Until You Are Dead (11 page)

"It's too hot to worry about it," Deal answered. "Let's sit here a while and see if we can spot him coming or going, or crossing our line of sight in the window. We might as well be here as cruising around — it's so hot most of the criminals are taking a break."

"They're waiting for the streets to cool," Hastings said. "We're not the only ones who've been working nights the past few weeks."

Deal didn't laugh. Hastings wasn't joking. Nighttime wasn't cool, but the temperature usually did fall to below a hundred degrees. A lot of daytime activities had been relegated to the night. He kept the engine running. The air conditioner was on high but the car was still stifling. He could feel the heat radiating from the rolled-up windows. He shifted his 240 pounds and fired up one of his abominable cheap cigars that made Hastings sick.

"Edward Eight," the dispatcher's metallic voice crackled from the radio. "Code Seventeen at six fifty-four Allister."

"Us," Deal said, and barked acknowledgment into the microphone before the call to investigate a domestic disturbance could be repeated.

"Just a minute," Hastings said, gripping Deal's shoulder. "Look." He pointed to Brubaker's window.

A man's shadow passed the window, then passed again in the opposite direction, as if pacing.

"Okay," Deal said, "so we know he's home." He put the car in gear.

"Keep the car still for a few more seconds," Hastings said. He raised his camera, held it steady, and waited for the shadowy figure to cross behind the window again.
Snick,
whir. "Got him!"

Deal stamped down on the accelerator, then switched on the siren and the rooftop cherry light.

Beside him, Hastings loaded another roll of film into the camera and cranked down his window to let some of the cigar smoke out of the car.

T
he domestic disturbance turned out to be a squabble between neighbors over a dog that had leaped a fence and snatched a steak from a spilled bag of groceries. By the time Deal and Hastings arrived, the husbands, wives, and children were exhausted from screaming at each other in the heat. Under the baleful eyes of neighbors on lighted porches and behind windows, the matter was soon resolved without the necessity of arresting anyone. The dog lost interest in the steak and trotted away, glancing back placidly over its shoulder.

"Why don't you get a shot of that dog?" Deal asked Hastings.

B
y the end of the shift both men were tired. There was no way not to be affected by the simmering weather. When Deal handed over the patrol-car keys to the day shift, Sergeant Lowry, who was assigned to the car, grinned and pointed as Hastings was walking away. "What's that your partner's carrying?"

"Vacuum cleaner and a camera," Deal replied unsmilingly. He had been sapped of his sense of humor.

"Eggers wants to see you and Hastings," Lowry added, lowering himself into Edward Eight.

Deal caught up with Hastings and they went together to Captain Eggers' office.

In the anteroom Eggers used for interrogation sat Arnie Brubaker. Eggers and Sergeant Hall were with him.

Eggers was a truck of a man gone to fat, but not so much fat that muscle didn't still show on his wide frame. He had a florid pug face that gave the impression he might bite. The white-haired, elderly Sergeant Hall was standing against one wall, looking more apprehensive than Brubaker.

Eggers was bending over Brubaker, who was sitting comfortably in a wooden chair with his legs crossed. When the
captain saw Deal and Hastings enter, he stood up straight and glared down at Brubaker with contempt. Brubaker smiled. He had a disarming smile. He was a dapper, amiable-looking man whose specialty was preying on senior citizens.

"We have a bad situation," Eggers told Deal and Hastings. "An eighty-year-old invalid named Edna Croft was found unconscious in her apartment on North Twelfth about three hours ago."

"I remember the squeal," Deal said. "It came down just after we went out of service to drive to a burglar-alarm call over on Freemont, Charles Eight took the North Twelfth call."

"We'd been driving up and down North Twelfth much of the night," Hastings said. "I used a lot of film there. It's a particularly crime ridden environment, as you know, the result of population displacement and urban decay."

"Yeah," Eggers said, cocking his head to the side and squinting at Hastings as if to fix him in his mind. "A neighbor who works nights dropped in to check on Edna Croft and make sure she was awake to take some prescription medicine, found her comatose, and called us. The temperature in the apartment was a hundred and three."

Deal could picture the buildings on North Twelfth, old brick two-story structures with flat tar roofs. He winced as he thought of the old woman languishing in the sweatbox of an apartment.

Eggers continued. "Sometime during the night, the neighbor says, Edna Croft's portable TV was stolen from her apartment."

"Maybe the neighbor took it," Brubaker suggested.

"Shut up, Mr. Brubaker," Eggers said, meaning all but the "mister." Brubaker was about to say more, then thought better of it. "We all know Mr. Brubaker's M.O.," Eggers went on. "We're familiar with how he allegedly makes his living by burglarizing the homes of the very old. Good business that, because even if he's caught his lawyer manages to stall the case until the victim either expires or can be accused of senility. Either way, the victim can't effectively testify against Mr. Brubaker."

"If I'm not being charged," Brubaker said patiently, "I think I'll wander on home."

Eggers rested a broad hand on his shoulder, and Brubaker sat still and sighed. What was the law, an instrument for harassment? "I'd phone my lawyer," he said, "only I don't believe we'll reach that point. Because we all know I don't deserve this heat. But I'm getting tired of seeing a cop car outside my apartment every time I look out the window."

Eggers ignored him and drew Deal and Hastings into the main office. He closed the door on the interrogation room. "You guys were supposed to keep an eye on Brubaker. Was he home last night?"

"He was there at eleven thirty-two, sir," Hastings said. "We checked his place of residence several times through the night and there was always a light on, but the eleven thirty-two time is the only one we can confirm on the basis of physical sighting."

Eggers stared at Hastings.

"Verification by way of a photograph, sir," Hastings added.

"What?"

"He means he took Brubaker's picture when he walked past his window," Deal explained.

Eggers looked perplexed. "Why did you do that?"

"He's an incurable shutterbug," Deal cut in, before Hastings could launch into an endless explanation.

"That would help provide an alibi for Brubaker," Eggers said bleakly, and even Hastings knew enough to keep quiet. "How long can we hold Brubaker?" Deal asked.

"About five more minutes," Eggers said. "Which is when I expect a report from Identification."

Even before he'd finished speaking, the desk phone buzzed. Eggers picked up the receiver, punched the blinking line button, and as he listened his face glowed and became almost handsome.

"That was I.D.," he said, replacing the receiver. "Brubaker made a mistake. There was a fingerprint on the window frame of Edna Croft's apartment, and it belongs to him. That's enough to get a search warrant for his apartment." He charged into the interrogation room.

Brubaker was standing up, tucking in his shirt.

"Sit back down," Eggers commanded. He informed Brubaker that he was under arrest and began reading him his rights.

Brubaker sat tolerantly until Eggers was finished. He was a pro. He realized he must have dropped a print. "I was in that lady's apartment about a week ago," he said, "to ask if she needed any odd jobs done. She gave me a portable television to fix for her. It's in my apartment now."

"We'll see what she says about that," Eggers told him, "as soon as she regains consciousness."

Brubaker shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance and grinned. "I think I'll make that call to my lawyer."

Sergeant Hall escorted Brubaker to the front desk, where he would be booked and allowed his phone call.

As Deal and Hastings were about to leave Eggers' office, the phone buzzed again. This time Eggers' face changed for the worse as he listened. He aged a decade in the time the receiver went from his ear back to its cradle.

"Edna Croft died ten minutes ago," he said glumly. "Another heatstroke victim." He slammed a meaty fist into his palm. "Now there's no one to refute Brubaker's story, no one to testify against him. There's no way to get a conviction when the victim is dead. Legally, it's almost impossible to prove that a crime has even taken place."

"When are you going to release Brubaker?" Deal asked. "Now," Eggers snapped. "I have to."

W
hen Deal joined Hastings the next evening after muster, Hastings had already vacuumed the patrol car and was standing beside it waiting for him. Deal was tired. The business with Brubaker had disturbed him and he hadn't been able to sleep this morning. He'd spent most of the day downing popcorn and beer and watching a ball game on television. Hastings looked as if he'd spent the entire day getting a facial and having his uniform pressed.

"Let's get going," he said as Deal approached. "We've been given the pleasure of arresting Arnie Brubaker." Deal's eyebrows arched in disbelief. "Says who?"

"Captain Eggers. I talked to him this afternoon at his home."

"You went to Eggers' house when he was off duty and weren't thrown out?" Deal stared incredulously as Hastings nodded.

"We don't have much time," Hastings said, climbing in behind the steering wheel. "The news media have already received anonymous phone calls instructing them what time to be at the precinct house."

"Anonymous phone calls?" Deal said. "How would you know that?"

Hastings started the car and they drove from the garage. "I'll explain it all in good time," he said.

T
hey interrupted Brubaker's late-night snack, which Brubaker angrily pointed out to them as they entered his apartment. Deal gazed at the half eaten burned pizza on the Formica table and didn't see why Brubaker minded being interrupted.

"I thought this burglary charge was all settled," Brubaker said, glancing at a portable TV on the floor in a corner.

"I talked to a social worker who delivered a portable fan to Edna Croft last night," Hastings said. "Edna Croft was a complete invalid. The social worker put her to bed, then stayed to visit with her, watching the
Tonight Show
on the television set you said the deceased gave you last week to repair for her."

Brubaker's pale eyes reflected an uneasy moment, then hardened. "Finish what you came to say. The anchovies on my pizza are getting cold."

"At twelve-twenty A.M. I took a photograph that included Edna Croft's apartment building. She lived in a one-room efficiency. It has only one window. In the photograph, which I had enlarged, that window is open, and you can even see a corner of the portable fan sitting inside it — all exactly the way the social worker says she left things around twelve-thirty. Which means that you had to steal that TV and leave your fingerprint
after
that time, and before Edna Croft was found unconscious."

Brubaker sneered. "So you can place me in the apartment last night. Haven't you heard?" he said. "The old lady died. It's kinda difficult for the prosecutor to make a case when there's no victim around to press charges or testify."

"Murder victims never press charges or testify," Hastings pointed out.

"Murder?" A puzzled wildness entered Brubaker's eyes.

Deal moved between him and the door.

"Edna Croft died of heatstroke," Hastings said. "My photograph shows her window the way the social worker says she left it — open. When Edna Croft was discovered unconscious in that oven of a room, her window was closed. She couldn't have gotten out of bed to close it even if she'd wanted to. You closed it behind you on your way out, which resulted in her death. Causing a death during the commission of a felony is second-degree murder. And that's what I'm placing you under arrest for — murder." He began informing Brubaker of his rights, reciting from memory.

Brubaker bolted for the open window to the fire escape. Deal hit him behind the knees with a shoulder in a perfect flying tackle. Brubaker grunted and dropped hard, his upper body slamming against the window sill. Deal dragged him back to the center of the room and handcuffed him just as Hastings was finishing his recitation.

It was a neatly tied package, Deal thought, lifting Brubaker to his feet. Hastings' photograph and statement would substantiate the social worker's testimony and the stolen television set would be the kind of hard physical evidence a jury couldn't ignore. And it was all possible because Hastings had compared his photograph with the report stating that Edna Croft's window was closed when she was discovered dying.