yes, what can I do for you?”
“I am afraid I have some news you’re not going to like.”
Harry’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.
“You’re not unique in that respect,” he said. “Tell me.”
“The D.A. got here around an hour ago and after consulting with the Superior Court Judge, felt he had no choice but to release the three suspects you brought in.”
“What the hell?”
“There were certain problems, you see,” Brevoort said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Problems?”
“Well, the absence of a warrant for one thing and the fact that we had no proof linking any of the three to the alleged molestation and rape of this woman, what’s her name?—ah, yes, Lucille Finehurst, nicknamed Sugar.”
Harry struggled to restrain himself from cursing out the son of a bitch. “A warrant has nothing to do with this. I was stopping a crime in progress . . .”
“Yes, I am sure you were. But unfortunately, we have no corroboration of that.”
“No corroboration? And what about Miss Lucille Finehurst, nicknamed Sugar? There’s your fucking cooperation!”
Brevoort hesitated for a moment. “That, I am afraid, is another problem. Your Sugar, soon as she recovered consciousness, took a walk. Said there was nothing the matter with her and split A.M.F.”
“A.M.F?”
“Adios motherfucker, an expression I understand some doctors use when a patient leaves without their authorization. There was nothing they could do to prevent her from leaving.”
“You could have kept her there, she’s a principal witness. She’s the fucking victim, for Chrissakes . . .”
“Please, Inspector Callahan, I know how difficult this must be for you, but really there was nothing we could do. It seems Sugar, Miss Finehurst, declined to press charges. Says she went on her own volition and the whole thing’s her fault. She says that, what can we do? So the D.A. determined there was really no case, and it would only be a waste of the county’s money to seek an indictment.”
Harry didn’t care to listen to any more. He hung up without letting Brevoort say goodbye.
But there was more to come. The following morning another officer attached to the Santa Rosa police force left a message for Harry to call him. The note said that it was urgent.
Urgent or not, Harry was not permitted the opportunity to phone him. An emergency call had just been received by the dispatcher to the effect that a gunman was stalking the exclusive Golden Gateway apartment complex. The description of the suspect came close to matching the man Harry had arrested the night before—Sandy Lyman.
Harry couldn’t believe Sandy would be so stupid as to risk a second confrontation with the police just hours after being released from jail on a technicality. But it was possible Sandy was acting from desperation, impelled to madness by the slaying of his good buddy, the Samoan.
Maybe it was just chance, maybe it was fate, but when Harry arrived at the Golden Gateway complex, he found the same trio of officers that had greeted him on Pier 43½.
“What we’ve got here, Inspector, is a lot of confusion,” one of them said.
“That has a familiar ring to it. Could you do a bit better than that?”
“A woman name of Kaye Sissler lives up there, you see, where that window is?” He pointed to one of the apartments visible from the mall where they were standing. Behind them, a crowd was assembling, peering up at the same wide picture window, hoping to get a glimpse of the drama taking place. The only problem was there was nothing to see. The beige curtains were parted to allow a look into the room, but there was no one to be seen in the room. Several people in the crowd were debating what had happened. While everyone had their definite opinions, the fact was that no one knew for sure, and that included the police.
“Is she still in the apartment?” Harry asked.
“No, before anyone could stop him, some guy seizes her and hauls ass out
“I am afraid I have some news you’re not going to like.”
Harry’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.
“You’re not unique in that respect,” he said. “Tell me.”
“The D.A. got here around an hour ago and after consulting with the Superior Court Judge, felt he had no choice but to release the three suspects you brought in.”
“What the hell?”
“There were certain problems, you see,” Brevoort said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Problems?”
“Well, the absence of a warrant for one thing and the fact that we had no proof linking any of the three to the alleged molestation and rape of this woman, what’s her name?—ah, yes, Lucille Finehurst, nicknamed Sugar.”
Harry struggled to restrain himself from cursing out the son of a bitch. “A warrant has nothing to do with this. I was stopping a crime in progress . . .”
“Yes, I am sure you were. But unfortunately, we have no corroboration of that.”
“No corroboration? And what about Miss Lucille Finehurst, nicknamed Sugar? There’s your fucking cooperation!”
Brevoort hesitated for a moment. “That, I am afraid, is another problem. Your Sugar, soon as she recovered consciousness, took a walk. Said there was nothing the matter with her and split A.M.F.”
“A.M.F?”
“Adios motherfucker, an expression I understand some doctors use when a patient leaves without their authorization. There was nothing they could do to prevent her from leaving.”
“You could have kept her there, she’s a principal witness. She’s the fucking victim, for Chrissakes . . .”
“Please, Inspector Callahan, I know how difficult this must be for you, but really there was nothing we could do. It seems Sugar, Miss Finehurst, declined to press charges. Says she went on her own volition and the whole thing’s her fault. She says that, what can we do? So the D.A. determined there was really no case, and it would only be a waste of the county’s money to seek an indictment.”
Harry didn’t care to listen to any more. He hung up without letting Brevoort say goodbye.
But there was more to come. The following morning another officer attached to the Santa Rosa police force left a message for Harry to call him. The note said that it was urgent.
Urgent or not, Harry was not permitted the opportunity to phone him. An emergency call had just been received by the dispatcher to the effect that a gunman was stalking the exclusive Golden Gateway apartment complex. The description of the suspect came close to matching the man Harry had arrested the night before—Sandy Lyman.
Harry couldn’t believe Sandy would be so stupid as to risk a second confrontation with the police just hours after being released from jail on a technicality. But it was possible Sandy was acting from desperation, impelled to madness by the slaying of his good buddy, the Samoan.
Maybe it was just chance, maybe it was fate, but when Harry arrived at the Golden Gateway complex, he found the same trio of officers that had greeted him on Pier 43½.
“What we’ve got here, Inspector, is a lot of confusion,” one of them said.
“That has a familiar ring to it. Could you do a bit better than that?”
“A woman name of Kaye Sissler lives up there, you see, where that window is?” He pointed to one of the apartments visible from the mall where they were standing. Behind them, a crowd was assembling, peering up at the same wide picture window, hoping to get a glimpse of the drama taking place. The only problem was there was nothing to see. The beige curtains were parted to allow a look into the room, but there was no one to be seen in the room. Several people in the crowd were debating what had happened. While everyone had their definite opinions, the fact was that no one knew for sure, and that included the police.
“Is she still in the apartment?” Harry asked.
“No, before anyone could stop him, some guy seizes her and hauls ass out
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