“I know,” I said. “I panicked. Then it all started with the holdup of that Shiloh Tool outfit?”
He nodded. “Frances Celaya was a niece of that Jiminez woman Ryan Bullard knew in Tampa. When he came over here on that fishing boat that first trip back in November, he looked her up. That’s when he began to think of the holdup. He and this girl of his in Havana wanted to buy a boat. I think they had some kind of smuggling operation in mind; God knows what it was, but something crooked, anyway, since it was Bullard. Anyway, he approached Danny about the holdup, and introduced him to Frances. And I guess she fell for Danny like a ton of bricks. She gave him all the routine on the payroll operation there at the plant, and they planned the whole thing. They were plenty cagey about it, too; nobody ever did know they were even acquainted. They knew the employees would be checked out afterward. Danny lined up the visiting punk from Oakland. They pulled it off. The California hoodlum was killed, but the two Bullards got away. Danny took the money to his apartment to hide out with it until the split. Ryan couldn’t very well take it aboard the Marilyn. But then Stedman and Purcell came along the next afternoon to question Danny about the liquor store job.”
I nodded. “So when they found out Stedman and Purcell had killed him and filed a report saying he resisted arrest, with no mention of the Shiloh job or the fourteen-thousand they figured it was just cold-blooded murder, for the money?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think it was?” I asked.
He stared moodily at the end of his cigarette. “No. At least, I hope not. They went sour, all right, but not that sour. He probably did pull a gun, so they had to shoot, and then they stumbled onto the money afterward while searching the apartment.”
”Have you found the money yet?”
“Yeah. They put it in safe deposit boxes. We located them this morning.”
“Do you suppose the Celaya girl and Ryan Bullard expected to find it in their rooms?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “With the girl, I think it was revenge, pure and simple. Apparently she was completely gone on this Danny Bullard, and she thought he’d been gunned down by two crooked cops in cold blood. Ryan Bullard probably just figured he’d been gypped. He was a cold-blooded killer by instinct.”
I thought of Suzy Patton again, and I could feel my nerves jumping. “Did he confess to any other killings?” I asked, looking down at my cigarette.
“A couple,” he said. “Didn’t have anything to do with this, though.”
I tried to keep my voice casual. “What were they?”
“That seaman, during the strike here several years ago. And one of the witnesses to it. Why?”
It wasn’t a matter of her being in danger—not now. She was either already dead or all right, and telling him wouldn’t help or change anything. It would just drag her name into it. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “How did they get Purcell?”
“He left that gate open for her and she left it open for Bullard. They killed him, and then she went back out and he locked the gate and climbed over the fence. Neither of them ever showed in front at all. He says she was the one who actually shot him. So in the end, she got both of them.”
“Are there any charges against me?” I asked.
He sighed. “Not a thing, aside from assault and battery, resisting arrest, trespass, breaking and entering, purse-snatching, and illegal entry. Oh, and piracy, except that Sanchez took that boat back to whoever you borrowed it from. I don’t know where you clouted that lion-strangler’s coat you had on when we brought you in, but I’m not going to look into it.”
“I got it from an astronomer,” I said. “We traded.”
“It figures, I guess.”
“Are you going to hold me?” I asked.
“No,” he said wearily. “We had a conference about it in the Skipper’s office awhile ago, and somebody came up with a good idea. Maybe if the City Council would vote Southlands Oil a tax reduction of some kind they might give you back your job and ship you the hell out of here. That way we could put the Department back on a forty-eight hour week, and some of us could go home and see if we’re still married. That is, if it’s all right with you.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He stood up. “Incidentally, the medics say they can’t find anything wrong with you except for bruises and lumps and lacerations. Anybody else, of course, would be dead. They took some pictures of your belly, but there’s apparently nothing wrong inside. I’m going to turn those reporters loose on you now, and as soon as they get through with you I’ll drop you back at your apartment house.”
He went, out. Six or eight reporters and photographers surged in and began snapping pictures and firing questions. It was about twenty minutes before they left. I dressed. Brannan and I went out and got in the patrol car in front of the hospital. While we were crawling through the midday traffic of downtown, headed for Forest Avenue, he turned to me with a hard grin, and said, “We could run this on the siren, if you’d like to hear one up real close.”
“If I never hear one again, anywhere, it’ll be close enough,” I said.
He let me out in front of the Wakefield. We shook hands, and he drove off. It felt strange to be standing there in the open, perfectly free, in broad daylight, without cringing or looking behind me. I wondered if I’d ever get used to it again. I let myself in the front door and hurried up the stairs to the apartment. Nothing had changed in it, but it was like coming back to a place you hadn’t seen in years. I closed the door and reached for the phone. I dialed Suzy Patton’s number. It rang and went on ringing. There was no answer.
I hung up, waited two minutes, and tried again. Maybe she’d been in the bath. Or asleep. I listened to the futile ringing with a cold lump of fear in my stomach. Everything had turned out fine for me, but she’d got killed for helping me. I could see her lying there on the living room rug— Breaking the connection, I dialed for a cab and hurried out front.
It seemed to take forever to get there. When it came at last and I gave the driver the address, it occurred to me that Brannan might be having me followed so he could find out who’d hidden me. I watched out the rear window as we jockeyed through the downtown traffic and out the arterial going north. There were dozens of cars around us all the time, but I couldn’t see any that appeared to be following us.
It was shortly after noon now, and warm and sunny. When we pulled to the curb in front of the apartment house, I tossed the driver two dollars and hurried up the walk. I pushed the button of 703, and waited. There was no answering buzz at the door. I leaned on it again. Nothing happened. Turning, I hurried down into the garage. The blue Olds was there in its stall. I was badly scared now. I ran back to the front door, found the manager’s number, and buzzed it.
He answered. I went in and ran up the stairs to the second floor. The apartment was 203. I rang the bell. He opened and looked out. He was a big, relaxed guy holding a can of beer. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“It’s Miss Patton, in 703,” I said. “She doesn’t answer the phone or the buzzer. I wondered—”
He took a sip of the beer. “Maybe she’s not home. That happens.”
“Her car’s in the garage. And she didn’t answer last night, either. Look, I’m a friend of hers, and I’m worried. How about going up with me and having a look?”
“All right.” Then he regarded me doubtfully. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Come on,” I said impatiently.