"I'd like a more accurate estimate. Was it closer to after five or before five?" Waeves said. His smile was strained.
"Like I said, it was about five." Suddenly Carr realized what looked different about Waeves. It was the new suit. Shoulder pads.
"How do you know it was five?" Waeves insisted. "Why couldn't it have been four or six?"
"I don't know. I guess I looked at my watch." Carr frowned.
Waeves glanced at the yellow pad. He printed what looked like the word five and underlined it. He put the pen down. "So, you called for help and searched for the escaped prisoner," he said. "Then what?"
"We couldn't find him."
The interrogator nodded. "Go ahead."
"Go ahead what?"
"What did you do then?"
"I called the informant from a pay phone," Carr said. "Her line was busy."
"Why did you try to call her?"
"To tell her LaMonica had escaped."
"How do you know the line was busy? Couldn't the phone just as easily have been out of order?" Waeves made a sucking sound on the pipe.
Carr closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Her line was busy so we drove over to her apartment."
"How long did it take?"
"To do what?"
"To drive to her apartment."
"Because of the rush-hour traffic it took about a half hour," Carr said.
"Would you say it was closer to twenty-five minutes or thirty-five minutes?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"It was about half an hour," Carr said.
Waeves's angular face became blotchy. He coughed nervously. "How long had Linda Gleason been your informant?"
"About five years."
"And how was she recruited?"
"She was a walk-in," Carr said. "Her husband was murdered on a contract let by Tony Dio the loan shark and she wanted to get even. She gave me enough information on one of Dio's hoods that I was able to get a search warrant for his house. I found fifty grand in tens and the weapon that was used on her husband inside the house. Headquarters authorized a cash payment to her after the conviction, and from then on she just kept feeding me information. She always worked as a cocktail waitress in one or the other of the local hood hangouts. They trusted her because her husband had a reputation for being solid. No one ever suspected her as far as I know." Youknow the story as well as I do, you two-faced bastard.
Waeves leaned back in his chair. He rolled a pen on the back of his knuckles. "You arrested LaMonica at the informant's apartment, leaving no doubt as to her role as the informant," he said. "What is your explanation for this tactic?"
"It was her idea," Carr said. "She felt comfortable with the scenario and I accepted that." Carr was talking to the recorder. He knew the tape would be played like a party record by the inspectors in Washington, D.C. "Linda Gleason was an active, longtime informant whose original revenge motivation had turned into a financial one. She got a few extra bucks now and then for doing nothing more than repeating bar talk. She had provided information on at least forty cases. It was common for her to make up the scenario for her undercover role."
The recorder squeaked. The tape had run out. Waeves punched the "eject" button with a bony finger and the cassette popped out. He yanked open the desk drawer and rummaged around for a fresh cassette.
"You don't have anything on me," Carr said. "My operation will be ruled 'in policy.'"
Waeves slammed the drawer shut and opened another. He moved things around. "We'll see," he said.
"Take your best shot, pencil pusher," Carr said.
Waeves pulled a cassette out of the drawer and stuffed it into the machine as if plugging a dike.
Carr's tone changed to one of courtesy. "Are there any other questions, Mr. Waeves?" He was looking at the tape recorder.
"Yes," said the blotchy-faced man. "What time was it when…”
It was after 9:00 P.M. by the time Carr arrived at Ling's bar. He pushed aside a portal of hanging beads and looked around for his partner. Ling's, like the other haunts in Chinatown, was kept mysteriously dark. Bar jokes had it that the cavelike atmosphere was due to Ling's desire to save on utility bills, but Carr suspected that the detectives who drank there preferred the lack of light.
Kelly waved, drink in hand, from a bar-stool perch facing the door. Carr made his way to him and sat down.
Ling, wearing his usual bow tie and long-sleeved white shirt, wiped his wire-framed eyeglasses on his sleeve. He put them back on. "Charlie," he said, grabbing a Scotch bottle. He poured a drink and set it down in front of Carr. "Lady sheriff detective ask about you last night. Big blonde," he whispered. "She want to know if I have your address since you transfer back. I thought maybe I give her my address. Maybe get her in bed with me and lay her before she know what happens!" He gave a high-pitched laugh.
Carr smiled and shook his head.
Still laughing, Ling poured more drinks and rushed to the other end of the bar.
"How long did he have you in his office?" Kelly said.
"About two hours."
"Same here," Kelly said. "Christ, you'd think we'd killed Linda." He shook his head sadly.
"That's just the way he is," Carr said.
Kelly set his drink down. "You're right there. He's the same pipe-smoking, ass-kissing, i-dotting, mama's boy bureaucrat he always was. Over the years I've had dreams about kicking the shit out of him. Literally pounding his friggin' head in."
"I know what you mean," Carr said. He gulped fully half of the Scotch-and-water and put the glass down. Neither man said anything for a while.
"Linda was getting careless," Kelly said. "She'd done too many cases. She shouldn't have brought the guy over to her apartment. It was a stupid thing to do."
"She had a lot of guts."
"We don't have anything to go on," Kelly said. "LaMonica could be anywhere by now."
"We'll find him," Carr said after a while. "And when we do we're going to play catch-up."
Carr and Kelly spent the next day standing around in the hallway outside judge Malcolm's courtroom waiting to testify. The case was a leftover that predated Carr's transfer to Washington. Because of assorted technicalities, Judge Malcolm had granted twelve defense motions for continuance in almost two years. Carr wasn't particularly surprised by the delay because he had seen the defense lawyer use the same strategy in other cases.
At 4:00 P.M., Assistant U.S. Attorney Reba Partch, a harried young woman with thick glasses, wiry hair, and an oversized rear end, strode out of the courtroom. She wore a black velvet jacket with a matching tie and a huge dandruffy collar. "You two are excused," she said gruffly. "I let him plead to one count for straight probation." She dug a package of cough drops out of her jacket and popped a couple into her mouth. "It's a weak case anyway, and I'm sick of making court appearances on it. There've been a million continuances. Even the judge is sick of the case." She maneuvered the cough drops around in her mouth.
Kelly's face reddened. "Since when is a confession a weak case?" he said. "He told us he did it. Not to mention the fact that he had a stack of phony twenties in his pocket when we arrested him. The jerk has a record a mile long."
"If we went to trial on him and lost, then what would we have?" she said.
"The same thing we have right now," Kelly said. "Nothing. "
Her tongue arranged the cough drops so she could speak. "You people are completely out of touch with reality," she said, cough drops rattling against her teeth. She flung open the door and bustled back into the courtroom.
Kelly was still talking about the incident that night as he drove south past fog-shrouded motels and fast-food stands along the Pacific Coast Highway, a two-lane road that wound through the beach cities. "Her daddy raised her, paid for her law school, and juiced her way into a federal prosecutor's job with a nice fat political contribution. The only thing he couldn't do for her was try her cases."