October's Ghost (26 page)

“Six L Fifty, I am in pursuit,” he said calmly, though the adrenaline was already beginning to flow into his veins in appreciable quantities. A veteran of many pursuits, he never found them enjoyable, a fact directly in opposition to the Hollywood portrayal of them. Get your cameras out, boys, the sergeant thought, wondering just how long this one would last through Tinseltown.

Next to an “Officer needs help” call, a pursuit takes priority. When both happen simultaneously, there is an expected bit of confusion, a situation that is amplified when the proximity of the two is as relatively close as these were.

“All units...”
The dispatcher paused, juggling her multiple major calls.
“All units stand by. Six L Fifty is in pursuit.”

Burns followed the car ahead of him through two hard right turns that had them going north toward Sunset. “Six L Fifty,” he said into the mic, referring to his division (Six), his unit type (L, or Lincoln, a one man car), and his individual unit number (Fifty, an even multiple of ten, which denoted a supervisor), “car is a late-model blue four-door Chevy, now heading north on Gower approaching Sunset. Two male occupants, one possible in the rear. Suspects are armed. License...” The newer white reflectorized California plates made reading at a distance easier. “...Four-Nora-Edward-X Ray-Two-Eight-Three. Now passing Sunset.”

The dispatcher repeated back the information and waited for available units to announce themselves for inclusion in the pursuit The silence surprised her, until she checked her status log.
“Any Hollywood units in the vicinity of Sunset and Gower, Six L Fifty needs a secondary unit for the pursuit of a late-model blue Chevy.”
Still silence. Her blood pressure notched up a bit.
“Air Forty.”

Miles from the pursuit, hovering over the deteriorating situation at Echo Park, the helicopter heard the call. “Air Forty.”

“Air Forty, Six L Fifty is in pursuit, north on Gower past Sunset. Can you intercept?”

“Negative, we have continuing shots fired and multiple suspects.”

“Air Twenty,” the call came into dispatch from another helicopter that had picked up the pursuit call and was heading north from the South Bureau at top speed. “We’ll take it. ETA five minutes.”

“Roger, Air Twenty. Six L Fifty, your location?”

Burns was glad he had put his seatbelt on. This guy was driving as though he
really
didn’t want to get caught. “Gower at Franklin, going...going west on Franklin.”

The dispatcher checked her status log again.
“Fifteen Adam Seven,”
she said, calling a clear North Hollywood two-man unit.
“Six L Fifty is in pursuit—can you respond as secondary unit? Location is westbound Franklin from Gower.”

“Roger. ETA is six or seven.”

There were now two additional units closing on the pursuit as the backup dispatcher entered the license number into the computer. The result of that would bring another welcome member to the chase. Another unwelcome one would, unfortunately, join in at the same time.

*  *  *

The bright white-and-blue Bell Jet Ranger lifted off from Hollywood-Burbank Airport just as the first “Officer needs help” call went out. Like all local television stations, KNTV Channel 3 monitored police broadcasts to find juicy bits of human drama that its viewers could eat up. Also like other local stations, KNTV had discovered that the helicopter was the perfect platform from which to get fast-breaking news events from the street to the viewer. To this end it had taken the very expensive step of purchasing its own helicopter outright, giving the station round-the-clock access to airborne pictures. In a business where budgets were tight, and where most stations simply leased the use of helicopters from respected aviation companies, KNTV had again lived up to its claim that it would do anything for the story and would pay the price that an aggressive TV news organization had to.

The news director had no sooner come to the monitor room where reports from Echo Park were coming in when the first call on the pursuit caught his attention. “Where’s the chopper?” he asked the control room.

“Coming south from Silverlake. LAPD has a bird up there, so he has to approach from due north.”

Damn the stupid regulations, the news director thought. For safety’s sake the LAPD had persuaded the FAA to issue stringent guidelines regarding aircraft separation at crime scenes, relegating the news choppers to higher altitudes. Some stations had just gone to more powerful, much steadier cameras that could get better pictures from a thousand feet than they could previously from three hundred. That sort of gear was expensive, however, and KNTV had spent its money on the chopper, postponing the inevitable upgrade of its standard camera setup.

“Any LAPD over the pursuit yet?”

“Not yet.”

The news director checked the clock. It was just a few minutes to the start of the eleven o’clock news. If he could get their chopper over the pursuit for a dramatic lead-in, it could take a bite out of the competition’s ratings for the important 11:00 P.M. broadcast.

“Send the chopper to the pursuit.” It was a smart decision, he knew. High-speed chases got ratings almost as good as airplane crashes.

*  *  *

“Left...south on Highland!” Burns said loudly, the wailing of the siren transmitted to dispatch as background noise. The pursuit thus far had reached speeds of seventy miles per hour, fast enough for the streets of Hollywood. As a supervisor, he had the authority to continue or end a pursuit based upon conditions such as traffic and danger to civilians. Another factor was what the suspects were wanted for. The sergeant, having seen the way the gun was being wielded, had formed an opinion that there might be someone in the back of the car who was an unwilling passenger.

And that had sealed it. Kidnapping, or suspected kidnapping, was a crime that deserved no slack. This chase was on for the duration.

“West on Hollywood!”

*  *  *

Art and Frankie were three blocks from Freddy’s when the radio call came.

“King Eight.”
It was the office’s communication center.

Frankie snatched up the mic. “King Eight.”

“LAPD reports they are in pursuit of blue late-model Chevy. License Four-Nora-Edward-X Ray-Two-Eight-Three. It’s your warrant suspects. Presently westbound Hollywood Boulevard from Highland. Three occupants in vehicle.”

“Three?” Frankie said to her partner.

Art stepped on the gas and activated the Chevy’s blue and red grill lights and the under-hood siren. “Idiot!”

“King Eight, we’re on it.” Frankie slipped the mic back into its holder. She also surreptitiously undid the top strap on her holster.
Get there, Art. Get there.

*  *  *

George Sullivan knew he was going to die. He was certain of it. These were the guys. They had killed Portero. Now they were going to kill him.
Please, God
.

The man hovering over him kept the gun jabbed hard into his face while he watched out the back window. Sullivan could do nothing. His body was wedged between the front and back seats, his upper body twisted painfully rearward. Only his eyes could move, and they could do little to stop what was certain to happen. He’d already searched the area he could see, but there was nothing. If there had been, what could he do? Fight the guys off?

Guys with guns! Not likely. All there was within reach was a set of keys in the coin tray between the front seats. Not much.

But it’s something, you wimp!
George reached gingerly with his left hand and picked up the keys, actually just one large key on an equally large keytab. He gripped it tight in his hand, swearing to himself that if the guy even twitched on the trigger, he was going to jam the key home into his killer’s eye.
I’m dead, you’re blind
, he thought, feeling quite brave but having no idea why.

*  *  *

“South La Brea! Where’s the air unit?”

“Air Twenty. “

“Air Twenty, we’re a minute out.” The observer in the helicopter saw the flashing lights of the patrol car, and, quite a ways off, the lights of the North Hollywood unit racing to join the chase. “Six L Fifty, we’ve got you on visual.”

The pilot was going too fast. The pursuit was going to pass below them soon, so he started a turn to the left to set up on a following course. In the process he gained a hundred feet of altitude in a planned ascent.

*  *  *

“There!” Frankie yelled, pointing directly to their front through the windshield.

Art saw the pursuit pass from right to left a block from them, heading south on La Brea and passing Sunset. He slowed at the intersection, a red light causing him to interject caution when he wanted to drive like a bat out of hell.

“Clear!” Frankie said, her eyes sweeping traffic from the right. Lights and sirens weren’t some impenetrable shield.

Art floored it through the light, turning tight onto La Brea. Two blocks down he could see the pursuit passing Fountain. What he saw next was in the sky.

*  *  *

The KNTV chopper pilot was eyeballing the pursuit from a thousand feet, approaching it from the east. His cameraman was on the right side, and he knew he’d have to clear that side for a good shot. Plus, he’d have to get lower. He started the diving left turn and checked his airspace for any...
SHIT!!!!

*  *  *

Air Twenty’s pilot, a veteran of the U.S. Army who had flown combat missions in Grenada, never saw what hit him. The KNTV chopper, traveling at 110 miles per hour, hit the LAPD helicopter from above and behind, disabling the tail rotor. That damage mattered not at all a split second later as Air Twenty’s main rotor sliced into the news chopper’s fuselage, killing both occupants instantly and turning the Bell Jet Ranger into a tumbling ball of fire that fell toward the earth.

Air Twenty’s crew didn’t suffer such a merciful death. They both were conscious as their million-dollar aircraft spun out of control and impacted in the center of La Brea, a block behind Six L Fifty, and exploded into a cloud of black and orange.

*  *  *

Burns saw the flash in his rearview, and it drew his attention long enough that he missed what was happening to his front until it was too late.

*  *  *

Tomás knew the light was red but had no choice. He kept on going, accelerating even, and didn’t see the compact car come through the intersection from his left. He clipped the back end, sending the smaller car spinning and a car following it crashing into its rear. The Lumina spun also, its rear end impacting a set of parked cars on the east side of La Brea and throwing Jorge to the left onto Tomás.

George felt the hit but didn’t know what had happened. Just a bright flash and the crashing of metal. It was his chance, maybe his last one. He pulled the latch on the right rear passenger door and rolled into the street, his survival instinct propelling his legs faster than he’d run in years east on Santa Monica Boulevard. A few seconds later he was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Sergeant Burns saw the crash ahead too late to brake and maneuver around the second car. He hit it almost broadside, pushing it into the light pole at the southwest corner of La Brea and Santa Monica. He could see the suspect car a hundred feet down on La Brea and someone rolling out of the backseat, but couldn’t get out of his patrol car to do anything about it. Looking down, he saw the telltale signs of a compound fracture of his right femur, the bright white bone protruding grotesquely through his dark blue uniform pants.

He reached for the microphone just as the blue Chevy started to move again. “Six L Fifty. TC at Santa Monica and La Brea. Officer down.” He glanced into his side mirror and started to cry, but not from the pain. “Air Twenty is down. Jesus.”

*  *  *

Tomás got the Lumina moving again, his head searching for other cops as Jorge reached back for Su—

“He’s gone! Dammit!” He raised his head, feeling a sharp soreness in the back of his neck, and looked out the...open door.
Fuck!
He moved as much as he could as the vehicle’s motion closed the rear door, his eyes sweeping the area. Nothing. Sullivan was nowhere.

“What now?” Tomás yelled, blood spattering from a cut in his mouth as he talked.

“Get us out of here. Fast!”

*  *  *

Art laid down over a hundred feet of skid marks, the Chevy coming to a stop fifty feet from the inferno that had fallen from the sky. A second glowing column of smoke was rising into the dark sky about a block to the east. He threw the car into reverse as soon as it stopped and backed another hundred feet away, blocking traffic coming south on La Brea. The relay that the pursuing LAPD car had crashed came a second later.

“Call it in,” Art directed. He stepped from the car, the heat from the blaze half a football field away causing his cheeks to flush. He slammed the door and went to the trunk, pulling flares out and setting a barrier of small, bright fires across the wide boulevard.

Frankie reported to the communications center that which she was certain LAPD already knew of.
More death. Dead cops
. She got out of the car and walked a few yards toward the hot wall of orange that completely blocked La Brea. Her right hand came up and snapped the thumb-break strap shut.
They’re on the other side of that. Just through the fire.

Art saw his partner standing alone fifty feet away, just staring into the flames. She was statue-like, unfazed by the heat or the thought of what had...
Of course
.

“Frankie,” Art said as he walked up from behind. “Frankie.”

A portion of the white-and-blue tail of the helicopter was protruding from the inferno, but it was soon consumed, changing from a once-beautiful craft to a blackened hunk of metal.
Changed
. Frankie watched it, her partner’s words eliciting no immediate response.

“You okay?”

Frankie turned around, facing her partner as the pulsating blaze silhouetted her from behind. “Fine.”

Art watched her walk past toward the car, knowing a lie when he heard it.