Chapter 3
McCormick pounded his fist into the alarm to stop the noise, and then forced himself out of bed. Groggy and slow, he stumbled to the shower. He let the water pound away the sleep, toweled off, and pulled on his working clothes, black on black. Then, after just a moment of indecision, he strapped on Hardcastle's shoulder holster, situated the gun, and pulled his jacket on top. He grabbed his bag and was in the driveway waiting when the cab pulled up. As they left the estate, McCormick failed to notice the lone green sedan that pulled out behind them onto the almost deserted road.
He directed the cabbie to the nearest bar, went inside and ordered a beer. He took his drink to a table, munched on a few pretzels, and made idle conversation with a few other patrons. After about half an hour, he blended into the crowd and then discreetly slipped out the door. He flagged the nearest cab and directed him to an address a block over from Pedane's house.
When the cab was out of sight, McCormick walked quickly over to the next block, but stopped at the top of the street. A privacy hedge provided the perfect cover for waiting. He couldn't quite make out the police surveillance vehicle, though he knew it would be there somewhere. He glanced at his watch; it was almost time.
At exactly one o'clock, he heard faint gunfire erupting several blocks away. He watched Pedane's street closely, alert for the surveillance vehicle.
"Come on man, do the right thing," he pleaded under his breath.
After a second burst of gunfire, he saw the unmarked car come to life and take off toward the sound.
"Thank you," he said as the car went barreling past his hiding spot. When the sedan was safely around the corner, Mark sprinted toward Pedane's estate. As he reached the wall, he pulled a climbing rope from his bag. He threw the end up, wrapping it around one of the decorative columns. He tugged on it to make certain it was secure, looped his bag over his neck and shoulder, and then began his ascent up the wall. Once at the top, he glanced around the grounds quickly. Assured that he had not attracted the attention of anyone inside the estate, he balanced himself on the wall while he untied the rope and dropped it inside the wall, then hoisted himself over and dropped to the ground. He stashed the rope back inside his bag, then made a dash directly toward the garage behind the house. As he was rounding the corner of the building, he noticed a car slip discreetly into place across the street. It never occurred to him the sedan could be anything other than the surveillance unit returning from its dead end.
Fortunately, the grounds of the estate did not consist entirely of manicured lawn, as McCormick had first feared. The main house and the garage were separated by a double row of decorative hedges, which would provide a convenient place to pass the remainder of the night. Without detailed information about the layout of the home or the security system, there was no way he was risking going in before daylight. In fact, he would probably wait until he was certain the meeting was in full swing before he ventured inside. Of course, that meant a lot more people who might happen upon him, but he figured that was the lesser of the evils.
He secreted himself into the bushes and squirmed around until he was as comfortable as he could be, which wasn't saying much, but he'd certainly endured worse. Besides, if he got too comfortable, he might fall asleep and that would be a monumentally bad idea. He pulled his jacket collar up against the cool night air and tried not to dwell on the fact that he was going to be here a very long time.
After a couple of hours sitting in the dark, he could feel his stomach starting to grumble, and he realized that—other than the pretzels at the bar—he hadn't eaten in over 24 hours. He grabbed his bag, rummaged through the inner compartment he thought of as the stakeout pocket, and pulled out a candy bar and a bottle of water. Not really the most nutritious meal, he knew, but it was enough to make sure he wouldn't pass out from starvation at a critical moment. He bit into the candy bar and suddenly found himself lost in memories of a very different place.
A run down cabin in the middle of Nowhere, Arkansas. A beautiful Christy Miller. And a somewhat waterlogged candy bar for breakfast. He had spent the previous night consumed with grief, believing that Judge Hardcastle had been killed the day before. Sunrise—and Christy's presence—had brought somewhat clearer thinking, but the dull ache in his heart had continued.
As he sat in the bushes, McCormick remembered that dull feeling well, and the memory brought his current fear back to the forefront of his thoughts. The coming day presented so many chances for error, and there was so much riding on his success, that it was almost paralyzing. He had been so grief-stricken that day in Arkansas; he couldn't imagine anything worse. And yet, that had been many months, dozens of cases, and hundreds of memories ago. How would he possibly cope with the grief if he were to lose Hardcastle now?
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McCormick squirmed around in his hiding spot in the bushes of the Pedane estate, and looked at his watch for about the millionth time: 11:30 a.m. He thought that it was surely late enough; he was tired of waiting. Contrary to all his planning and intentions, he had actually fallen asleep briefly while waiting in the dark. While he almost certainly needed the rest, he was convinced sleep had been more a product of boredom than anything else. He had awoken with the sunrise, so he had still been sitting quietly in hedges for several hours this morning, and he was running out of patience.
He had taken advantage of the early morning light to check out the garage, and had been pleasantly surprised to find that the car was going to present very few problems. Only very simple contact alarms protected the side door to the building, and McCormick had neutralized those quickly and easily. The 1966 marina blue Chevelle convertible was one of only three cars housed in a garage designed to hold twice that number, so movement would not be difficult. Inside the glove box was a dual remote opener that he thought could safely be assumed would control the garage door and the front gate, so his exit should go smoothly. And, as Lattimer had told him, the trunk was filled with an assortment of weapons, so he didn't have to worry that he was not delivering the package as agreed. Finally, he thought maybe he was catching a break.
The other positive thing the daylight had revealed was much simpler access to the main house than he had imagined. This side of the house boasted a second floor balcony that was accessed via a lovely sliding glass door. He had positioned himself in the hedges so that he could watch the balcony, and he had not seen any sign of movement on the other side of that glass door all morning. Yes, he definitely thought he was finally catching a break.
He looked at his watch again, and knew it was time to move. He took one final drink of water from the bottle, then stashed it back inside the pocket in his bag, also taking time to ensure he was not leaving behind any of the wrappers from the various snacks he had consumed while waiting. He pulled his rope back out of the bag, and positioned the bag back in place. He made certain his jacket was unzipped enough to allow access to the holstered gun should it be necessary, pulled his gloves back over his hands, and was ready to go.
He peered cautiously out of the hedges, looking in all directions before removing himself from complete cover. After making certain he was still alone back here, he moved quickly toward the house. In less than a minute, he had deftly looped the rope around the railing and was making his way upward to the balcony.
Climbing over the guardrail, McCormick opened up his bag of tricks again, replaced the rope, and retrieved his cutting tools. It was possible that the glass door also only had contact devices for security, but it wasn't likely. Even if it were true, the sliding doors were notoriously more difficult to disarm. Besides, during the normal daytime hours, the odds were in his favor that there would be no motion or sound detectors activated, so cutting through seemed the simpler approach.
McCormick made short work of the glass and was inside the house within three minutes. He looked quickly around what appeared to be some type of a spare bedroom. His instinct was that he would not find the files in this room, but he wasn't about to leave it to guesswork. He checked the closet, the drawers, and the private bath, but found nothing. He opened the bedroom door slightly and listened intently…nothing but the sound of voices rising from the gathering downstairs. He pulled the door open further and looked in both directions before stepping out into the hallway. He saw that he had a lot of ground to cover, probably eight to ten rooms on this floor, and he was guessing a similar layout on the floor above him. He hadn't quite figured out what he was going to do if the files were not on the upper floors, but he didn't really think that was too much of a possibility. Guys like Pedane kept their legitimate ventures—like the group in the house today—on the ground floor; the less savory aspects of their lives were almost always away from the public eye. Pulling the bedroom door behind him, he headed into the room to his immediate right.
It didn't take McCormick long to develop a routine: a brief pause to listen at the door was followed by an almost immediate entry; any closet or bathroom was searched thoroughly but neatly, and every drawer and cabinet was opened. He had been through six rooms so far without finding a hint of anything business related, and he was beginning to wonder just how many guest bedrooms one guy needed.
He had been working his way systematically around the hallway, and now found himself at the landing of the stairway. Listening closely, it seemed that the meeting below was still in full swing, and he didn't hear any sounds coming from above. Wanting to finish clearing this floor before going to three, he moved past the stairs cautiously and continued to the next room, but it was as barren as the previous six.
When he opened door number eight, he realized he had finally reached Pedane's suite. He went first to the small alcove off the main part of the room; with a desk and a small oak filing cabinet, it seemed to offer the most possibility. Unfortunately, a thorough search of the small office area did not reveal the items he sought, and he was becoming annoyed. He just barely managed to contain his frustration enough to keep from slamming the last drawer closed. Taking a calming breath, he moved out into the bedroom proper and continued his search. But this room still did not provide him with the answers to his search. With one more room left on this floor, he headed carefully back to the hallway.
He completed his search of the ninth bedroom quickly, and still had nothing to show for his time and trouble.
Back at the stairway landing, he again listened to determine what was going on downstairs. The meeting seemed to have moved into the lunch stage, but it seemed that they were still talking business, too. Good. That made it unlikely that any of the group was wandering the halls up here. McCormick took a quick glance at his watch. He had been in the house over an hour already. He knew he need-ed to speed the process. Every minute here was a potential disaster. Without further consideration, he started up the stairs.
As soon as he reached the third floor, he knew this was where he should have begun his search. The open room, though large, was clearly a personal sanctuary. Mahogany paneling, large, overstuffed chairs, and richly colored tapestries simply screamed of both money and privacy. And along one wall, a row of cherry finished file cabinets. McCormick grinned and headed over to begin his search.
There were a lot of files, and each section was alphabetized within itself, so that created a lot of 'L' sections, but Mark set out to search each one, determined not to miss anything that might be needed to get the judge back. After another hour, he was confident that he had retrieved everything Lattimer could want. He placed the file folders into his bag and started back downstairs.
He paused briefly before stepping onto the second floor, but everyone was still downstairs. He continued quickly back to the room he had entered through, and within minutes, had lowered himself off the balcony and back to the yard.
He returned to the garage and reentered through the side door. He slipped into the driver's seat of the Chevelle and tossed his bag onto the passenger side. Reaching into the bag again, he grabbed the jumper wires necessary to hotwire the engine. He reached under the dash, made the connections, and had the engine running within seconds. He didn't even take time to reflect on the car, though under other circumstances he would have admired the way it roared smoothly to life. He checked the time again: 2:20 p.m.. He was doing fine. He had plenty of time to take the surveillance cops on a nice tour of the city and still make it back home by the deadline. He reached into the glove box for the remote control, then paused just long enough to offer a silent prayer that his good luck would continue to hold.
00000
Hardcastle was not in a good mood. First of all, he had awakened with a stiff neck and an aching back from the position he had slept in the previous night. The only stretching he had received was a short trip to the bathroom, and even then, Lattimer's goons kept his hands cuffed together. Secondly, no one would ever accuse him of being a patient man, and he was well past tired of being chained to this bed. And lastly, the longer he sat here the more he thought about McCormick, and, frankly, he liked it better when the kid wasn't the only thing on his mind all day.
He thought the two of them had established a pretty good working relationship, and if they had also happened to become friends, well, then, so much the better. But that didn't mean he wanted to sit around and dwell on it, especially since that forced him to examine his own behavior toward McCormick, and he hated the realization that maybe he was sometimes a little too hard on the kid.
He knew that this custody arrangement hadn't exactly been easy for McCormick, but he also recognized that the young man was honestly trying. Sometimes, Hardcastle even thought the kid might enjoy bringing down the bad guys almost as much as he did, no matter how much he complained.
He thought back to Lattimer's comments yesterday about McCormick's new life and smiled. Certainly, the judge believed that he had provided opportunities to the ex-con for which anyone should be grateful, but he wasn't always certain McCormick shared that belief. It was nice to know at least some of it was appreciated. And he hated to admit it, but he found that he was touched to hear that Mark had been willing to confess his appreciation to his prison buddy. Hardcastle distinctly remembered that it hadn't been all that long ago when the idea of defending him didn't even cross the kid's mind. I can't very well tell another con that the judge who sent me up is a good friend of mine. McCormick hadn't even tried to explain his reasoning, just thought that it should be self-evident.
But now, not only had Mark turned down an undoubtedly lucrative offer from an old friend, but he had done so because he didn't want to louse things up with the judge, and he had been honest with Lattimer about his reasons. Hardcastle was surprised to find himself feeling a surge of pride for the young man.
He jerked his arm against the handcuffs in frustration. How could this be happening? Whatever potential the kid had brought into this arrangement, and whatever he had learned since being with the judge, was all about to be wasted. Wasted because some sleazy ex-convict was taking advantage of McCormick's good nature. Wasted because Mark would be incapable of refusing to do Lattimer's bidding. Wasted because, against all odds, two very different people had become friends, and that friendship was being extorted.
Again, Hardcastle pulled against his restraints. Again and again he pulled, needing some kind of release for his anger, rattling the bed against the wall, not caring about the noise or the pain he was inflicting.
It didn't take long for Lattimer to come storming through the door.
"Did you need something, Judge?" he asked, his tone distinctly contrasting his physical demeanor. Always the affable host.
Hardcastle looked at him in disbelief.
"You must be going a little stir crazy in here all alone," Lattimer continued conversationally as he pulled a chair to sit by the bed. "But it's almost over now. A few more hours and you'll be home."
"Don't screw with me, Lattimer," Hardcastle replied. "First of all, you shouldn't be so sure that McCormick's going to pull this job of yours. He's not stupid, you know. And secondly, I'm not stupid, either. I certainly don't believe you intend to let me walk away, even if you do get your weapons."
"I am many things, Your Honor, but a liar is not one of them. You'll go home as soon as Mark gets me my car."
"And you expect me to believe that?"
Lattimer shrugged. "As soon as we make the exchange this evening, I'll be leaving town, and shortly after that, I'll be leaving the country. It doesn't matter that you know who I am, or that you'd be able to build a kidnapping case against me, or anything else, because you'll never find me. So, there's no reason to kill you. Mark's going to keep his part of the deal, Judge, and I'm going to keep mine."
Hardcastle looked at his captor speculatively. "Why McCormick?" he asked.
"It's kind of complicated, but for reasons too numerous to explain, I couldn't use any of my own people. For many of these same reasons, the majority of the local talent was not to be trusted, and I didn't have time to find someone out of town. I lost possession of my property two days ago and I needed it today, so I turned to an old friend. I had heard he was paroled into your custody, but it never occurred to me he would be taking it seriously."
"I guess you underestimated him," the judge said blandly. "He's straight now, Lattimer. He's not going to help you."
"I think you are the one underestimating, Judge. He won't let you die. You have to know that."
Hardcastle shot a dark look at Lattimer; he would not have this man reassuring him. "I don't need your platitudes," he said harshly.
Lattimer grinned slightly. "You know what's funny, Judge? I bet you think you're the one who's helping him. But the truth is, Mark's always been a sucker for a lost soul, always had a soft spot for strays. Next time you're congratulating yourself on how you rescued him from a life of crime, you might stop to think about what he's done for you. That should be a little easier after he pulls your ass out of this particular sling."
"Don't talk to me about him, Lattimer."
"Touchy subject, huh? Well, listen, did he ever tell you about the guys he tried to help in prison? Whenever we'd get a new kid, Mark would be the one trying to show them the ropes, making sure they didn't end up someone's latest conquest. Someone helped him survive those first few weeks; he figured he should do the same for others. Hell, he was practically the official welcome wagon for the block. But every once in a while we'd get someone really young, really green, and really scared. Mark always tried the hardest with them. Protecting those kids landed him in the infirmary more than once, but no one ever got to them; Mark made sure of that." Lattimer paused and looked at the judge knowingly. "Looks like you're his latest project, Hardcastle."
Hardcastle just stared at the man without speaking. What exactly had the kid said to this psycho that would imply the judge needed help from anyone? And how was it that McCormick seemed to think that he had provided that help? And, most important, how was it that he himself had not considered that possibility? The judge jolted at that thought, but he pushed it out of his mind. Whatever Mark may have done for him, it was certainly no one's business but his own.
"Drop dead, Lattimer." Not very original, but he figured the kid would approve.
Lattimer grinned again. "Of course, Mark also said you were a donkey." He was standing to leave the room when one of the other thugs rushed in and whispered something frantically in his ear. Lattimer sent him away quickly, and then returned his attention to the judge.
"Thought you might like to know, Hardcase, Mark made it out with the car. I told you he'd do it. Unfortunately, he seems to have picked up some company…got some of Pedane's guys and a couple of cops chasing after him."
Hardcastle was stunned. "Pedane? You sent the kid after Louis Pedane?"
"I told you it was complicated," Lattimer replied. "I guess we'll know soon how he makes out, but if I were you, I'd say a little prayer." He left the room without further comment.
Alone again, Hardcastle was consumed with a renewed fear. Lattimer's past record had him pegged as a fairly low-level guy. It had never occurred to the judge that Lattimer would be involved with anyone as dangerous as Pedane. Now it was clear why the guy was paranoid; if Pedane wanted someone pushed out, they usually got pushed. And Lattimer had managed to place McCormick right in the middle of this turf war.
With a groan, Hardcastle leaned back against the headboard. "God, please…let him be okay."
00000
"Damn it all to hell!" McCormick yelled as he skidded around a corner. Regaining control of the car, he jammed it back into gear and hit the gas again. For about the fiftieth time, he wished fervently he was behind the wheel of his own car. While the Coyote really wasn't made for the daily street use it got now, there was no arguing the fact that it handled well, especially in high-speed situations. But he was quickly getting a feel for the Chevelle around him, and he knew it was a decent car. He just would not have chosen to test a vehicle under these circumstances. Not that he'd really had much choice.
Things had gone well at the Pedane estate…right up to the point that he had heard the alarm blaring across the grounds thirty seconds before he cleared the front gate. He didn't know what had given him away. Someone could have seen him driving down the ridiculously long driveway, he could have tripped some kind of unseen alarm leaving the garage, or he might have ultimately triggered the uproar when he opened the gate. Either way, the last few yards down the drive had seemed like miles, and exiting the estate onto the open street had felt remarkably like walking out of Quentin. He had been prepared to lead one police vehicle on a leisurely and pointless trip through the city before ditching them somewhere around Hollywood, but now he had four cars barreling after him with the speedometer holding steady at about eighty. This was a bit more than he had bargained for.
Based on his best guess, two of the cars behind him belonged to Pedane and the other two belonged to the police, but as far as he was concerned, there was little difference. One group might kill him while the other would only arrest him, but in either case, he would be prevented from making his scheduled delivery and that simply could not happen. As he careened through the streets, he tried to organize his thoughts. Pedane's cars—two black Camaros—would probably be the harder to lose. The cops were in typical, practical sedans—a beige Ford and a green Buick—and would hopefully drop out soon. Of course, fifteen minutes had already passed and they were still there. Not that McCormick blamed them. The type of surveillance they had going on at Pedane's was put in place hoping for one thing only: some type of mistake that would allow them a foothold into the organization, and he knew that he was that mistake. If they could apprehend him in the commission of a felony, maybe they could gather much needed information to start bringing down a crime lord. They couldn't know that he didn't hold that answer for them. Not that they wouldn't appreciate the trunkload of armaments they would get from him, but he wouldn't be quite the treasure they hoped.
"I'll try and save you the trouble, boys," he muttered.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a break in the oncoming traffic. Sadly, he was in the center lane, but that couldn't be his concern right now. With a quick glance in his mirrors, he jerked the wheel hard to the left and punched the gas, cutting across the four lanes of traffic that separated him from his target. He was pleased to see that one of the Camaros had been completely caught off guard and lost control as he tried a last minute u-turn, slamming the back end into a light pole, but the other three cars were making their way to the side street he had taken and were doing their best to keep up.
Watching the cars in his rearview mirror, he was surprised to see the green spot fading in the distance as the Buick was apparently pulling out of the chase. He saw that it was rapidly losing speed and falling behind the other cars, then suddenly fully stopped and completed a u-turn, only to disappear quickly from sight. He assumed that the driver was trying to flank him in some way, hoping to cut him off, but he didn't have time to try to second-guess. He still had a small lead between the remaining two cars, and he knew he needed to capitalize while he had the chance. He applied a bit more pressure to the gas pedal, and was pleased to find that the Chevelle responded well.
When he had placed another three blocks between himself and the pursuing cars, he took another sharp left, then turned right at the very next street. He was growing tired of the surface streets and desperately wanted to reach the freeway. He knew if he could make it to the 405, he could put some serious distance between himself and his followers, which was exactly what he needed. He had to lose these guys before he could start back home. There was no way he was leading them anywhere near Gull's Way.
As he continued his twists and turns through the streets, he took the time to glance at his watch again. Jeez, it was three already, and he really didn't have time for this. He was slowly pulling ahead of the others, but he could still occasionally see them on parallel streets or coming around corners; they weren't lost yet.
Finally, he rounded one last corner and found himself at the freeway. Thank God! He hit the ramp heading south, and punched the gas. Even though he knew he couldn't stay on the surface streets, the highway did present its own dangers, primarily other cars—especially other cop cars. He couldn't worry about that now, though…this was his only chance to lose them for sure.
He had the accelerator on the floor, and the speedometer was pegged at one hundred. In his rearview mirror, he thought he could make out a black Camaro, but he saw no sign of the unmarked police car. He saw the exit signs for Interstate 10, and slowed just enough to make the eastbound exit, then pushed it back to the floor. He weaved through the traffic for a few miles until he reached La Cienega. He exited southbound and immediately whipped around to hit Venice Boulevard headed west. Once back off the freeway, he kept his speed at about fifty, and watched his mirrors closely. He didn't see signs of any of his pursuers, so when he reached Highway 1, he turned back north and headed for home.
00000
It was after four when McCormick pulled into the drive at Gull's Way. He would have preferred to be home earlier, but a high-speed chase through half of southern California hadn't been in his original game plan. Besides, he still had time for a shower, so he wasn't going to complain. And he might even have time for a cold beer; he sure as hell felt like he had earned one. The only possible upside to his delayed return was that he didn't have a lot of time to sit around and worry that something would go wrong before the exchange. He parked the Chevelle safely out of sight in the garage, stashed Lattimer's files under the seat, and grabbed his bag. He knew he needed to check messages—and check in with Harper—before he could hit the shower, but that shouldn't take long.
He closed the garage door and turned to head for the house, but he slowed to a halt when he saw the green Buick pull to a stop in the drive. This could not possibly be good. He continued slowly, knowing that he really didn't have any other option but to go forward. Besides, surely there were hundreds of green Buicks in the surrounding area. He was approaching the car, preparing to play this as normally as possible, but the greeting died on his lips when he saw Rudolph Richter stepping from the car.
"Don't do it, McCormick!"
He was certain that the directive must have actually come from Richter, but it was Hardcastle's voice he heard in his head, and Hardcastle whom he obeyed. He found his hand frozen on the grip of the gun in his jacket, though he had no conscious realization that he had even moved. Had he intended to shoot a cop? He didn't think so, but... It took a moment for him to recognize that Richter was still speaking.
"Let me see your hands, McCormick, but slowly."
The detective had not yet moved away from the car, and was using the vehicle for cover as he held his service revolver leveled at McCormick.
Numbly, McCormick raised his hands into the air. No, this was not good at all.
"All right," Richter continued, "first toss the bag over here to the front of the car." He waited for McCormick to comply, then went on. "Now, with your left hand, the gun. But, McCormick," he warned, "I've waited a long time to lock you up. Don't make me kill you now."
McCormick reached slowly into his jacket and removed the weapon carefully. He placed it on the ground at his feet and kicked it toward the car. Only then did Richter move from behind the car.
"I thought you didn't carry," Richter said as he spread McCormick against the hood of his sedan.
"Only on special occasions," McCormick replied faintly, sarcastic from habit more than any true intention. He could feel Richter searching him for any additional weapons, and he knew he had to halt this series of events, but his mind had stopped processing the minute he'd seen the detective step from the car. What in God's name was he supposed to do now?
"Ric—" McCormick stopped and started again. "Detective, there's something you need to know."
"I know enough," Richter replied as he locked his handcuffs around McCormick's right wrist and pulled the arm down behind his back.
"No, you don't," McCormick contradicted, allowing himself to turn into the force of Richter's tug on his arm so that he was facing the detective. "It's a matter of life and death."
Richter pushed him roughly back against the car. "Don't screw around with me, McCormick," he said as he locked the hands together behind his prisoner's back. He held McCormick in place, face down on the car, while he read him the Miranda statement. Only then did he pull him off the car and spin him around. "You've had a busy day today," he said as he studied McCormick's face.
"Just life," McCormick answered, not giving anything away. "But, listen—"
"No, you listen. I knew there was something going on yesterday when I saw you, and now I have proof, so what do you say we go inside and talk to your favorite judge?"
McCormick allowed himself to be steered toward the front door. After all, that was where he wanted to go. "The judge is exactly what I want to talk to you about. He's in trouble."
When Richter didn't respond, McCormick planted himself at the foot of the porch and stared at him. "What are you doing here, anyway, Detective?" he asked.
"Looking for you, what else? I told you I knew yesterday something wasn't right, so I thought I'd come out here and alert Hardcastle that you were up to something, but he wasn't here. I decided to wait. Imagine my surprise when you were the only person to come home all day. Imagine my even greater surprise when you left again late last night by taxi cab."
"You were here all night?" McCormick was amazed.
"Actually, just until you left…then I followed. I thought I might find something really interesting, but I was disappointed to see the cab drop you at a crummy bar. But I am nothing if not determined, McCormick, so I waited a bit longer, and soon you were moving again. My patience was rewarded when I saw you scale that wall. Just had to establish something of an alibi first, huh, McCormick?"
"I can explain all that. It's about the judge—"
"Right, the judge. Let's go ahead and see him now, shall we?" Richter jerked McCormick by the arm to move him up the steps. Once at the front door, he rang the bell.
"He's not home," McCormick said, "but the keys are in my pocket."
"Can't believe he trusts you with keys to this place," Richter muttered as he fished the keys out of McCormick's jacket pocket.
"He trusts me with his life," McCormick replied.
"Yeah, right," the detective snorted. He led McCormick into the foyer, then slammed him back against the front door. "That's far enough."
Richter advanced a couple of steps further into the house. "Judge Hardcastle?" he called. "It's Rudolph Richter with the LAPD."
"I told you, he's not here," McCormick said in exasperation. "He's—"
"What have you done with him?" Richter interrupted.
"What have I…?" The idea was so absurd, McCormick couldn't even finish the sentence. "Richter, I haven't done anything with him; he's been kidnapped. That's what I've been trying to tell you. If you will let me explain—"
Richter turned back quickly and slapped McCormick across the cheek. "Shut up! I need to figure out what's going on, and I don't have time to listen to your lies."
Time. It was the one concept McCormick could grasp exceedingly well at the moment. He kept his voice calm. "All right, Detective, I understand. But I can prove what I said about the kidnapping if we just go into the den."
Richter studied him for a moment, then relented. "You first," he said, and pushed McCormick toward the den.
"It happened yesterday," McCormick began as he walked to the open doorway. "When you saw me at the department, I had just reported the abduction to Lieutenant Harper. We agreed the wisest thing was just to pay the ransom… Damn!" McCormick stumbled as he took the last step into the den. With his hands cuffed behind him, he had no way to balance himself, and he was headed for the floor. He felt Richter reach out to break his fall…just as he had hoped. When he felt the detective grab his jacket, McCormick continued his lunge forward, turning his body at the same time, serving to throw Richter off balance himself. Completing his turn quickly, McCormick ran headlong into the other man, knocking him to the floor. McCormick quickly dropped on top of the detective, placing his full body weight on Richter's chest and effectively pinning him in place.
"You just bought yourself ten years back inside, McCormick," Richter blustered, trying to break free.
Probably, McCormick thought as he rearranged himself to place one knee on Richter's throat. Out loud, he said, "You can lock me up later, Richter. Right now I need out of these cuffs."
The detective gave a harsh laugh—the most he could manage with his limited air supply. "I'm sure as hell not going to help you," he gasped.
McCormick exerted more pressure on his throat. "I wasn't lying, Richter. Hardcastle really has been taken and I don't have time to argue with you. I will get out of these cuffs, one way or the other."
The detective stared up at him. "Gonna kill me?" he asked weakly.
"I don't want to," McCormick grunted. "But if I have to choose between you and the judge…you lose."
"I'm sure he'll forgive you. Won't help his reputation any, though."
McCormick looked down at the detective sharply. It was certainly true that his actions would reflect on Hardcastle, but he didn't need this guy patronizing him. As he stared at him, he could see the beginning of discoloration on the man's face. He was sure…well, pretty sure, anyway…that Richter would pass out before he would die. He tried to block out the next logical thought, but it was impossible.
What if he didn't?
McCormick thought for a long moment about a lifetime in prison, and found that he would be more than willing to endure that punishment to save Hardcastle. He thought maybe he could even endure the loneliness of losing the judge's friendship. But, at last, McCormick realized that he would never be able to live with himself if this man died today.
In his moment of contemplation, McCormick's grip loosened just slightly, and Richter was prepared. He thrust his body upward off the floor and managed to dislodge McCormick from his chest. He completed his movement to roll McCormick onto his back on the floor, and suddenly, their positions were reversed.
Taking huge gasps of breath to refill his lungs, Richter placed his own weight across McCormick's chest and reached to his holster. As he buried the gun barrel in the curly brown hair, he growled a single command. "Talk to me."
McCormick looked at him uncertainly, but he answered quickly. "I did time with a guy in Quentin, Ricky Lattimer. He got involved in brokering some gun deal, but before he could deliver, Louis Pedane decided to cut himself in and took possession of the first shipment. Ricky wanted me to steal his stuff back for him; I refused. He came back yesterday and snatched Hardcastle, saying he would only release him if I got his guns and some files Pedane had at his house, so I got them. We're supposed to make the exchange at six tonight; he's calling at 5:15. I have to be able to take that call."
"Why didn't you call us?" Richter asked, removing neither himself nor his weapon.
"First of all, they told me they'd kill him if I reported it. Secondly, I did it, anyway, but discreetly. I told you...I talked to Frank Harper yesterday."
"And Lieutenant Harper knew you were going to steal the ransom and just let you walk out the door?"
"No," McCormick lied without hesitation. There was no sense dragging Harper into trouble from this guy. "I let him believe it was the judge's money they were after. He's going to have some guys in place to cover the exchange. He gave me a radio to keep in touch; it's over there on the desk."
Richter looked at him suspiciously. "How do I know you and your buddy didn't stage a kidnapping, intending for it to go wrong and the judge to end up dead?"
"What?" McCormick had been prepared for just about anything, but not that. The sudden expression of total shock and dismay might have been comical under other circumstances. And had Richter not harbored such resentment for McCormick for so many years, he would probably have understood immediately that the reaction was genuine.
"I didn't… I mean, I wouldn't… I couldn't… You have to believe…"
"I don't have to believe anything," Richter said harshly. But he pushed himself off his prisoner and up off the floor. His gun never wavered. "Don't move."
McCormick was perfectly still as Richter walked to the desk. He heard him leafing through the papers lying there, and winced slightly. So many chances for error, he thought to himself.
"Where'd you get this surveillance information?"
"From Harper," McCormick admitted.
"I thought you said he didn't know anything about your plans?"
"He didn't. I told him I thought I could get a lead on the judge's whereabouts, that's all. The only information I gave him was that Hardcastle had been taken by Lattimer, and that I would drop the ransom today."
"And he just turned over all this confidential information?" Richter clearly was not convinced.
"Look," McCormick began, "this is stupid. First of all, can I get up now?" When he didn't receive a response, he continued. "I'll take that as a 'no'. Anyway, Frank and the judge have been friends a long time. He's just trying to help without putting Hardcastle's life in any more danger. He and the judge exchange information all the time when they're working cases; this isn't any different."
"Except that Hardcastle isn't the one he gave this information to," Richter insisted.
McCormick sighed. "Okay. You know what? I know that you're never going to get the fact that I'm actually working for the good guys now, and that's okay. But Hardcastle and Frank, they do get that, and they know I would never do anything to hurt them. So, yeah, they treat me with a bit more leniency than most of the ex-cons you've run across. Do you think we could just accept that at face value right now and argue about the merits of the idea later? I'm working on something of a deadline here, you know."
Richter smiled slightly. If McCormick was telling the truth about this whole thing, he had a valid argument. He glanced at his watch: 4:45 p.m.. "Okay," he said finally. He went back to where McCormick was still lying on the floor. "Let me help you up…but don't even think about trying anything."
"No, sir," McCormick replied evenly. He allowed the detective to pull him to his feet. "Now what?"
"Now we wait for your phone call, then I'll take the car to the meet, and Harper and I will round up your buddies."
"No!"
Richter leveled his gun at McCormick's midsection. "You're getting agitated again, McCormick."
McCormick shook his head and spoke quickly, "No, I'm fine. I'm glued to this spot, I swear. But we have to talk about this. I have to make the exchange. If someone else shows up, he's gonna kill the judge. We can't risk that."
"It seems to have escaped your attention that you're under arrest, Mr. McCormick."
"What? But I thought…"
"Thought what?" Richter asked. "That I'd overlook a handful of felony charges just because you had a good reason? Is that the lesson Hardcastle is teaching you?"
"No, of course not. But—"
"But nothing, McCormick. I'm going to handle the exchange, and you're going to the county lockup."
"County lockup will still be there later tonight, Detective," McCormick pointed out. "Let me finish this."
"Right," Richter said derisively. "Like we'd see you again if I let you walk out of here."
"Where would I go? I have to make the exchange, and it's going to be covered by your guys. I wouldn't have a chance to get out even if I wanted to."
Richter pondered that last comment, but decided not to pursue it. "Of course, once you're with your legal friends again, I'm sure they'll try to find a way to get you off."
McCormick shook his head. "You'd risk a man's life just to make sure I finally end up back behind bars?" Richter simply stared at him without speaking. "Okay…and I'll take that as a 'yes.' All right, Detective, you're in charge here. Tell me what it's going to take to get me to that meet. What do you want? I'll do anything you say, but you better spit out your best offer soon because we are running out of time."
"McCormick, in the last twelve hours, you have been guilty of breaking and entering, burglary, grand theft auto, evading arrest and assaulting a police officer. Then you can throw in the fact that you committed all of your felonies while armed with a deadly weapon, and top it all off with a few hundred traffic violations. I'm pretty sure that adds up to about fifteen years in maximum security. And that's just the stuff I know about. There's no way in hell I'm letting you out of custody."
"You know I can beat this. Any public defender two weeks out of law school could paint me as a sympathetic victim of circumstance. I'm betting on a straight acquittal, but I figure the worst-case scenario is some fairly lengthy probation. But since my current sentence runs, oh…indefinitely, I don't see the problem. So, let me rephrase the question. Are you really willing to risk getting the judge killed when you won't even have the satisfaction of seeing me in prison?"
Richter stared at him for a long moment. More than anything, he was astounded by the fact that—true to his word—McCormick hadn't moved an inch during their entire conversation, though every muscle in his body clearly screamed the need to do something. He wasn't sure why he found that such an encouraging thought, so he pushed it from his mind. Finally, he spoke. "I want a confession."
"I haven't tried to deny any of it, Detective."
"That's not what I mean. I want a signed statement. I want it spelled out clearly in black and white. No extenuating circumstances, no appeals for leniency. And when you stand up at your arraignment, I want a guilty plea."
It was McCormick's turn to stare.
"Not what you were expecting?" the detective asked.
"Hardly," McCormick answered, almost inaudibly.
After several minutes of silence, Richter said, "Five o'clock, McCormick."
McCormick looked at him, anger smoldering in his eyes. "You know this is insane? Judge Hardcastle could end up dead while you're trying to win some ridiculous pissing contest."
Richter shrugged. "You asked what I wanted. You and I both know I want you off the streets. I didn't expect you to agree." He paused and looked at his watch. "But the clock's ticking."
"I do this, you let me handle the exchange?" McCormick asked quietly.
"That's the deal," the officer answered.
"Yeah, deal of a lifetime," McCormick muttered under his breath. To Richter, he said, "Fine, you've got a deal. How do you want to work this?"
"I want the statement before we leave."
"Whatever. Get these cuffs off me and I'll write it now."
"All right, over here by the desk." Richter removed the bracelet from McCormick's right wrist, pushed him down into the seat, and locked the cuff around the arm of the chair.
"Apparently you've missed the whole point of this exercise, Detective," McCormick said sardonically. "I'm not interested in going anywhere."
"Just write," Richter ordered.
McCormick opened a drawer and found a legal pad. Grabbing a pen, he started writing.
00000
Hardcastle would swear that his watch had stopped. He was certain it hadn't moved at all since the last time he'd looked at its face. Of course, in the hours since Lattimer had dropped the bomb about Mark being chased by Pedane's goons, the judge had looked at his watch approximately every ninety seconds, and each time he had expected to see that it was time for the arranged phone conversation. Now, though, it was ten minutes after five, and he thought Lattimer should be here with the phone. Finally, his "host" came strolling into the room, followed by his two hired guns.
"Is there any news?" Hardcastle asked.
Lattimer shook his head. "During the pursuit, we were tracking him on the police scanner, but he lost them pretty easily. We didn't ever hear anything about any sort of accident, or anything that sounded like Pedane's guys got picked up, either, so we don't really know what happened. But I guess we'll find out here in a minute, won't we?"
"You don't seem very concerned," the judge observed.
"This is something I can't control, Hardcase. You should learn to let go of some of your stress. On the other hand, I'm not the one looking at a death sentence if he doesn't pull this off."
Privately, Hardcastle thought he might want to die if it turned out the kid had been captured by Pedane, but that certainly wasn't something his captors needed to know.
"Just dial the phone, Lattimer."
Lattimer grinned maliciously, but he dialed the phone. Hardcastle found he wasn't breathing until he heard the man say, "There's someone here who wants to talk to you, Mark."
Hardcastle grabbed the phone quickly. "Mark? Are you okay, kiddo?"
He could hear the smile in the young man's voice. "I'm fine, Judge. How about you?"
"I'm scared to death, McCormick," Hardcastle answered gruffly. "You didn't tell me it was Louis Pedane."
"Yeah, well, I didn't want to worry you. But, anyway, it's done now, so put it out of your mind. How are they treating you, Judge?"
"Well, I didn't get to see John Wayne last night, but other than that..."
McCormick laughed. "That's okay. I won't even fight you for the remote tonight. I think it's The Green Berets."
The judge smiled. "Listen, what I actually want to tell you is that it's not too late to back out of this thing. You've still got time to-—-"
McCormick cut him off. "Judge. Someday I will take the time to tell you about all the trouble I've gone through just to make sure this works out okay, but for now, trust me when I say we have passed the point of no return. Besides, I told you I was going to bring you home, so why don't you drop the self-sacrificing bit and let me do what I do best?"
"I'll let you in on a little secret, kiddo…I don't think they've tapped into your best qualities. But I appreciate it, anyway. Really."
McCormick didn't like the sound of that. "Hardcastle, what are you thinking? Whatever it is, just forget it. I'm getting you out of there within the hour, so don't you go screwing anything up, you hear me?"
Hardcastle reflected quickly that the young man really was getting too good at reading him. "I hear you, McCormick. But Lattimer says I have to go now, so I just want to tell you…no matter what happens, don't blame yourself, okay? And be careful."
"What? Judge, you really are starting to worry me now. What—-"
Lattimer grabbed the phone away from Hardcastle. "Time's up." He turned to his associates. "All right, get him out of here. We'll be leaving in a couple of minutes."
He spoke into the phone again. "Okay, Mark, I think we have some business to discuss. I assume you have everything I requested?"
"Yeah, I have it. But what's going on with Hardcastle? Have you done anything to him?"
"What are you talking about? I told you I'd return him to you safely, and I will. My boys are bundling him up now." He glanced over and saw that Hardcastle's feet had been freed, and he was sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for his hand to be released. They released the cuff from the bed railing and locked his hands together in front of him.
"No," Lattimer corrected, "get his hands behind his back so he can't—"
But his warning came too late. Hardcastle had known he would only have one chance to make his move and he was ready. During the transition, both men had been watching their captive closely, but as soon as the handcuffs had been secured, one of them turned away slightly, which was the only opening the judge needed.
Grabbing the nearest man by the shirtfront, the judge rose quickly from the bed and brought a knee up into his captor's groin, then jammed his leg back down, stomping the guy's foot in the process. Still holding tight to the shirt, Hardcastle swung him into the second man, toppling him like a bowling pin.
Lattimer had been shouting out warnings to his thugs, and McCormick's worried voice was crying out from the phone, but Hardcastle thought only of the two men directly in front of him. They had to be stopped before he could ever hope to get Lattimer. He stomped on the chest of the guy still lying on the floor, and swung the other around in front of him as a shield, trying to get his manacled hands around his neck. He saw Lattimer reach for his gun, and in that instant, he removed his focus from the man floundering on the floor. He felt his legs go out from under him, and he was pulling the other gunman down with him. He was focused on rolling with the fall when he heard the gun go off.
00000
"Damn!" McCormick screamed as he slammed the receiver onto the phone. Deciding the action was somehow cathartic, he picked it back up and did it again. "Damn!" And again and again and again. "Damn! Damn! Damn!"
Finally, Richter placed a restraining hand over the phone. "What happened?"
McCormick ignored his question and grabbed the radio. "Frank?"
"Yeah? What's the story?" Harper's voice answered.
McCormick fought to control his voice as he answered. "Things are on hold here for a bit. I think the judge is trying some kind of escape or something. I was talking to them when everything started, and the line was open right up to the point that I heard a gunshot."
"Oh, God," Frank replied.
"Yeah."
"All right, keep me posted."
McCormick tossed the radio onto the desk and sat staring at the phone, willing it to ring again. God, it had to ring.
Richter watched him silently, evaluating. He had been hugely surprised that McCormick had agreed to his terms concerning the ransom exchange, but the ex-con had silently written a detailed confession free of any excuses for his actions and then handed it to him, along with a simple pledge: "I won't forget about the plea, Detective."
Afterwards, he had set about gathering all the papers that had been strewn across the desk, trying to restore some sense of order, and never once complaining about the restraint that was clearly hampering his progress. At one point, he had picked up a pizza box and a beer can and held them out to the detective.
"Would you mind taking these to the trash can? The judge hates it when I use his desk."
Richter had been caught off guard by the simplicity of the request, and hadn't even thought about refusing.
Then Richter had watched as the younger man talked with Hardcastle on the phone. He had seen relief replace the fear that had filled McCormick's eyes, and he was forced to admit that he had incorrectly assumed that McCormick's fear had been for himself. And he had expected McCormick to tell the judge about their arrangement, but he had not. In fact, the entire conversation seemed bent upon reassuring Hardcastle. It made perfect sense—Hardcastle was the one being held hostage—but it had been…unexpected.
And now, he watched as McCormick fought back his tears and stared at a silent phone. Until this moment, it would never have occurred to him that the young man could care so much for the judge.
Almost ten minutes elapsed before the phone rang again, seeming unusually loud in the quiet room. McCormick jumped and reached for the receiver, but hesitated before lifting it from the cradle. Richter could tell he was preparing himself for the worst.
"Judge?" he said hopefully into the mouthpiece.
"No," Lattimer replied, "it's me."
"Ricky. Is he…?" McCormick realized he couldn't finish the sentence.
"He's fine," Lattimer answered harshly. "No thanks to him."
McCormick felt his hopes rise slightly. "What happened?"
"Damn fool tried to break out. He took a bullet in the leg, but he'll be fine."
"I want to talk to him," McCormick demanded.
"We've done that part already, Mark. Now it's time to finish the business at hand."
"If you want your stuff back, Ricky, then this is the business at hand. Let me talk to him. Now."
After a few seconds, Hardcastle's voice was on the line again. "Hey, kiddo." Weaker now, but alive.
McCormick found himself pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears that were threatening to spill. The last two days had certainly taken their toll. "Judge." Every ounce of relief could be heard in the single word. "What happened?"
"I was just trying to give you back some options, but I guess it didn't work too well."
"Are you okay? You don't sound too okay."
"Nah, I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound." He didn't tell McCormick that the hired gunmen had been less than pleased with him, and had vented some of their frustration as they bound him for the journey.
"God, Judge, you scared me to death. I don't know what was running through that donkey head of yours, but can you just let it be? We can get through this if you'll just trust me, all right?"
"Yeah, all right. We'll do it your way this time."
McCormick smiled. "Glad to see there's some sense left in your head. Now, let me talk to Ricky so I can get you out of there."
Lattimer was back on the phone immediately. "That wasn't my fault, Mark."
"I don't care whose fault it was," McCormick answered unsympathetically, "I just want him out of there."
"Fine," Lattimer replied. "Let's just get down to business, because I still need this trade to happen at six."
"The sooner the better," McCormick agreed. "Where?"
"About a mile north of Topanga Beach. There's a small, old port."
"Yeah, I know the place."
"Good. There's two warehouses there; we'll be in number two."
"All right, listen, Ricky. How do you expect me and the judge to get out?"
"We'll just trade cars. Hardcastle will already be nice and comfortable."
"Nope, not gonna work. I don't care about the cars, a trade is fine, but I want to see the judge out and about before you get a single piece of your merchandise."
"He really shouldn't be walking around too much right now," Lattimer pointed out.
"Either I see the judge alive and kicking, or I don't stop. I'll drive right on over to the nearest police station, and while I'm there, I'll give Mr. Pedane a call to tell him who really had his car boosted."
"All right, you've made your point. We'll put him on display for you."
"Good. I'll see you at six." McCormick disconnected the line and immediately picked up the radio.
"Frank, he's okay, but we've gotta move. The meet is still on for six. It's an old loading dock just north of Topanga Beach; warehouse number two. I don't really know the layout of the place, but I'm sure you guys will figure something out." McCormick could hear Harper on another radio giving instructions to his men. "Frank, I'll be driving an old blue Chevelle. I don't know what Lattimer is coming in, but then we're just going to trade vehicles. And make sure there's an ambulance around. Hardcastle got shot in the leg. He says he's okay, but he didn't sound too good." Mark heard Harper relay his final instruction.
"Okay, Mark, I think we're set. The troops are rolling and they should be in place soon. We'll be cutting it close, but I think we'll be fine."
"I know it will be. Listen, Frank, one other thing. I ran into Rudolph Richter today, and he's going to be helping us out, too. He's in a green Buick sedan, so just make sure your men know he's one of the good guys."
Richter looked at him speculatively. He had expected to have to alert Harper himself.
"Okay," Harper answered, puzzled. He sent the word out, and then came back to McCormick. "Anything else?"
"Nope, that's it. I'm gonna roll, and I'll touch base when I reach Topanga." He set the radio aside again.
"All right, Detective," he said, turning his attention back to Richter and raising his hand. "If you'll remove this bracelet, we'll get this show on the road."
Richter rounded the desk and fished the key out of his pocket. "I'm glad he's okay," he said as he unlocked the restraint and placed them back in his pocket.
"Me, too," McCormick answered shortly as he stood. "Oh, and by the way, please don't follow too closely. Ricky is already going to be jumpy because of Hardcastle's little stunt. I don't want to blow this over something stupid."
Richter examined him closely for a long moment, then spoke. "I had assumed you would want me to go first to ensure there was no appearance of being followed."
McCormick stared at him in surprise. "Well, yeah," he stammered, "that would be my first choice. But I didn't think… Well, I mean, I just assumed… I just wasn't sure it would work out that way," he finally finished.
"Are you going anywhere besides Topanga Beach?" Richter asked.
"No, sir. Nothing could keep me away."
Richter laughed slightly. "I think I'm beginning to believe that. I'll see you there." He strode out the door without further comment, and McCormick heard the Buick fire up and head off down the drive. After a few minutes, he climbed into the Chevelle and pointed her south on the PCH.
