Hollywood Station (41 page)

Out of the fight, the dog sat on his right hip, snarling and howling at Cosmo, who limped to his Cadillac which had been concealed behind the office building, started it up, and tried to drive after Farley. But Cosmo hadn't driven a quarter of a mile before he had to pull off the road, rip off his T-shirt, and use it to stem the blood that was flowing from a nasty head gash and running into his eyes and blinding him.

Farley is a quarter of a mile down that junkyard road before he knows he's been shot. He reaches down with his left hand, feels the warm wetness, and begins bawling. Still, he keeps driving, one headlight lighting the road in front, smashed fenders scraping both front tires.

Farley loses track of time but just follows his instincts onto east Sunset Boulevard, where it begins near downtown Los Angeles. Sometimes Farley stops for traffic lights, sometimes not, and he never sees the police car that spots him cruising through a red light at Alvarado as several motorists slam on brakes and blow horns and yell at him.

He is driving leisurely now through all those ethnic neighborhoods where people speak the languages of Latin America, Southeast Asia, and the Far East as well as Russian and Armenian and Arabic and a dozen other languages he hates. Heading west, heading toward Hollywood, heading home.

Farley Ramsdale does not hear the police siren either and of course has no knowledge that a Rampart Division unit has broadcast a pursuit of a white Corolla along with his license number and his location and direction, causing Hollywood Division cars to start heading for Sunset Boulevard, everyone convinced that this incredibly reckless drunk will blow at least a .25 on the Breathalyser because he's weaving along Sunset at only thirty miles an hour, causing oncoming traffic to veer right and stop, and is apparently oblivious to the sirens and the queue of black-and-whites that have joined in behind the pursuit car.

At Normandie Avenue Farley crosses into Hollywood Division, still heading west. But he's not in a car any longer. Farley Ramsdale is fifteen years younger and is in the gymnasium at Hollywood High School shooting hoops in an intramural game, and they are all three-pointers that find only net. Swoosh! And that cheerleader who always disses him is now giving him the big eye. He'll be boning her tonight, that's for sure.

At the corner of Gower Street his foot slips from the accelerator and the car drifts slowly into the rear of a parked Land Rover and the engine dies. Farley never sees the officers of Hollywood Division midwatch who know him-Hollywood Nate and Wesley Drubb and B. M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster and Budgie Polk and Fausto Gamboa-and those who don't.

All out of their cars, guns drawn, the cops run very warily toward the Corolla now that Nate's broadcast has alerted all units that the pursued car is wanted in connection with a robbery investigation. They are yelling things, but Farley doesn't hear that either.

Hollywood Nate was the first to reach the car, and he smashed the rear driver's side window open and unlocked the driver's door. When Nate jerked open the door and saw all the blood, he holstered his nine and yelled for someone to call an RA.

Farley Ramsdale's eyes were rolled back showing white, his eyelids fluttering like wings as he went into shock and died long before the rescue ambulance reached Sunset Boulevard.

Chapter
NINETEEN

COSMO COULD NOT stop cursing as he drove west toward Hollywood. He kept looking at his watch without knowing why. He kept thinking of Ilya, of what she would say, of what they would do. He kept wondering how long it would take that miserable addict Farley to phone the police and tell them about the jewelry store robbery. At least Farley couldn't tell them about the ATM robbery and the killing of the guard. Ilya was correct. Farley did not know about that or he would not have come to Gregori's tonight. But that was very little consolation now.

His finger was throbbing and so was his head. He had a laceration just inside the hairline and it was still oozing blood. His finger would need suturing and maybe his head would as well. Almost every bone and muscle ached. He wondered if his hip was broken. Should he go home? Would the police be waiting for him there?

Tonight he had used the Beretta 9-millimeter pistol that he'd taken from the guard. He thought it would be much more accurate than the cheap street gun he had used in the robberies. And what good did it do him? But at least he still had rounds left in the magazine. He had no intention of living his life in prison like an animal. Not Cosmo Betrossian.

He opened his cell and phoned Ilya. If she did not answer, it meant that the police were already there.

"Yes?" Ilya said.

"Ilya! You are okay?"

"Yes, I am okay. Are you okay, Cosmo?"

"Not okay, Ilya. Nothing is correct."

"Shit."

"I am bleeding on my hand and head. I need bandage on my wounds and I need a new shirt and I need a cap to hide blood. Not the cap from that day."

"I threw the baseball cap away, Cosmo. I am not so stupid."

"I shall be home soon. I must be putting gas in my car. I think there is more safety if we drive to San Francisco."

"Shit."

"Yes, Farley may be calling police now. Make all things ready to travel. I shall see you soon."

Before she began packing their clothes Ilya went to the closet shelf and removed the bag of rings and earrings and loose diamonds. She left a sufficient sampling of each for Cosmo to show to Dmitri. Then she put the rest in a very safe place.

The intersection of Sunset Boulevard and Gower Street was a very busy place, completely blocked off by police. Viktor Chernenko was there, having left the stakeout at Farley Ramsdale's house. The house would now be the object of a hastily written search warrant as soon as Viktor got back to the office. After Hollywood Nate told him that the homicide victim was definitely his person of interest, Farley Ramsdale, Viktor began to think of Farley as having been much more ambitious than a petty mail thief. Whatever his connection to the Russian robbers it had gotten him killed.

And when word got to the detective squad room that the pursuit suspect had ended up dead, shot at some location east of Hollywood Division but wanted by Viktor Chernenko, it stirred a lot of interest from the usually disinterested night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford.

Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle were just getting ready to leave for the Gulag to follow up on their own homicide case and try to get their hands on Dmitri's videotape, when Compassionate Charlie looked their way.

Andi said, "Don't even think about it, Charlie. The guy was shot somewhere outside Hollywood, and I've got all I can handle anyway."

Compassionate Charlie shrugged and started making calls. When he was through, he put on his checked sport coat and headed for Sunset and Gower so as not to miss a chance to offer commentary on another Hollywood dream gone terribly wrong.

Wesley Drubb was so excited that Hollywood Nate told him to hang on to his seat belt for fear of levitation. Viktor Chernenko had spoken to Robbery-Homicide Division detectives from the Bank Squad who were on the ATM case and had phoned his lieutenant at home. Things were happening so fast it was hard to decide what to do next other than to write a search warrant for the Ramsdale house and hope that they could locate the woman who called herself Olive Ramsdale. Another Hollywood robbery team had the house under surveillance, waiting for her.

There wasn't anything else for 6-X-72 to do at the moment, so Nate and Wesley reluctantly had to go back to the streets and return to ordinary police work.

Viktor said to them, "I shall write you a commendation for your good performance whether or not we solve this case. And do not forget Olive. You know her. You might see her at the taco stand or the doughnut shop or the cybercaf,."

"We'll be looking," Nate said.

"Keep the eyes skinned," Viktor said. "And thank you."

Andi and Brant had decided to have a quick bite before going to the Gulag. One thing about Russian nightclubs, they stayed open until the last minute the law allowed, so Andi figured they had plenty of time left.

They were in Thai Town, Andi working on a green papaya salad and Brant devouring a red curry with chicken, his eyes watering from the chilis. They each drank two Thai iced coffees, both to soothe their burning mouths and because they needed the caffeine jolt, having had so little sleep in the past two days.

Brant said, "Since I'm the new kid on the block and bouncing from robbery team to helping you, I think I'll talk to the lieutenant about working homicide full-time. You're shorthanded."

"Everybody's shorthanded," Andi said, sipping the iced coffee through a straw.

"It's not that anybody would fight over me," Brant said. "The boss knows I'll only be around here until the promotion list gets down to me and I'm appointed."

"Lieutenant Hinkle," Andi said. "It has a nice sound. You'll be a good watch commander."

"Not as good as you," Brant said. "I expect you to knock 'em dead and be near the top of the next list. The troops will love working for you."

"Why is that?"

"You have a good heart."

"How do you know what's inside? You've only seen the outside of me."

"Cop instinct."

"Careful, buddy. I'm at the age where I get all giddy when a man flatters me like that. I might do something stupid. Like taking you seriously."

"I'm several years older than you. I'm ready to be taken seriously."

"Let's postpone this conversation until end-of-watch," Andi said, "when I can focus on it."

"Whatever you say, partner."

"I say, let's go get a videotape and clear a homicide."

"Is Viktor still gonna meet us there for a little Russian fast talk?"

"He's a very busy guy tonight but he said he would."

"To the Gulag, comrade," Brant said with a smile that crinkled his heavily lashed green eyes and made Andi's toes curl under.

Cosmo was a shocking sight to Ilya when he limped up the stairs. She helped him clean up the head wound and stanch the ooze of blood. As to his finger, she did her best to hold the laceration together with butterfly Band-Aids, then wrapped and taped the finger until they could get to a doctor tomorrow and have it sutured. Where they would have that done, where they would be tomorrow, was anybody's guess. Ilya just wanted to concentrate on getting the money from Dmitri tonight.

"We may run away now, Ilya," Cosmo said. "We have diamonds. We find somebody in San Francisco."

"We are very much hot," Ilya said. "Too much happening. We got no time no more. The police shall be coming when Farley informs to them about us. No time to fish for diamond people in San Francisco. We need money now. You know, Cosmo, I may run clear back to Russia. I do not know."

He didn't know either. All he knew was that he was very much afraid to face Dmitri tonight without the ATM money. And to try to sell him a lie. Dmitri was very smart. More smart than Ilya, he thought.

He made the phone call to the cell number Dmitri had given to him.

"Yes," Dmitri answered.

"Is me, brother," Cosmo said.

"Do not say your name."

"I shall like to come in thirty minute."

"Okay."

"You ready to finish business?"

"Yes, and you?"

Cosmo swallowed and said, "Ready, brother."

"See you in thirty," Dmitri said, and somehow Cosmo could see that smile of his.

Cosmo put on the black beret to hide his head wound. It was something that Ilya wore with her black sweater and boots when she wanted to look very sexy. He wore a pale white sport coat and blue slacks and his best cordovan shoes. He tucked the Beretta inside his waistband in the small of his back. He cinched the leather belt tight to hold the pistol there.

Ilya was wearing the tightest red skirt she owned, and a shell with a deep V neckline, the one that made her breasts swell out, and a short black jacket over that, one trimmed with sequins. And since they were going to a Russian club she wore her black knee boots with three-inch heels. She was not short on bling, she thought. Ilya liked that American word: "bling."

Cosmo forced a brave smile and said, "We go to get our thirty-five thousands, Ilya. We go to the Gulag."

The Oracle looked at the clock. He was getting hungry and this had been a very busy night what with the pursuit driven by a dead man, and Viktor Chernenko tying up one of his midwatch cars, along with more ordinary Hollywood madness breaking out here and there as though there was a full moon. He felt a stab of heartburn and popped a couple of antacid tablets.

He said to the Watch 3 sergeant, "I gotta go do a PR job to keep some dirtbag of a lawyer from making a personnel complaint on everybody in Hollywood Division who met or failed to meet his goofy daughter who's made a bogus crime report. I just gotta get the name and address of the manager of a nightclub, if the guy really is the manager. Maybe he just has business cards made up to impress the chicks he meets in bars."

"Which nightclub you going to?" the sergeant asked.

"A Russian joint called the Gulag. You know it?"

"No, but I imagine it's a Russian Mafia hangout. They change owners and names more often than they change underwear."