police cars looking for speeders.
The vehicle ahead reached the end of the park, where the first cross street opened on the right. The traffic light blinked amber at the intersection. The vehicle slowed at the cross street, but kept on going southbound.
Steve got a good look at it. It was the Crown Vic, all right. He let out the breath he’d been unaware he’d been holding.
He slowed going through a traffic square, letting some space open between him and the Crown Vic. The other, in no particular hurry, traveled a few miles below the legal speed limit. Steve did the same. He was still in the game. But what game was it?
The Crown Vic’s driver was no mere tail man; he was a killer. A double killer, since he’d killed Ginger along with Quentin.
In hindsight now, Steve could see how his opposite number had worked the play. This was no cowboy job; it was a carefully planned setup. The killer knew about Quentin, knew that he was a compulsive horndog with a risky kink for down-and-dirty street hustlers, knew that The Booby Hatch was one of his regular spots.
Steve had been dogging Quentin for the last two nights, picking up the target’s pattern to work out his best angle of approach. He’d seen no sign of the man in the Crown Vic on either night, and no other suspicious persons either. If they’d have been there, he’d have known it. He had the hunter’s instinct for such things. He’d been out of action for over six months and had only recently resumed field operations, but he wasn’t that rusty. The medics had certified him as fit for duty and dammit, he knew he was fit.
Which meant that some other interested party had also been planning to X out Quentin. Who? Some fellow accomplices, afraid that he’d put the finger on them? Or maybe some other government agency had its own reasons for wanting Quentin out of the way?
Whoever it was played rough. Ginger was the bait, the decoy. The killer must have had her lined up in advance. In his mind’s eye, Steve visualized how it all went down:
The killer meets with Ginger outside The Booby Hatch to finalize arrangements—she having no idea of just how final those arrangements are going to be. Most likely, he sold it to her as a simple blackmail operation. Lure some rich jerk into a compromising situation and put the squeeze on him for hush money.
The killer’s careful not to be seen with her at the club. She’s not the type to be easily forgotten, and any guy escorting her would have been noticed by envious gawkers. She goes in first, he following later. Somehow, he puts the finger on Quentin, giving her the high sign that here’s the mark. She moves in on Quentin, doing what comes naturally. Satisfied that contact has been made and the acquaintanceship is progressing, the killer exits, going back to his car.
Ginger leaves the club with Quentin; they get in his car and drive away, the killer following. Ginger steers Quentin to nearby Claghorn Park, probably by telling him she knows a nice private spot where they can trick without fear of interruption. Quentin, more than half drunk, doesn’t need much persuasion; he’s a novelty-seeker, so that aspect would appeal to him, too.
Of course the locale had been chosen by the killer, who’d made sure in advance that Ginger would know the site. Once he sees the Cadillac enter the park service road and disappear into the brush, he drives to the park’s west side entrance. Ginger has Quentin pull into the tunnel underpass; they climb into the backseat and start getting it on.
She’s waiting for her hidden partner to show up; he’ll flash a phony badge and play cop, or maybe he’ll play the outraged husband or some similar version of the old badger game, throw a big scare into Quentin and shake him down for some big dough—
Only, the shakedown artist is really a killer and puts the blast on Quentin and Ginger both.
Some of the details were subject to change, but Steve figured that’s pretty much how it was worked. The killer was an artist in his way, too; he’d framed it so that it’d look like an open-and-shut case to the police. A hooker’s botched holdup, a struggle for the gun, she’s shot, in a fit of remorse Quentin kills himself.
That closes the file. Neat, no loose ends.
Except that the killer was unaware that another killer was dogging Quentin and knew the real deal about how the scene had gone down.
After going south for a quarter mile, the Crown Vic changed lanes, entering a ramp that sloped up to the highway. Steve yielded long enough to let another car enter the ramp before him, then followed.
The highway was split by a median, leaving two southbound lanes and two northbound lanes. There was a fair amount of traffic in both directions; light to moderate, and zipping along.
No matter the lateness of the hour, there was always plenty of movement in the city. Once again, Steve was struck by how many people did their errands by night. It all worked in his favor, however, supplying him with plenty of cover while he kept on tailing the Crown Vic.
He was reminded of that corny old gag about the guy who had mixed feelings: His mother-in-law drove his new car off a cliff. Steve had mixed feelings, too. His mission was to neutralize Durwood Quentin III, but some stranger had beaten him to the punch. Now Quentin was dead, but Steve was left holding the loose ends.
The higher-ups in the Dog Team disliked loose ends. Quentin had been duly marked for demolition and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, some unknown third party horns in and does the job. The higher-ups would want to know more about this unknown.
Dog Team members are granted a good deal of freedom of movement when out in the field. The peculiar nature of their service and assignments demands it. The higher-ups tend to view with disfavor operatives who have to continually check back with headquarters for instructions. Initiative is prized. Steve Ireland was determined to find out all he could about the Crown Vic killer.
Traffic was moving along at a nice, brisk clip of about fifty-five miles per hour. The breeze from the open window felt good; Steve hadn’t realized how much he’d been sweating. It was a muggy night.
The highway stretched southward into a funky part of town, a slum district. The ribbon of road was elevated so travelers could zip along their way, above the hazardous inner city.
The Crown Vic, several car lengths ahead, signalled a right turn, making for the Tyburn Street exit. Thanks, chum, very considerate of you, Steve said to himself. The Crown Vic killer was a cautious driver, obedient to the rules of the road. Of course if he was really cautious, he’d have stayed the hell away from Tyburn Street; that was a rough neighborhood night or day. Plenty of drug dealing, prostitution, and gang activity.
Steve would have liked to have had another car between him and the Crown Vic, but nobody else seemed minded to take that exit. Slowing, he hung back until the other had dropped out of sight on the exit ramp before sliding into the approach lane.
Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror as another vehicle swung in behind him toward the exit. Typical, Steve thought, a cynical twist on his tight-lipped mouth; if the guy behind him had been in front of him, he could have used him for cover to tail the Crown Vic.
Steve eased into the exit ramp, slowing as he started the descent toward street level.
Harsh, blazing glare filled the sedan’s interior. The car behind him had its high beams on. Only it wasn’t a car at all, it was some kind of truck. A tow truck, looked like—
Down below at the bottom of the ramp, the Crown Vic was halted, standing diagonally so that it blocked access
