Frank Batiste had the only real office, with a door, in Homicide. Now he sat at his desk, the door open a crack, and for the first time in what seemed months felt some measure of satisfaction in his position, in the department, in the way things were shaking down. For once, he thought, the good guys might be getting a break.
The word on the dropped charges in the Valenti and Raines investigation had spread through the ranks-guys calling each other at home. Frank had personally called both men to tell them they were reinstated with back pay effective immediately.
At Clarence Raines’s suggestion he did something else that was as much the source of his satisfaction as anything else. He’d gone down to Judge Lyons and explained the mutual exclusivity of the Raines/Valenti and Treadwell investigations and requested a warrant right now on Treadwell.
Which he got and served as Treadwell sat flush-faced and shaken in Art Drysdale’s office. Treadwell’s lawyer had had a shit-fit, which did Batiste’s soul some good, and the bare fact was that now, at 9:30 P.M., Fred Treadwell was in the can on his double-murder rap, at least until the morning when bail would probably be set.
Batiste’s prompt move on Treadwell had also gotten out to his squad, and they had been returning to the office in dribs and drabs, catching up on things, getting the further notice that Batiste was personally okaying the overtime they needed to serve subpoenas, write their reports, do their work. If he lost his job over that, so be it. You couldn’t run this bunch of guys like a kindergarten without the risk of losing them. And if he lost these handpicked pros, then his own numbers, and eventually his job, would also go to hell.
So he sat enjoying the hum of men working-day guys in at night, bullshitting, getting coffee, picking up mail and paperwork. He was soaring on adrenaline-getting the warrant and arresting Treadwell, making some real management decisions-and was taking the opportunity to write it up for Chief Rigby. Sometime in the next week, he was confident the City and County would find some way to clear the money for the overtime. Or they wouldn’t find it in the budget and they’d have to borrow from another pot. Batiste thought even the most fuzzy-headed bleeding hearts among the supervisors might realize that taking killers off the street should be a priority item for a police department.
Still, homicide inspector wasn’t a punch-in job and it was plain stupid to act like it could be. Of course, the powers that be in this loony-tune city might still kick his ass over it.
“Fuck it,” he said.
“Fuck what?”
Abe Glitsky was back, standing in the doorway, not looking very sick. Batiste had no intention of mentioning it. “Oh, I don’t know, take your pick. The supervisors, Rigby and his chicken patrol.” He put the tip of his pen in his mouth. “Come to think of it, I ought to mention that. They got money for that, they can pay some overtime.”
“Right on,” Abe said, pulling a chair out from the wall. “Listen, Frank, I want you to know, I’ve sent in that application to L.A.”
The lieutenant put his pen down. “Don’t do that.”
Glitsky shifted in the chair. “It’s already done.”
“Well, I mean don’t go. What’re you gonna do there in L.A.?”
“What am I doing here?”
“You know what you’re doing here. We need you here.”
Glitsky smiled, the scar a tight white line through his lips. Batiste held up a hand. “That’s not b.s., Abe. I don’t spout the line, you know that. And I need you here.”
“Thanks, Frank, that’s nice to hear. But if you get a call for a reference, give them some kind words, would you?”
He nodded. “Of course I’ll do that. But look, why don’t you take a few days off, think about it. Maybe you’re just having a little burnout. Take a vacation.”
“I took today off and thought about it, Frank. I’m not burned out. I still want to be a cop. Worse, I suppose, I am a cop, like it or not. I just want to be able to do my job.”
Batiste ran down the day’s improvements.
“Yeah, I heard. That’s great, but it’s like a Band-Aid.”
“Come on. It’s not all that bad here. It’s just bureaucracy, and that’s everywhere. You think L.A. will be better? It’s so much bigger, it’s got to be worse.”
“I can’t see the chief in L.A. pulling lab time over homicides ’cause some guys do a bullshit prank.”
“Chicken shit,” Frank corrected him, and Abe had to smile. “There’s rot from the top, Frank, and I’m not sure it’s just bureaucracy.”
“What it is, is over.” Batiste got up from behind his desk, went and opened the door. “Forget the past week and look out there. Business as usual.”
Abe half turned to look. “It’s like your wife has an affair that’s ended and you’re supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?”
“Sometimes, maybe, yeah.” He closed the door all the way. “But you didn’t come in here to ask for a reference. I mean, you were already in on something else.”
“You ought to be an investigator, Frank. Figuring out shit like that.”
Batiste was back in his seat behind the desk. He unwrapped a hard candy from his top drawer and popped it into his mouth. “So you were working.” Said with satisfaction.
“Rusty Ingraham.” Glitsky grimaced. “I’m sounding like Hardy, but Maxine Weir…”
“Yeah? We got the perp on that, don’t we?”
“An arrest has been made, right.”
“But?”
“Tying things up. Different angles keep popping out.”
He told Batiste about his talk with Johnny LaGuardia, the fact that it looked like a professional had done the hit on Maxine, which could include Medina or LaGuardia himself, but seemed to rule out the husband.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Batiste raised a hand. “This is all very interesting, but what about the alleged perp, what’s his name?”
“Baker.”
“Baker. What about Baker? He’d pick up the Armor All trick in the joint, don’t you think?”
Glitsky thought on it. “Maybe so. But the problem is also in my guts. The problem is Rusty Ingraham’s missing body, the husband’s lousy alibi, except why would he know about Armor All? And today-am I wrong-we find our own Hector Medina going pro-active on another violent crime. What’s going on?”
Batiste moved the candy around, making a sucking noise.
“You want my take, it really sounds to me like you got the right guy. Shit, Abe, there’s always some loose ends.”
“This is not just loose ends, Frank,” Abe said. “This is a hair ball.”
Louis Baker wasn’t going back in.
They had him now. He’d thought he could pull it off, but then with the shooting, there was no way. That alone, forget the other, the stuff Ingraham and Hardy were talking about, would put him back. He wasn’t going.
He wasn’t putting up with the game of another trial. Everything stacked against him anyway from day one. And this time, what Hardy had said, going for the gas chamber.
No way.
The hospital room was dark. There was dim light out through the open door into the hallway, where he knew the guard sat.
He was quietly working the sheet back and forth over a jutting bit of metal that protruded from the bars at the side of the bed. A nurse walked by, exchanged a few words with the guard. He saw her silhouette in the doorway and lay still.
Then she was gone. He waited a minute, listening. The chair in the hall creaked, the guard probably settling back.
He got a tear in the top of the sheet and, trying not to move anything but his hands, began ripping a strip down to the bottom.
He only needed three strips. He wanted to get each one started at the top-that was the hardest part, the first tear -so he went back to the little bit of metal, working the old hospital sheet over it again and again, until, again, he got it to tear.
He pulled the new strip down a ways, using only the strength of his hands, showing no movement outside the covers, got maybe ten inches, then started over again at the top.