down, one of our men was hit. There was complete panic and everybody started diving for cover.
"The crowd had separated Clarence from our guys and he took off for the nearest exit. I went after him. Running hard on his heels was the little white kid in the Spider-Man sweatshirt. Just as they reached the exit the kid said something and Clarence stopped and turned. I had almost caught up with him when this hole appeared in Clarence's forehead."
Kate touched a spot above her right eye.
"Who shot him?"
"It was the fucking kid. He was working with the brothers in the Oakland Raiders togs. Later on we found out that the hit wasn't his first." Kate shook her head as if she still couldn't believe it. "He was twelve years old and he did it for two Baggies."
She paused, drained her glass, then refilled it.
"I thought someone behind me had killed Clarence. It never dawned on me that it was the kid until he shot me, too. I was so shocked that I froze. Then he shot me again and I started squeezing the trigger. When the other cops got there every pane of glass in the exit door had been blown out, the kid was lying in a pool of blood with his chest torn apart, and I was standing over him jerking that trigger even though there wasn't a bullet left in my gun."
"How could you still be standing?" Daniel asked, awed by Kate's story.
"On TV, people fly through the air when they're shot or they fall down and die. That's not the way it happens in the real world. I've heard of shoot-outs where robbers took shot after shot and kept coming. Even a person who's shot in the heart could have as much as a minute to act before he bleeds out and goes unconscious. I didn't even know I'd been hit until I saw the blood. That's when I collapsed."
"Jesus, that's amazing."
"The DA didn't think so," Kate concluded bitterly. "Neither did the press. They called the shoot-out `The Holiday Massacre.' " She looked at Daniel. "They needed a scapegoat, so they chose me. I'd lost Clarence and I killed a little kid. It didn't matter to the press that the kid was a hired assassin. I was expendable. I could have fought it, but I'd had enough, so I resigned."
"It sounds to me like you have nothing to feel bad about."
Kate smiled without humor. "I don't feel bad. I never did. After the shooting I had to visit a shrink. It was department policy. He told me it was common to experience feelings of guilt even when a shooting was righteous, but I never felt guilty and that really bothered me."
"What about tonight?"
Kate looked directly at Daniel. "Truth?"
"Of course."
"I was pumped. My motor was going every second I was trading shots."
"That's adrenaline."
Kate shook her head. "I know what adrenaline feels like. This was something different. This was a high like no other. So, what does that say about me?"
"It says that you're too hard on yourself. Are you forgetting that you saved my life? You're my hero, Kate."
Kate's laugh was sharp and biting.
"I mean it," he insisted. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for you. What you did was very brave."
Kate touched his cheek. "You're sweet."
Daniel reached up and took Kate's hand. It was light as a feather. He turned her palm and kissed it. She hesitated for only a second. Then she pulled Daniel to her and kissed him. Daniel winced. Kate sat back.
"Are you okay?" she asked, alarmed.
"Never felt better," Daniel answered, grimacing.
Kate laughed.
"I hate to say this," Daniel said, managing to smile, "but I'm in no condition to play Don Juan tonight."
Kate squeezed his hand. "Do I get a rain check?"
"Most definitely." He grinned. "I've got to thank you properly for riding to my rescue."
She laughed. "I did arrive in the nick of time, didn't I?"
"Just like the cavalry"-Daniel smiled-"but please feel free to rescue me sooner in the future."
Chapter Thirty-Six.
The slender, dark-skinned man was waiting patiently for Claude Bernier when the photographer reached the landing of his third-floor walk-up. Bernier hesitated even though his visitor was dressed in a conservative suit and carrying a briefcase. He had been robbed at gunpoint recently and the man looked sinister enough to make him uneasy,
"Mr. Bernier?" the man asked in a heavy Spanish accent.
"Yes?" Bernier answered warily.
"My name is Juan Fulano and I am here to do business with you."
Photographers-even those with Claude's talent-had to scramble to make a living, and the mention of business erased the last of his doubts. He unlocked his door and invited Fulano inside. The apartment was small but clean. The walls were decorated with Bernier's photographs and the works of friends. Claude put down the bag of groceries he was carrying on the table in his narrow kitchen.
"I don't have much in the fridge," he apologized, "but I could make us some coffee."
"Not necessary."
Bernier led Fulano into the living room and offered him the most comfortable chair. Fulano sat down and carefully crossed his left leg over his right.
"How can I help you?" Bernier asked.
"I am interested in buying a copy of a photograph that was originally purchased from the Pitzer-Kraft Gallery in late February by a lawyer named Gene Arnold."
"Are you with the police?"
"No, Mr. Bernier. Why do you ask?"
"The police in Portland, Oregon, called me about that photograph. Do you know that Arnold was murdered?"
Bernier's visitor nodded. "Why did the Oregon authorities contact you?"
"They want a copy of the photograph, too."
"Have you sent it to them?"
"No. I just found the negative. It was misplaced. I'm mailing a print to Portland tomorrow."
Fulano smiled. "I wonder if I could induce you to sell me a copy of the photograph as well."
"Sure. I can make another copy."
"How much do you require?"
Bernier did a quick calculation based on the quality of Fulano's clothes.
"Fifteen hundred dollars," he said.
"A reasonable price, but the photograph would be worth five thousand to me if you would do me a small favor."
Bernier managed to conceal his surprise and excitement. He had never sold a photograph for that much money.
"What would you want me to do?"
"Do the authorities in Oregon know that you've located the negative of the photograph?"
"No. I just found it this morning."
"The five thousand is yours if you wait to send the photograph until I tell you to do so."
"I don't know," Bernier answered, suddenly worried. "It's a murder investigation. The detective I spoke with thought the people in the picture might be involved in Mr. Arnold's death."