Black Night Falling (24 page)

He whipped back to Tindall. Before he could resume his attack, a gunshot rang out, and then another. Blood sprayed from the side of Layfield’s face, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his cheek. Then he pitched over onto his face.

A red light danced around the parking lot, and I heard a screaming noise. I thought it was coming from Layfield. The shooter on the pathway outside the room staggered past a little distance from where I lay, his eyes on something across the lot. He was dragging his left leg, the barrel of his gun still smoking from the shot that felled Layfield. He opened the back door of Tindall’s car and started to heft him to it. Tindall’s face was a mess of blood, his eyes shining out from it like wet stones. His gaze was empty, but as the heavy dragged him to the car, Tindall reached out his hand and his fingertips brushed against Layfield’s head.

Through my daze, I realised the screaming was a siren, and the red lights were everywhere now, encircling me. Tindall’s man slammed the rear door shut and dived behind the steering wheel. I battled to get to my feet and threw myself against the car. I clawed at the door handle as the driver gunned the engine. It came open, but the man stamped on the accelerator and took off, the door swinging on its hinges.

I chased after them, yelling for Lizzie.

I heard cars skidding to a halt and doors being thrown open. I kept going, tripping and lurching, my brittle legs failing me, the back lights of Tindall’s car all I could see. I sensed someone on my tail – their footfalls, hard breathing. Then I was tackled from behind, brought down in a tangle of arms and legs. A voice shouted at me to be still, but I lifted my head in time to see two police cruisers pull up in front of Tindall’s car, penning it in. The driver jumped out and was felled with the crack of a shotgun.

I felt a hand on the back of my neck, forcing my face into the ground. I turned my head to ease the pressure, saw the night awash with red. The edge of my vision went dark. Before I blacked out, I heard Sam Masters somewhere near me, breathless, barking an order: ‘Go easy on him.’

I came round in a hospital bed and immediately thought I was back in Lennox Hill, the hospital where I’d spent six months after the car wreck that’d shattered my legs. Strange how that place that held only bad memories now served as the closest thing to a safe haven my brain could dredge up. It was only when the fog lifted some that I realised the surroundings were foreign to me.

I was alone in an empty ward, three beds made up with stiff white sheets along the wall opposite, and one either side of me. I could smell starch and sweat, and my head was splitting.

Then it all came back. Lizzie—

I went to get up, but as I moved, a handcuff chained to the bed rail bit into my wrist. I rattled it and tried to call out, but my voice was hoarse and weak.

A police officer in a uniform I didn’t recognise appeared at the end of the room and made his way towards me, but a nurse overtook him. She rushed to my bedside and put her hand on my arm. ‘Try to be calm, Mr Yates. You’re quite unwell.’

‘My wife— I need to get to a telephone . . .’

The cop stationed himself at the end of my bed, hands on hips. I saw the badge on his shirt, made him as Arkansas State Police. ‘I’ll notify the prosecuting attorney that you’re awake.’

‘Please. I need to make a call . . .’

‘Mr Masters will be along in good time.’ He marched back the way he’d come.

The nurse fussed with my pillows. My mouth was drier than desert sand, and I thought I could taste smoke. I realised that it was light outside. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Twelve hours or so. They brought you in last night. Doctor says you’ve suffered the effects of smoke inhalation, and he suspects you suffered a serious concussion. Does your head hurt?’

I mouthed an affirmative.

‘It’s to be expected. Doctor may be able to give you something for the pain. Are you experiencing shortness of breath?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded as if she assumed as much. ‘Can you tell me what year this is?’

‘Nineteen forty-six.’

‘And the name of the president?’

‘Truman.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I need a telephone. Please, my wife—’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have the authority for that.’ She turned to go. ‘I’ll be back with the doctor. Try to rest.’

I yanked at the cuffs again, rattling them, barely the strength to do it. The effort left me gassed, and I slumped against the bed, wondering if Lizzie was already dead.

When I opened my eyes again, Samuel Masters was standing over me, calling my name. The state trooper was next to him.

‘I need to get to a telephone—’

‘Your wife is safe.’

The words sounded sinister coming from his mouth – a matter he should have no knowledge of. A terror gripped me, the thought that he was involved in taking her somehow. Misplaced trust—

‘Your boss contacted me – Mr Acheson. Your wife’s with him.’

I searched his face, muddled, not sure whether to believe him.

‘Did you hear what I said? I said your wife is safe and—’

‘I heard you.’ The explanation came back to me then – telling Acheson to leave word with Masters if he had news on Lizzie. I closed my eyes and relief flooded through me. ‘I heard you. What happened to her?’

‘I don’t have the details. I’ll see to it you get to speak with her.’

‘When?’

‘Let me see what I can arrange.’ He wiped a line of sweat from his top lip and took his hat off. ‘Quite the evening you had last night. My men found Cole Barrett’s LaSalle and the gun in the glove box. It’s being sent to Little Rock for testing. Is it Layfield’s like you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s see if the analysis tells the same story you do. Officially you’re still the prime suspect in the murders of Barrett, and Clay and Leland Tucker.’

‘Then why haven’t you had me charged yet?’

He tapped the cuff with the brim of his hat. ‘I’m confident you’re not going anywhere.’

‘You know it wasn’t me.’

He let out a breath. ‘After what I saw last night, let’s say I’m keeping an open mind. I want to get a formal statement on the record as soon as possible – not least because I want to know just what the hell is going on.’

I closed my eyes, seeing Tindall’s face after Layfield had pulped it. ‘Did you get Tindall?’

‘William Tindall is dead. He suffered a gunshot wound and massive head trauma. He died at the scene.’

The words didn’t move me at all – no sense of vengeance, just emptiness; another body strewn on the trail I’d been damned to walk. ‘Did you know about him?’ I said.

‘Know what?’

‘That he and Coughlin were in cahoots?’

‘I don’t recognise that description of the situation.’ He looked to the side a moment, thinking, then back at me. ‘Off the record, I was aware he was tangential to Coughlin’s activities – but given my enquiries into those activities are ongoing, that’s as much as I’m willing to say right now.’

A politician’s answer. The thought crossed my mind that he’d ignored Tindall because he didn’t hold an elected office he could make a play for. At another time it might have got my blood up, but lying in that bed, I couldn’t summon the interest to care. If the worst of Masters’ character was his too-ferocious desire for political power, he was still a better man than those he was trying to oust. ‘I’m willing to testify against Coughlin.’

He nodded, a thin smile on his lips, but he held up his hand. ‘Well, that’s music to my ears, but don’t say anything more for now – I don’t want to leave myself open to accusations of prejudicing your testimony.’

I understood why he’d brought the trooper with him, then – a witness. Always cautious.

I touched my face, my left cheekbone tender from Layfield’s punch. ‘How did you find me last night?’

‘An anonymous tip.’

I drew a blank at hearing it. ‘Seems to happen a lot around here.’

‘Man called in to say you were hiding out at the Viceroy and that a posse was on its way to punch your ticket. That’s why I brought in the state police – had a feeling any Hot Springs cop would happily see you wear one because of what happened to Barrett.’

I gave a slight nod in appreciation – as much as I could manage.

‘The doctor says you need some rest before we can get down to business, so I’ll take my leave for a few hours. Do you want to avail yourself of an attorney?’

‘I don’t need an attorney. I need a telephone.’

He put his hat back on and tipped it as he left.

Masters was good to his word. Ten minutes after he went, the trooper appeared with a nurse pushing an empty wheelchair. He unlocked the cuff from the bed rail and motioned for me to climb in.

‘I’ll walk.’

‘Suit yourself.’ He snapped the cuff around his own wrist, chaining us together. Then he led me to an administration office outside the ward and pointed to the telephone. ‘Your wife’s on the line.’

I snatched up the receiver. ‘Lizzie?’

‘Charlie – Charlie, are you all right?’

‘Where are you? Are you safe?’

‘I’m at the
Journal
, Mr Acheson came to collect me himself.’

‘What happened? What did they do to you?’

‘They tried to take me.’ There were tears on the edge of her voice. ‘Two men, they were waiting to take me right off the street.’

I blinked and my vision was straight red. ‘Tried? What do you mean—’

‘I saw them. I’d seen them before and I put it together. It was just like Texarkana. When they were waiting for you outside the house.’

‘Slow down, what do you mean you saw them? Who?’

She stole a breath. ‘The day before last, I saw a car outside the
Journal
offices, and I had a feeling then. It was parked down at the corner of the block, but there was two of them in there, I saw them look at me then turn away. They all have that same type of face, they all . . .’ She sounded in shock.

‘Take your time.’

‘When I was home yesterday morning, I kept checking the street outside the apartment, trying to think what I should do, even though I couldn’t see any sign of them. I thought— I thought I was being paranoid, but I’d been looking into it like you said; I’d put it together. Then when I came back from the grocery store last night, they were there, right across the street. There was only one of them in the car. I looked out and I couldn’t see the other one. I slowed up because I just wanted to scream. And then I saw him, in the rearview, walking right towards me. Coming up on the driver’s side. I knew what was happening. I knew exactly what that . . .’ She swallowed quietly. ‘I was shaking. I stamped on the accelerator— I ran the stop sign at the end of the block. I looked back once and saw them, standing there, just watching me go. Calm. As if they could come again anytime they wanted.

‘After that I just drove. I didn’t stop until I was out of the city and then I kept going – like you would. I took a room in a motel in Oxnard and just locked myself in there until I could get my wits about me. I didn’t know who to call or where you were or how to contact you so I just waited there, climbing the damn walls trying to work out what to do.’

‘They told me they had you. I went after the men—’

‘Tindall. It was Tindall told you that, wasn’t it?’

I was stunned into silence a moment, wondering just what I’d done to my wife. ‘How did you know that? What did you mean you put it together?’

‘Sal put me on to a man he knows at the
LA Sentinel
, Mr Booth. Sal said he was an old-timer from the New York papers who’d be able to better fill me in on Tindall from way back.’

I knew the name, not the man.

‘I contacted him about Tindall and he didn’t think he had anything helpful to say, so he started telling me about all the criminal figures in Los Angeles that have connections to Tindall going back to their time in New York. I didn’t recognise most of the names, but I knew Mickey Cohen, from the papers, and Benjamin Siegel. I remembered Mr Acheson saying your story had to do with Siegel making regular visits to Hot Springs and I knew then it had to be more than a coincidence. Mr Booth said they were in the same gang in New York. It had to be that he was going there to see Tindall.’

The name I’d dropped so casually to Acheson came back to haunt me now: Benjamin ‘Bugsy’ Siegel. His link to Hot Springs was the blaring warning sign I’d missed. He was the story all along.

‘And then I thought about the burglary, and the timing of it and the fact you were out there and I just had this feeling it was all linked. It’s what you always say about coincidences. I wanted to tell you what I’d learned and see what you thought, but I had no way to contact you. I tried to leave a message at the motel you were in before but they said you’d disappeared, and then I got really scared. Then when I saw that car waiting outside . . .’

She sounded exhausted and I wondered when she’d last slept without fear. ‘It’s done now. Tindall is dead.’

The line crackled. Then she said, ‘Was it you?’

‘No.’

‘What happened?’

‘When I get back. There are things I need to tell you, but when I see you. I’ll be back as soon as they let me go.’

‘Let you go? Where are you?’

‘I’m fine. I found the man who killed those brothers. I can clear everything up now, I just need to tell what I know to the authorities. Have you somewhere safe to stay?’

‘Mr Acheson insisted I stay with them. He’s been a wonder.’

‘Good. Look after yourself. I’ll be there soon.’

When they took me back to my bed, an orderly had left a pitcher of water and a glass on my table. I picked it up to pour with my free hand, the movement made awkward by the cuffs, and realised there was an unmarked envelope leaning against it. I looked around, a sense of unease descending over me. There was no one else on the ward.

I held the envelope with my teeth and tore it open. There was a typed note inside:

It was unsigned, but the threat implied in the language meant it could only be from Coughlin. I read it again, then resisted the urge to tear it apart, instead folding it and stashing it under my pillow.

His meaning was obvious – say goose egg about him to Sam Masters. The rage came over me, and it was all I could do not to topple the bedside table to the floor. I tried to control it. I wondered if Coughlin had the juice to get to Lizzie in California – or if that connection died with Tindall. It felt like a roll of the dice by a man who knew his time was running short – but then I remembered Masters cautioning me about Coughlin’s desperation making him dangerous. I figured Lizzie was safe for now as long as she was with Acheson.

I yelled the hospital down demanding they get Masters back so I could start talking, but the doctor insisted I take some rest first. As I waited for him, I thought about Harlan Layfield and how I’d had the chance to stop him back in Texarkana. I’d walked away from the murders there thinking I’d done enough by stopping Callaway and the rest of them – but if I’d have stayed on, seen everyone involved brought to justice, then the three women would still be alive. Same for Robinson.

The guilt was bad, and it came with a chaser. When I finished raking through everything, I couldn’t get away from the fact that Layfield had saved my life when he shot that gunman in the window. The shooter was inches from my head; there was no way he would have missed. Layfield’s motivation might have been selfish – I was just a warm body with a gun who happened to be backed into the same corner he was – but that didn’t change the fact I wouldn’t be alive save for him. My heart still beating only on his intervention. It felt like a taint on my soul.

The doctors discharged me after twenty-four hours, under heavy pressure from Masters. He had me moved to the state police lockup in Malvern, saying he couldn’t guarantee my safety if we stayed in Hot Springs. He kept me there for two days of solid questioning. A murder detective from the Little Rock division was brought in to conduct the interrogation, but Masters was present throughout, and it was clear who was running the show.

I talked for hours – my version of the truth, Texarkana and up. I laid bare everything I knew Layfield to have done, the murders he committed and his connections to Tindall and Coughlin. Then I started lying.

I omitted the fact I was present in Winfield Callaway’s house the night he and all the others died, and hoped like hell the truth went to the grave with Layfield. Turned out I could relax on that score because Masters had little interest in matters prior to Hot Springs – anything that wouldn’t lead directly to Coughlin. But the flip side of that coin landed when he started asking about why I’d ditched out on the meet we’d arranged to hand over Layfield’s gun to him. It got hairy, trying to keep my story straight, convincing, but I brazened it out, admitting I’d met with Coughlin at his house, but making no mention of the gun I’d used to persuade him out there.

Masters looked doubtful throughout, especially when I got to the part about Layfield shooting Coughlin, giving me a chance to escape. ‘Then how come I haven’t heard anything to that effect?’

The answer came the next morning when stories emerged of Teddy Coughlin being wounded in the process of foiling a robbery at his home. The
Recorder
splashed on it, carrying a picture of a defiant Coughlin with his arm in a sling, his trademark carnation pinned to it. According to the account, Coughlin had made an unscheduled return to his house having skipped a dinner engagement due to feeling unwell. Upon entering, he disturbed a masked intruder who was in the throes of ransacking his study. Coughlin was shot in the arm as he beat a retreat from the room, sustaining a serious, but non-life-threatening injury. It went on to state that, despite his wounds, Coughlin had made it to the gun safe he kept in his bedroom, armed himself, and proceeded to drive the assailant from his property. The article painted Coughlin as a hero, and the hack who wrote it speculated he’d see a surge in his electoral support as a result.

As the interviews with Masters dragged on, and the questions repeated, his initial optimism faded and his mood darkened. The truth was I had no hard evidence against Coughlin. I showed him the note I’d been sent at the hospital, and he was in agreement with me about who’d penned it – but it counted for nothing because it was clear that Masters’ best shot at implicating Coughlin for his crimes had died with Cole Barrett.