Private Dublin

Chapter 11

Sal ran across the small courtyard garden to the exterior wall of room 205, and I joined him on the other side of the doorway. Other guests were peering through their windows or standing in doorways, and traffic had stopped on Sepulveda to let Officer Stotter pass. Another couple of shots zipped from the motel room, aimed in our direction, and the crack of the gunfire thundered in my ears. Muzzle flash illuminated the room briefly as the shooter fired again, and I saw his shape outlined toward the back.

Officer Stotter skidded into the parking lot and killed his lights and sirens as he screeched to a halt. Sal waved him toward the rear of the accommodation block, and I watched the uniformed cop steer his vehicle to the back of the building.

I gave Sal an over-emphasized shrug, indicating my need for instruction.

“We wait for the back to be covered and then I’ll move in,” he whispered.

My heart was thumping in my ears, and I was very conscious I was unarmed. I’d taken the decision years ago only to carry a weapon when strictly necessary. Concealed carry on a regular basis was a recipe for gun theft or accidents, so I hadn’t armed myself last night before the premiere. I was regretting my decision now though, and more so when we heard a brace of shots from the back of the building. A man cried out and then came a third shot. I had no doubt Officer Stotter had run into trouble.

Sal ran into the motel room and rolled clear of the door. I followed him and saw the very basic room was empty. I checked under the unmade bed and found nothing.

Sal went into the bathroom.

“Jack,” he said, and I ran into the cramped room and saw an open window. “Get the car.”

Outside, we heard an engine rev, and I prayed the shooter hadn’t killed the uniformed cop.

“I’m going after him,” Sal told me, and hoisted himself through the window. “He’s got Stotter’s patrol car.”

I sprinted out of room 205 and ran across the lot to Sal’s Lincoln. There were more sirens in the distance, and a crowd was gathering around the motel.

I heard further gunshots and screeching tires as I jumped behind the wheel. I started the car, threw the gearshift into drive, and steered it toward the end of the accommodation block.

I took the corner at speed and entered an alleyway that wrapped around the rear of the motel. I could see a patrol car racing into the distance beyond the other end of the alley. Sal was halfway along it, crouched beside Officer Stotter, performing CPR. I pulled to a shuddering halt beside the men, and the car threw out a plume of dust behind me.

Sal stood and staggered back from Officer Stotter, and as he moved, I saw three gunshot wounds in the cop’s neck. The police officer was dead.

“Come on,” I said, watching the black-and-white patrol car disappear around the corner, bouncing as it jumped the curb and joined Sepulveda Boulevard. “Come on, Sal. We can’t do anything for him. But we can catch that scumbag.”

My words snapped Sal to his senses. He ran to the car, climbed into the passenger seat and said, “Go!”

My foot was already on the accelerator. As the Lincoln gathered speed Sal got on the radio.

“Dispatch, this is Detective Mattera. Officer Stotter is down, in the alleyway behind the Hyland Inn. I did what I could, but...”

He trailed off, and for a moment I thought he might break down, but he composed himself. “We are in pursuit of a suspect heading north on Sepulveda in Officer Stotter’s patrol car.”

“Copy that,” the dispatcher replied. “All units be on the lookout for patrol vehicle seven-zero-four-nine-five. Suspect is believed to have been involved in an officer shooting and is to be considered armed and dangerous.”

The radio filled with responses from nearby patrols. Cops all over the world share the same sentiment — harm one of their own at your peril.

By the time we hit Sepulveda, it sounded as though an army was being mobilized to catch this guy.

Sal turned on the lights and siren and I wove through the traffic, pursuing the patrol car, which also had its reds and blues going.

“You get that, Winston?” Sal said into his radio.

“We got it,” he replied. “We’ll go for an intercept.”

“Suspect turned off Sepulveda onto Kittridge Street,” Sal said, and I zipped past stationary traffic to reach the intersection.

I swung a hard left onto a quiet road lined with retail units and warehouses. I slowed down as I saw the patrol car abandoned in the middle of one lane. The driver’s door hung open, but the engine was still running.

“Trap?” I suggested.

“Could be,” Sal replied. “We move carefully.”

I nodded. Pursuits were frustrating because a violent suspect could often flee with much less caution than those on his tail.

I rolled up behind the patrol car and Sal got out, gun at the ready.