Blink of an Eye – Chapter 37
The tall stranger stiffened and gasped, raising his hands slightly, when he felt the cold steel pressing against the back of his neck and heard the whispered command not to move.
Taking his right hand off the .38, Steve did a quick patdown, slightly hampered by the cast but good enough to satisfy himself that the man wasn't concealing. Finished, and now convinced he had the man's full attention and cooperation, Steve took a step back. "On your knees and put your hands behind your head," he growled sotto voce.
Moving slowly and carefully and without a word, the stranger lowered himself to the sidewalk, putting whatever was in his right hand down onto the concrete with a small clink before interlocking his fingers behind his head.
His gun still pointed at the interloper's head, Steve slowly circled the now kneeling man, glancing quickly to the sidewalk at his side. A black and silver 35mm camera was lying on its back, streetlight glinting off the uncovered lens.
The dark-haired stranger was watching the cop with what looked like barely-concealed amusement. "As you can see, Officer –"
"Detective," Steve corrected automatically.
"Detective," the man continued after a telling hesitation, "I'm not armed and I'm not a threat."
"Who are you?" Steve's eyes flicked towards the apartment building behind him, straining to hear if anything untoward was going on. He also wanted to get himself and whoever this was off the sidewalk as soon as possible so they weren't seen, if it wasn't too late already.
The kneeling man snorted and dropped his head slightly. "My wallet's in my inside pocket." He made no move to take it out or provide his name.
After a brief stand-off, and suppressing a snort, Steve raised his right hand and glared at it pointedly. The stranger looked at the cast and, swallowing a smile and a chuckle, said with a smirk, "That's okay, I'll get it out." He started to lower his hands then froze, looking at the cop with raised eyebrows. "May I?"
Receiving a glower and a nod, he reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out a fairly thick black wallet stuffed with what looked like receipts, opened it and held it out for the cop to see.
On one side was a driver's license with a photo and on the other, a press pass. Steve closed his eyes and sighed, then leaned in a get a better look at the name on the license. "All right, Michael Mitchell, get up," he growled, lowering the .38 and transferring it to the fingers of his right hand so he could put it back into the holster on his left hip.
With a low chuckle, Mitchell put the wallet back in his pocket before picking up the camera and getting to his feet. "So, ah, so can I go?" he asked calmly and quietly, gesturing down the street with his free hand.
Steve's brow furrowed. "No," he stated emphatically and perhaps a little louder than he wished. He glanced guiltily over his shoulder at the apartment building.
The tone remained unruffled. "You have no right to detain me, you know -?"
"I know that," Steve interrupted quickly. "But I want to know how you found out about this and what it is you actually know."
Chuckling quietly and with a surprisingly amiable tone, Mitchell shook his head, "You know I don't have to –"
"I know you don't have to," Steve interrupted again with another furtive glance over his shoulder. He wanted to get them both off the sidewalk as fast as possible. "Look, I'll make you a deal: come back to my car with me, and we'll… talk. And if I get an answer from you that I like, I'll make sure you get the exclusive to what's really going down here tonight."
Mitchell, who had continued to look at him with charmed disbelief, pulled his head back slightly and frowned. "What do you mean, 'what's really going down here tonight'?"
"Look, I don't have time to explain it right now," Steve said quickly with another look at the apartment. "If you don't come with me this second, I swear I'll arrest you for impeding a police investigation. Do you get my drift?"
"All right, all right," Mitchell conceded genially as Steve grabbed his elbow, spun him around and began to lead him back towards the way they had just come.
"So what… news outlet… do you work for?" Steve tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice when they had turned the corner and were out of eyeshot of the apartment building.
With a low chuckle, Mitchell glanced at him sideways and grinned. "You always this pleasant and accommodating with the fourth estate?"
Steve couldn't suppress an acerbic laugh. "Yeah, the fourth estate… don't hold yourself in such high esteem. It's guys like you and Jack Leist that give real journalists a bad name."
"Jack Leist?!" Mitchell sounded appalled and affronted. "Dear god, please don't lump me in with that muckraker… He even gives hacks a bad name." When he heard the sharp, begrudging chuckle from the young cop, he grinned again.
They had reached the car and Steve opened the back door. Mitchell looked at him, slipped the camera around his neck then reached into his right side pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. He held them towards Steve, who met his eyes evenly then nodded and slammed the door closed. With a quick smile, Mitchell tapped a cigarette out of the pack and offered it to the cop, who took it without a word and put it in his mouth. Mitchell did the same then lit them both before putting the pack and lighter back in his pocket.
Mitchell inhaled deeply then blew the smoke out in a steady stream. "Believe it or not… Detective…?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Inspector Keller, Homicide," Steve stated flatly, leaning against the car and taking a drag.
Mitchell raised his eyebrows with a facial shrug. "Homicide…? Humh… Ah, anyway, Inspector Keller, I actually work for the Chronicle. Freelance. I used to be on staff but there have been cutbacks lately and a lot of us found ourselves out on the street. Welcome to the '70's, right?" he said dryly with a shrug.
"So how did you end up following us here tonight?" Steve asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette onto the sidewalk. When Mitchell eyed him questioningly, he smiled and shrugged. "I saw your car."
Mitchell growled. "I gotta start getting better at that," he chuckled with a smile. "A bunch of us freelancers hang around the Utah…" He raised his eyebrows and Steve nodded; he'd heard of the Hotel Utah Saloon but had never been there. "Leist is there a lot, of course. And once he gets a couple a drinks in him, his mouth gets a little, ah… lubricated, I guess you could say, and he sometimes lets things slip. He's still a sharp cookie, don't get me wrong, but if you know just the right questions to ask him at just the right time, well… let's just say he let slip about Alfred Russell and his not so pristine background."
How the hell did Leist know about that? Steve thought to himself, frowning. Mitchell picked up on the look.
"Hey, I have no idea how he found out what he knew, I just heard that all was not what it seemed."
"Did anyone else know about this?"
Mitchell shook his head with a shrug. "I don't think so but I'm not sure. Anyway, through sources I am not about to disclose," he stared at the cop with raised eyebrows and Steve bobbled his head in reluctant compliance, "I, ah, found out about the arrests of Russell and his buddy Young today and… on a hunch, I guess you could call it… figured out that maybe those weren't the end of the arrests.
"And I knew you were somehow involved," he grinned calculatingly and Steve realized that Mitchell had known who he was all along, "because of the accident and the lawsuits and all that… so I just hung around the Hall tonight and followed you when you left… And here we are!" Mitchell finished with a flourish, arms outstretched.
Steve knew he wasn't being told everything, that Mitchell's explanation had huge holes. "That doesn't account for –"
The walkie-talkie on the front seat crackled. "Steve!"
He reached in through the driver's window and picked it up. "Yeah?"
"Got him."
"Okay, I'll be right there." He looked at Mitchell, who had dug out his wallet and was taking a business card from the billfold.
Handing Steve the card, he winked. "Give me a call when you have the chance." Snapping the wallet closed, he turned abruptly and started down the street in the direction of his car. He started to whistle.
"Mitchell!" Steve yelled after him.
The reporter looked over his shoulder with a grin. "Call me Mike!" he yelled with a laugh.
"Never!" Steve roared, frustrated that his questions wouldn't be answered and that he had no legitimate reason to detain Mitchell any longer. As the writer disappeared into the dark night, still whistling, Steve tossed the cigarette into the gutter and got into the car, growling to himself.
# # # # #
"Listen, Baker's not going to get a PD in here until late morning at the earliest and he or she will want to go over the charges and all that before they'll let us talk to him so why don't you guys take the morning and go home and get some sleep. I'll give you a call and let you know when we can get Baker for questioning."
By the time they had arrived back at the Hall with a submissive Baker cuffed between the two PC cops in the back of the Galaxie and finished the booking and paperwork, the sun was beginning to come up. And no one was able to stifle their yawns anymore.
"What about you, Sarge?" Franklin asked with a smile.
"Ah, the privileges of rank," Whiting chuckled, "but don't worry about me, I perfected sleeping in my chair years ago. I'll catch some winks at some point and then when you guys come back in, I'm outa here!"
Steve stretched and got to his feet. "That sounds like a plan to me. Thanks. I want to get Mike caught up too; he'll be really happy to hear we finally got Baker off the streets." With a satisfied grin, he turned to Franklin. "Larry, can I drop you anywhere?"
# # # # #
The room was bright with the sunshine streaming in around the curtains by the time he opened his eyes and looked at the clock/radio: 11:12. He blew out a breath in frustration; he'd hoped to sleep longer but would take what he could. He pulled the phone onto the bed and dialed a number he had long since committed to memory. After almost ten rings, he dropped the receiver back down onto the cradle and frowned. Where the hell was Mike?
He got up and padded into the bathroom in his pajama bottoms, then threw on a robe and went downstairs. He filled the percolator and plugged it in then went to the front door for the morning paper.
Finding it hard to concentrate, his eyes just skipped over the headlines. He worked his way quickly through the entire paper and was just about to toss it aside when he had a thought. He opened it again, quickly finding what he was looking for, and his eyes scanned the page.
With a grim but affectionate smile, he sat back and shook his head. Then he bolted to his feet and raced upstairs. Twenty minutes later, showered, shaved and dressed, he was in the Porsche, heading south and out of town.