Mortal Pursuit

70

“Eight-one. Go.”

“Hey, eight-one, it sure took long enough to raise you.”

“Sorry for the delay. We were code seven. Grabbing some chow.”

Ed Edinger paced the small equipment room adjacent to the dispatchers’ office. Radio transmissions were recorded here, on antique reel-to-reel machines.

Normally the long-playing reels were changed only at the end of each shift, but tonight one reel had been replaced ahead of schedule.

The original reel now played on another machine.

“Yeah, well, I kind of let that code seven slide.” Lou’s voice rasped over cheap speakers, sounding even more scratchy than usual. “It’s been an hour. Look, what’s your location”

“Hospers Road, west of the highway.”

That was Robinson, of course. Funny thing, though. There was an unusual quality to her speech pattern, a formality that seemed somehow artificial.

“Okay,” Lou was saying, “we got a ten-thirty-three at the Cracker Barrel on Johnson. You back in service or what”

“Ten-four, we’ll take it.”

“Twenty-one twenty-five.”

Ed glanced at his watch. The time was 10:16. Forty-one minutes had passed since the unit had been dispatched.

The tape continued playing, other units on the air. He didn’t listen. He was thinking.

The whole exchange troubled him. It was highly uncharacteristic of Pete Wald to go code seven at all, let alone so early in his shift. And to stay out of service for an hour, then be tardy in responding when called …

Grabbing some chow, Robinson had said. On Hospers Road.

Nothing over that way except some fast-food hamburger joints. Pete avoided those places on his doctor’s orders. Cholesterol.

And Robinson’s voice … Ed couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong, indefinably wrong, about her voice.

He stopped pacing. “Find the previous transmission,” he told the clerk operating the tape machine. “About an hour earlier.”

The clerk checked Lou’s log, then rewound the tape while Ed waited, massaging his forehead with a weary hand.

What a night.

First some sort of sonic boom or explosion or minor earthquake had rocked the foothills, precipitating a deluge of frantic calls and tripping every motion-sensitive burglar alarm in town.

He had telephoned Cal Tech in Pasadena, but the seismology lab had been unable to explain the event or pinpoint its source. A mystery, and a major hassle.

And now 4-Adam-8l was missing. Wald and Robinson had never responded to the 10-33 on Johnson Way. Efforts to raise them had proved futile so far.

When the tape counter was in approximately the right place, the clerk backed and filled, nitrous-oxide voices squealing over the speakers, until he located the start of the exchange.

“We’re clear of the detail,” Robinson was saying. “No sign of a prowler.”

Lou: “Guess Pete was right. You didn’t need backup.”

“Ten-four.”

“Hey, is that the Kent place”

“Ten-four.”

“Thought I recognized the address. I saw it on a house tour once. Nice digs.”

“Yeah, it’s nice. A lot like some places I’ve seen in L.A.”

“L.A.”

“You know. Bel-Air, Beverly Hills. Ed and I were just talking about that. About how things are in L.A.”

What the hell

“Play that part again,” Ed said.

The clerk rotated a dial to the left, backing up the tape.

“-lot like some places I’ve seen in L.A.”

“L.A.”

“You know. Bel-Air, Beverly Hills. Ed and I were just talking about that. About how things are in L.A.”

“Again,” he told the clerk.

Squeal of tape through the pinch rollers.

“-seen in L.A.”

“L.A.”

“You know. Bel-Air, Beverly Hills. Ed and I were just talking about that. About how things are in L.A.”

How things are in L.A.

Things are in L.A.

In L.A.

“Christ,” he whispered, remembering.

Roll call. She’d been late. He’d read her the riot act.

Now, down in L.A. it’s a different story. LA.’s got two thousand homicides a year. That’s where all the crazies are.

His usual spiel. The only words pertaining to Los Angeles he’d ever spoken in her presence.

Homicides. Crazies.

A clue.

The poor scared kid had tried delivering a clue.

Ed left the bewildered clerk and barged through the connecting doorway into the dispatchers’ room. Lou’s cubicle was nearer.

She opened her mouth to ask a question. He cut her off.

“The Kent estate-what’s the address”

“Twenty-five hundred Skylark.”

“Send all available units, code two high.” He caught his breath. “We got ourselves a ten-ninety-nine.”

Lou’s eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them. Ten-ninety-nine was the code for an emergency-an officer down.

She visibly collected herself. “Right. Code two high, you said” Normally an officer-needs-help call would justify going code three, sirens screaming.

Ed nodded. “Right. Could be a dicey situation. We don’t want to announce … Hold on.” Whoever had Robinson’s radio would be monitoring the police bands. “On second thought, I’ll give the order. Have everybody meet me on tac three.”

A tactical frequency, operating in the simplex mode. Its limited range would enable him to contact the patrol units without being overheard by anyone at the Kent house.

Sheriff’s department too-better call the substation on his cell phone-might need SWAT-and an ambulance …

“Ed!” Lou’s shout stopped him halfway to the door. “What’s this all about”

“I think we misjudged Robinson.” He fumbled for the keys to his squad car. “Looks like she’s not a slacker after all.”