Jerry Labriola - Murders at Hollings General

Finally, Robert cleared his throat and said, "Sure, Dr. Brooks, if you say so. I'll be out there."

Seven minutes later, on the shiny asphalt, David popped out of his Mercedes and draped one arm over its top as he shook hands with Robert. Familiar barking seemed shriller in the thin night air. David chose his words carefully after stumbling on the first few, "I think … I believe … I owe it to you to inform you I'm leaving for New York to pick up your brother on suspicion of murdering Victor Spritz, and I was wondering whether you'd like to accompany me?"

The sky was black, the lighting economical, and David couldn't read Robert's reaction.

"Bernie?" he said softly, a cigarette caught on his lips, his head shrouded in clouds. He looked around. "Bernie wouldn't hurt a fly. You sure?"

"Yes, Robert, the evidence is overwhelming."

"And you want me to go with you? Why?"

Now, the giant leap. "Because I want to avoid any violence, and having you along will give the situation some stability. You can talk him into cooperating, if it comes to that."

Head bowed, Robert silently moved a pebble around with his foot, and David quickly added, "Plus you probably know the directions better-you know some karate-all those things." Hurry up, man, I don't have all night.

Robert stomped the cigarette into the asphalt and zipped up his tight Flying Tiger jacket. "Yep, I'll go," he said. "But you got the wrong man there, Dr. Brooks."

As he swung back to the hospital, David felt fortunate that Robert hadn't asked why a gun wouldn't be trained on his brother and, therefore, why his assistance was needed. Because David had no answer.

Conversation on the Merritt Parkway was meager as David was caught up in a farrago of loose ends. He tracked the lights of Nick's Buick in his mirror and gave hollow responses to Robert's recurrent but mild rejection of Bernie's guilt. He kept the top up despite the reading of forty-four on the dashboard's digital thermometer.

On the Henry Hudson Parkway in New York City, David twitched at the pulsation of his cellular phone.

"Yes."

"It's me, Paul Johnson. The lights just went out in his apartment. He could be leaving. Shall I tail him if he does?"

"You have a car phone?"

"Yes."

"Tail him-but, wait. Call me back to let me know definitely." David spoke as if he were conversing over a piece of string from tin can to tin can. He clicked off and, after turning on the audible ring, placed the phone on the seat between his legs.

"Tail him?" Robert said. "You mean Bernie?"

"Yes." For most of the trip, David had included Robert in his glances to check right-hand lanes. And for most of the trip, he saw a wake-me-when-it's-over expression. But the phone call had changed things.

David crushed the accelerator pedal. Nick's lights kept pace.

The phone rang.

"Yes."

"He left all right. Heading north on Amsterdam. I'm right behind him."

"Good. I just pulled into 125th. Now if he comes this far, we're golden. I'll wait at the corner-where Amsterdam comes in. What are you driving?"

"A grey Ford Taurus."

"What's he driving?"

"Looks like a Lincoln. Black. Man, he's got three antennas on the thing! One's as long as the car. Bends in the wind."

"Stay on the line."

"You bet. We're almost there. And-in fact-yes-I can see you. Black Mercedes convertible?"

"That's me. And I see him coming. Slow up at the corner and let me sneak in ahead of you."

"Will do. By the way, did you know there's a white sedan parked right behind you?"

"Yeah, local gendarmes."

"Local?"

"I mean Connecticut. They begged me to come along. Try to wedge in before them and then keep close to my tail. That'll bust their you-know-what."

"As long as I don't have to answer to anyone back home."

"I'll accept full responsibility. I'm signing off now … and, Paul?"

"Yes?"

"Great job. Many thanks."

The four-car motorcade streaked over cracked cobblestone and tar, beneath outrageous neon, past pushcarts and inconsiderate buses trying to horn in. David took down the license number of the lead Lincoln. After rounding the back side of a fruit and vegetable wholesaler's, it swerved up a ramp and spurted onto Riverside Drive. It sliced its way to the far left and, gathering speed, weaved among lanes, with David and the others in its wake. Within seconds, ten to twelve cars separated Bernie's from the rest. But, within minutes, the gap had narrowed to five as David intensified the pursuit north, focusing on the bobbing antenna. At 178th Street, the Lincoln veered to the right. The Mercedes followed, climbing a series of narrow bends, along graffiti-sprinkled walls, in the direction of the George Washington Bridge.

At a virtual standstill, David drummed on the steering wheel as he inched along the lower deck of the bridge spanning the Hudson, four bumpers behind Bernie. Their starts and stops did little to change their position between George Washington's two massive towers, and for as far as David could see, the line ahead was a packed one. And also for as far as he could see, he counted three closed-down lanes, leaving three open for passage. He hated exhaust fumes at tollbooths, and this was worse.

Robert, whose periodic glances back at the others had fast annoyed David, said, triumphantly, "I think we lost them."

"We're not trying to lose them, Robert, we're trying to gain on the son-of-a-bitch … sorry, I mean, Bernie … ahead of us." David's comment was reflexive because he was lost in a debate over whether or not to abandon his car and rush Bernie on foot. The risk that traffic might unsnarl settled the issue, and David stayed put. He wondered whether Bernie knew he was being followed.

He checked the time. They had been stalled within the towers for twelve minutes. He pretended to scratch his ankle but nudged the snubby there, and then tucked his elbow into the Beretta Minx. He thought about chewing gum. And with time on his hands, he harked back sheepishly to his reference to Robert's brother and, though he felt Bernie was guilty of murder, still he hadn't yet been convicted. David would atone for an insensitive remark.

"It must be tough on you, Robert. First, your father is killed in an awful way. A terrible way. And now your brother's being hunted for murder."

Robert shifted his weight. "Yeah, I know," he said and paused. "One day at a time."

In the honking that began to crescendo, David wasn't sure he caught the last phrase. Still, he felt his body grow taut. He turned and glared at Robert. "What did you just say?" he asked.

Robert hesitated, then answered, "You mean 'I know?' I said, 'Yeah, I know' because you said …"

"No, no, not that. What did you say following that?"

"One day at a time?"

Oh, my God! Him, after all? I'm chasing the wrong man and the killer's along for the ride? David gripped and regripped the wheel as fear welled up and gagged him. Couldn't this have been avoided?

In the silent vacuum that followed, he felt Robert's eyes on him and he struggled with the urge to confront his passenger. About the phrase he used, about his relationship with Victor Spritz, about where he really was Friday night. And, about the red motorcycle with the saying attached to its license plate.

But he looked straight ahead. If Robert had tipped a losing hand-a killer's hand-the middle of a traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge was no place to acknowledge you'd seen it.

David felt the charged circuitry of his mind, coiled lights as bright as those strung along the cables above. Motive. Opportunity. Means. Past conversations. Options. Is Robert armed? But most pressing: Did he get it? Does he realize his giveaway? David wished he could vitiate the suspense once and for all.