While Garabaldi recited the Miranda Warning and Evans finished snapping the cuffs into place, Mike and Steve slowly approached the small tableau. Lonsdale was looking down. "What are you arresting me for?!" he growled when Garabaldi asked if he understood his rights.
"Do you understand your rights?" the L.A. detective repeated patiently.
"Yeah, yeah. But what the hell am I being arrested for?" He was still looking down, refusing to meet their eyes.
Evans grabbed a handful of the salt-and-pepper hair and pulled his head up so he was looking straight at the two San Francisco detectives now standing directly in front of him. Lonsdale's haunting and unmistakable grey eyes widened in recognition then narrowed in confusion.
Steve smiled coldly. "Remember me, Danny? Steve Keller? I was the guy you told about that great Filipino restaurant." He had taken his badge out of his pocket and was holding it up. Lonsdale's eyes snapped to the very distinctive SFPD star and all colour drained from his face.
Continuing to stare silently, Mike took a step closer, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. Lonsdale swallowed noticeably. The tall detective stared down at the now sweating younger man in silence; Steve tensed slightly and every eye on the small front lawn was riveted on the bearded cop and the handcuffed fugitive. "My name is Stone, Lieutenant Mike Stone. You probably don't remember me, but I was in that courtroom way back in 1949 when you were arraigned for the murder of Brigitte Larson." His voice was low and frighteningly calm; Lonsdale stiffened. A sound very much like a whimper escaped his lips and he started to visibly shake.
"So now do you know why you're being arrested?" Mike asked quietly and Steve could see his partner trying to keep his mounting anger under control. Lonsdale blinked but didn't say a word. Mike took a deep, satisfying breath and let it out slowly. "Because we know who you are, Jeffrey Lonsdale… and we're bringing you back to San Francisco."
His chest heaving, Lonsdale stared at the obviously furious older man. Evans, his eyes bouncing back and forth between them, took a step closer to Lonsdale and reached down to grab his elbow. "On your feet," he growled and the handcuffed man, still staring at his accuser with a strange mixture of defiance and fear, stumbled to his feet.
Propelling Lonsdale towards his car, Evans called over his shoulder, "We'll meet you guys back downtown."
Before starting to follow, Garabaldi looked at Mike and smiled. "I was wondering why you hadn't shaved your beard off yet, like you said you were going to. You wanted to make sure he recognized you from the bar, didn't you?"
Allowing himself a small smile, Mike rubbed his hairy chin with his right hand. "Well, that… and I'm kinda getting used to it too."
Laughing, Garabaldi crossed the small lawn to his car and got in behind the wheel. Evans and Lonsdale were already in the back seat. Mike turned to his partner, who was staring at him with a gentle smirk.
"You're getting used to it… right…" Steve chuckled as he started back up the street towards the sedan.
"What?" Mike almost whined as he started to follow. "I think it looks kind of distinguished… don't you…?"
The younger man looked over his shoulder and laughed. "Yeah, wait till Rudy sees it."
"Hunh," Mike snorted to himself, "Rudy's not going to see it, don't worry." He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the unmarked car driving away. He exhaled loudly and closed his eyes; his heart was still pounding. We got him…
# # # # # #
Wrinkling his nose, Steve looked up, sniffing the air. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked and Garabaldi lifted his head from the papers in his hand, inhaled deeply, and nodded. They were standing in the lobby at Parker Center.
"Oh, yeah, those summer fires we're so famous for down here. One of them started overnight, just north of the Valley near Santa Clarita. The winds are whipping it around up there so they might be closing the highway…" He stopped as the realization hit him. "Oh geez, let me check on that. If they've closed the 5, you guys will have to go another way."
He stepped behind the lobby desk, nodding at the sergeant manning the post, and picked up the phone, dialing a few numbers. "Ah, yeah, yeah, Sergeant Daley please?... Thank you." He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Highway Patrol. They'll know what's what and the best way to go." He removed his hand. "Yeah, Paul, it's Phil over in Homicide… Yeah, great, just great. Listen…"
Steve watched as Garabaldi explained the situation and waited for his questions to be answered. Stuffing the receiver between his ear and shoulder, the L.A. lieutenant gestured at the sergeant, who opened a drawer and took out a map and a green highlighter. "Okay, great… great, thanks, Paul. Yeah, good luck to you too."
Garabaldi hung up, shaking his head ruefully as he made notations on the map before looking up with a wry smile. "Well, it's gonna take you a couple of hours longer, but if you take this route east first and then up through the Angeles National Forest, not only is it pretty but it'll get you past all the crap going on around the 5." He turned the map around and Steve leaned over the desk to get a better look.
"Wouldn't it be better to hug the coast?"
Garabaldi snorted. "You didn't hear? They had a rockslide on the PCH last Thursday. It's closed both ways for about a week." He shrugged at Steve's elevated eyebrows. "Welcome to Southern California!"
"Dear god, and I thought all you guys had to worry about was sunburn and the occasional earthquake," Steve chuckled. "So which way do we go from here?"
Garabaldi had just pointed to a spot on the map when they heard Evans and Mike approaching. The San Francisco lieutenant had a fairly thick file folder in one hand and a very satisfied look on his face; it seemed that things had gone well.
Steve raised his eyebrows as they reached the desk. Mike answered with a grin and held the folder up. "Signed, sealed and about to be delivered. They're waiting with Lonsdale down in the garage. We can go any time."
"Then we'd better hit the road 'cause we gotta take a detour."
Mike frowned. "What?"
"I'll explain while we head to the garage. Gentlemen," he turned to the others, and the four started towards the elevator, a confused Mike a step behind his smiling partner.
# # # # #
A subdued Lonsdale, now in jeans, a white t-shirt and sneakers, his hands still cuffed behind his back, was standing between two very large uniformed officers near the elevators in the garage. The blue sedan was parked nearby.
Masking his simmering anger behind his professionalism, Mike nodded at the officers as he crossed to the passenger side of his car, reached in the open window and opened the glove box. He took out his own pair of handcuffs and his gun. With studied deliberateness, he snapped the .38 on the belt of his dress pants, glancing at his partner as he returned to the small group. "Get yours," he ordered softly and smoothly, handing the keys to his partner. Frowning, Steve stepped to the trunk, opened it and rooted through his overnight bag.
One of the uniformed officers took the cuffs off Lonsdale, who automatically brought his hands forward and rubbed his wrists, glaring at Mike as he did so. The veteran cop stared back, not moving. With a heavy sigh, Lonsdale started to put his hands behind himself again.
"No," Mike grunted, "in front."
As everyone frowned, Lonsdale hesitantly held his hands out, wrists close together. Mike slapped the cuffs on then grabbed Lonsdale's elbow, steered him towards the passenger side back door and opened it. "Get in," he ordered and, with another angry glare, the felon ducked awkwardly and almost fell onto the seat. "Steve!" The younger man moved closer and held out his cuffs. Mike took them, pushing one end under the headrest on the back of the front seat then looping it around to lock it onto itself. He then snapped the other end around the short chain on the cuffs Lonsdale was already wearing, effectively tethering him to the seat.
Evans and Garabaldi had gravitated closer to the car and were watching with impressed smiles. "Well well well, very nice," Evans chuckled with an appreciative nod and Mike straightened up with a sharp nod.
"Well, it's either that or we listen to him bitch for the next ten or twelve hours about having to sit on his hands. Although with him driving," he jerked a thumb in Steve's direction and smiling slightly, "we could get there a lot sooner… Speaking of which," he looked at his partner and raised his eyebrows, "you're right - we do have to get going if we want to get home sometime today."
Shaking hands all around, and with promises to call when they reached The City, both San Francisco detectives crossed around to the driver's side of the Ford. Slipping his own holster and .38 onto the left side of his belt, Steve slid in behind the wheel while Mike climbed into the back seat beside Lonsdale and, with final waves, the blue sedan began to roll across the asphalt, up the ramp and out into the hazy morning sunshine.
# # # # #
The Sunday morning traffic was lighter than expected but still heavier than they would have thought; Angelenos always seemed to be on the move. They got across the city pretty quickly and headed up the 2 into the Angeles National Forest. The spring had been unusually dry, even by southern California standards, and the vegetation lining both sides of the hilly two-lane highway was already brown and withered.
Conversation had so far been non-existent. Mike was content to let the silence speak for itself, punctuated by steely glances. He was biding his time, knowing he had several hours yet to slowly work on the seemingly emotionless man sitting next to him. He was content to let the former fugitive stew in his own juices for a while longer.
Steve glanced to his left, at the rolling hills and valleys stretching out along both sides of the narrow highway. This was a part of the state he'd never seen before, and it was very different from what he was used to upstate. And traffic was non-existent right now, as far as he could tell; they hadn't passed a vehicle of any description since they'd entered the state park.
The car rounded a gentle bend in the road and started up a fairly steep hill. He glanced down at the speedometer; the needle was just below 60. He smiled to himself, impressed by the power Mike's 'daddy car' was exhibiting.
They were just cresting the top of the hill when he saw it – the cherry red Chevelle in his lane, less than a hundred feet away and coming straight at him. "Shit!" he yelled involuntarily as he clocked the station wagon the muscle car was passing in the other lane, instantaneously knowing he couldn't turn in that direction and cranking the steering wheel to the right, jamming his foot on the brake.
The sedan began to slew sideways, the tires trying futilely to grip the road, leaving thick black skid marks as they protested the maneuver, momentum carrying the car forward despite the driver's frantic evasive efforts. Not slowing down, the Chevelle plowed into the blue Ford just behind the driver's side back door.
The impact spun the sedan around, the front end smashing into the side of the Chevelle before it was jolted backwards and sideways towards the edge of the road. Then gradually, as if in slow motion, the dark blue Ford tumbled into the ditch, rolling once before coming to rest on its left side.