A Savage Place

Chapter 28

WHEN I TOLD Frederics what I wanted, he said, “I’ll come myself,” and hung up. Maybe I had underrated him.

Brewster’s lip was swelling, one eye was closing, blood still snuffled out of his hose. While I was talking, he had slid to the floor and now sat with his back against the window wall, his feet straight out in front of him. Simms had gone the other way. He was sitting on the couch now. There was a large bruise on his temple. He seemed to be missing a tooth. I noticed that there was a cut on the knuckles of my left hand.

Brewster said, “What are you going to do?” He had trouble speaking clearly.

I said, “You are going to confess on camera to the murder of Candy Sloan.”

Brewster said, “What if I don’t?”

I said, “I’ll kill you.”

“There’s cops out there.”

“Yeah, and how bad will they feel about you taking the jump when I tell them why?”

The phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Yeah?” A voice said, “This is Gene Hall. What kind of a deal can we make?”

I said, “You know a homicide cop named Samuelson?”

Hall said, “Sure.”

“Get him,” I said. “Tell him I’ve got the people who killed Sam Felton, and Candy Sloan, and Franco Montenegro. Tell him he can have them, but I want a little time to do something I have to do.”

“Who you got in there? Secretary’s so excited, I’m having trouble understanding her.”

“I got Peter Brewster, who’s the head of this company, and Rollie Simms, who’s the chief of security.”

“And what’d you say your name was?”

“Spenser.”

“Okay. You want to stay by this phone so we can keep in touch?”

“Call anytime,” I said and hung up.

Brewster and Simms sat as they had. I said to Brewster, “In a few minutes a guy from KNBS will be here with a cameraman. He’s going to come in and interview you. You are going to give him a statement that I am going to type out for you right now.”

I pulled an IBM Selectric typewriter over near me on its typing table, turned it on, and began to type with one finger while I held the gun toward Simms. Brewster had given up, but Simms was of sterner stuff.

The phone rang. I stopped typing and picked it up. “Gene Hall again, Spenser. Guy from KNBS-TV out here says you wanted him to come in?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Send him in.”

“Well, there’s a problem. You got two hostages now, I’d rather not add to the total.”

“I don’t blame you. I’ll swap you one of mine. I’ll send Simms out if you let the TV people in.”

“That’s still three for one,” Hall said.

“Yeah. They tell you what we have in mind?”

“They told me what you told them.”

“You been in touch with Samuelson yet?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s on his way.”

“Okay. Why don’t we sit tight until he gets here, then I’ll talk with him.”

“Okay by me, Spenser,” Hall said. “Anything we can get you in the meantime?”

“Why do I think you guys will be less pleasant once I turn over Brewster and Simms?”

“Hey, no problem. You’ve been straight with us. We’ll be straight with you. All we want is everything to go smooth. You want any coffee or anything?”

“No, thank you, Eugene,” I said. I hung up and typed some more. In about three minutes the phone rang. I said, “Yeah?”

A voice, not Eugene’s, said, “Spenser, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Samuelson?”

“Who’d you expect it to be, Barbara Walters?”

“One always has one’s hopes,” I said.

“What’s going on?”

“You find Candy Sloan and Franco?”

“Yeah.”

“Brewster and Simms shot them. Brewster’s connected. Franco was trying to shake him down, and Candy was still trying to solve the thing. So Brewster put them both away at the same time.”

“And you got Brewster in there?”

“Yes, and Simms. Simms probably pulled the trigger. Brewster wouldn’t have the balls. But he called it.”

“And you want the TV guys in there?”

“Yeah. You need an explanation?”

“No,” Samuelson said. “I don’t. Okay. We let them in, and I come too, and when it’s over, you surrender them and you to me.”

“You know why I want it this way,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said. I hung up the phone. I took the typescript out of the typewriter. I handed it to Brewster. “When the TV people get set, you read that the way I wrote it. If you don’t I’ll shoot you six times.”

“What’s the difference,” Brewster mumbled. “I read this, and the state will kill me.”

“Not you,” I said. “They haven’t done away with anyone out here in years. They probably have never done away with anyone as connected as you. You got all kinds of clout, Brewster. You could be back on the street in a few years. You can get into court and claim you were coerced. It might work. If you read that, you got lots of chances. If you don’t, you have none. Look at me when I am speaking. Look at me. You know I’ll do it.”

Brewster stared at me with his eye and a half. He nodded. I walked over to the door and unlocked it and opened it up. I stayed out of the line of fire when I did. You can’t tell when some SWAT cop will forget it’s not television. Samuelson came in first, wearing his tinted glasses and looking relaxed. Frederics followed, not a hair out of place, gleaming and perfectly groomed. Behind him came a scruffy bearded black guy with a camera on his shoulder and a large shabby black bag hanging from a shoulder strap. Last came a young woman who was obviously having a scruff contest with the black man. She had equipment slung around over a man’s shirt, jeans, and moccasins, and she carried a long pole with a microphone on it.

Samuelson went to the other side of the room and stood near Simms. Simms was looking at the floor. Frederics nodded at me.

I said to Brewster, “Get up.” I had the gun held out full-length and shoulder level, pointed at him. A little drama doesn’t hurt. Brewster got wearily to his feet. The black man muttered “Jesus” as he looked at Brewster’s face.

Samuelson looked at me. “He was difficult to subdue,” I said.

“I can tell,” Samuelson said.

Frederics looked at his associates. “We ready?” They both nodded. The soundwoman took the mike off its extender and handed it to Frederics. He looked at the camera. Then he said, “This is John Frederics. I’m speaking to you from the offices of Oceania Industries at Century City, where an apparent hostage situation is in progress. The resolution of that situation requires that one of the hostages, Peter Brewster, the president of Oceania, read a statement. Mr. Brewster.”

The cameraman moved the camera onto Brewster. Frederics held the mike in front of him. I kept the gun steady. Brewster was leaning against his desk, a little wobbly, but upright. He had my typescript in his hand. He read:

“A reporter from KNBS, Candy Sloan, through persistently good investigative reporting, finally uncovered the fact that I have been engaged in Mob-related criminal activity. She was about to report her story. To prevent that, I had her killed by a man named Rollie Simms. If it had not been for Candy Sloan, I would never have been caught.”

There was silence. I brought the gun down, reversed it, and held it out, butt first, toward Samuelson. He reached around behind the soundwoman and took it and dropped it in his side pocket. Brewster simply stood where he was. Frederics brought the mike back to his own face, the camera shifted slightly. “Right now in this room there is silence. A colleague is dead. This is John Frederics for KNBS News.” He stood still for another moment, then made a safe sign with his hands. He looked at me for a moment. “It’ll be on the air as soon as I get it back to the studio,” he said.

I nodded. He nodded his head toward the door, and the three TV people left. The soundwoman was last and she looked back at me as she went. Her eyes were wet.

“Okay,” Samuelson said. “Let’s go downtown.”