Clandestine

I stood there, shaking. Engels rolled to his side on the mattress and blew out a noseful of blood. When he spoke his voice was resigned and sorrowful. "I killed Maggie. No one else. It was all mine. No one else's. I killed her and now I have to pay. She didn't deserve it, but she had to pay, too. We all have to pay." Then he passed out.

Breuning was scribbling furiously, Dudley was grinning like a sated lover, and I stood there trying to drum up some exhilaration for my compromised victory.

No one spoke, and then I realized I had to move fast to salvage even this compromised glory. I left the room abruptly, then ran across the street and found a pay phone. I dialed Lorna at work.

"Lorna Weinberg," she answered.

"This is Fred, Lorna."

"Oh, Freddy. I—"

"He confessed, Lorna. To Margaret Cadwallader. We're taking him in. Probably to the Hall of Justice jail. I don't think it's a grand jury case. I think he'll plead loony. Will you get the papers ready?"

"I can't until I have the arrest report. Freddy, are you all right?"

"I do . . . yes, sweetheart, I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine. Will you call me when Engels is booked?"

"Yes. Can I see you tonight?"

"Yes, when?"

"I don't know. I might be wrapped up tonight writing reports."

"Just come over when you're finished, all right?"

"Yes."

"Freddy?"

"Yes?"

"I . . . I'll . . . tell you when I see you. Be careful."

"I will be."

Engels was in handcuffs when I got back to the interrogation room. He was wearing tan slacks, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt that Carlisle had brought from his apartment.

Breuning was taking down his statement: ". . . And I panicked. I thought I heard noises from upstairs. I hopped out the kitchen window. I was afraid to get my car. I ran to some bushes by the freeway ramp. I hid out for . . . hours . . . then I took a cab home . . ." Engels's voice trailed off. He looked at me and spat blood on the floor. His nose was purple and hugely swollen, and both his eyes were black.

"Why, Engels?" Breuning asked.

"Because someone had to pay. It shouldn't have been someone as sweet as Maggie, but it just happened."

Dudley clapped me on the back. "Mike and I are taking Engels to the H.O.J.J. You go home. We have to corroborate on our statements. You were brilliant, lad, brilliant. The sky's the limit for you once this thing has been sorted out."

"Wrong, Dudley," I said, making my move at last. "I'll go with you. It's my collar. You can file your report, and Engels's confession, but it's my collar. I filed my report with the D.A.'s office the day before we arrested Engels. It tells the truth from the beginning. You've been meaning to fuck me out of this collar and I won't have it. You try, and I'll go to the papers. I'll tell them your little Dahlia story and how you kidnapped Engels and beat the shit out of him. I'll throw my career down the toilet if you try to take this collar away from me. Do you understand?"

Dudley Smith had gone beyond red to a trembling purple. His big hands twitched at his sides. His eyes were tiny pinpoints of hatred. Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth, but he didn't utter a sound.

I beat them downtown.

The steps at the Hall of Justice were already jammed with reporters. Old Dudley, in true ham fashion, had prepared them for his arrival.

I parked on First off Broadway and stationed myself on foot on the corner to wait for my colleagues and our prisoner. They rounded the corner a minute later, and stopped for the light. Breuning glowered at me from the driver's seat. I opened the door and got in; Dudley and Engels were sitting in the back.

Dudley said, "You're through, Judas," and Engels hissed at me through gritted teeth.

I ignored them both and said, bluff-hearty in an imitation of Dudley's brogue: "Hi, lads! Just thought I'd drop by for the booking. I see the press is here. Grand! I've got a lot to tell them. Dudley, have you heard of the latest anthropological discovery? Man descended not from the ape, but from the Irishman! Ho-ho-ho! Isn't that grand?"

"Judas Iscariot," Dudley Smith said.

"Wrong, Dud. I'm the Irish Santa Claus. Beggora!"

We pulled to the curb in front of the maze of reporters, and I pinned my badge to the lapel of my wrinkled suit coat. Dudley shoved the handcuffed Engels out the door of the car, and we both grabbed his arms and led him up the steps to the Hall of Justice. Someone yelled, "Here they are!" and a mob of shirt-sleeved newshawks descended on us like vultures, throwing questions indiscriminately amidst the explosion of flash bulbs.

"Dudley, how many did he get?" "Did he confess, Dudley?" "Smile, killer! This is for the L.A. Daily News!" "Tell us about it, Dud!" "Hey, it's the cop who killed those two Mexican gunsels. Talk to us, Officer!"