Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

She rang off, and I tried my best to be civil. “Well?”

She glanced first at her husband, and faced me. “That was Ernie Wheeler. He’s on the radio with Tom Pasquale. Pasquale says that Vanessa Davila left her trailer and walked to a house a few doors down on Escondido Lane. Number 135. Just a minute ago. From where he’s parked, he can see her. She apparently has broken a side window and has gone inside.”

“What?”

“B and E a neighbor’s house, sir.”

“You said you had a radio. Where is it?”

She pointed over on the counter where she’d put her purse and jacket. She crossed the kitchen and picked it up, then handed it to me. I fumbled the buttons and then keyed the mike.

“Posadas P.D., do you copy?”

“Ten-four.” Tom Pasquale’s voice was loud in the kitchen. If he’d opened the window and shouted, we could have heard him through the small forest that separated my house from Escondido Lane.

“Is the subject still in the house?”

“Ten-four.”

“Any other activity around there that you can see?”

“Negative, sir.”

I let the radio rest on the table. “Do we know who lives there? One thirty-five is about Toby Romero’s place, isn’t it?” It was dark outside, and I tried to imagine what Vanessa Davila might be doing, thinking that she could get away with something as stupid as residential burglary.

“She’s still inside,” Pasquale’s voice said. “Do you want me to move in?”

“That’s negative,” Sergeant Torrez’s voice barked before I had a chance to move my hand. “Stay put. We want to know what she’s up to. I’m working my way around there. She isn’t going anywhere.”

“Bob,” I said, keying the mike, “is that Toby Romero’s place?”

“Affirmative.”

“What the hell is she doing?” I said to Estelle, but she just shook her head.

“There’s a light on inside now,” Pasquale said, his voice hushed.

None of the rest of us responded.

The seconds ticked away, and I could measure their frequency against my pulse, two heartbeats for every tick of the second hand.

“The light went out.” I could hear the tension in Patrolman Thomas Pasquale’s voice, and I could imagine him hunched over the steering wheel, eyes locked on target, knuckles of his right hand turning white on the microphone.

I had felt that same rush of adrenaline myself, hundreds-maybe thousands-of times. This time, I sat at my kitchen table staring at a black handheld radio, like an old man listening to a favorite baseball game.

“She’s at the window,” Pasquale said, his voice hushed into a hoarse whisper.

I glanced up at Estelle. “You want to take a stroll through the woods and go over and have a look?”

Her smile was sympathetic.

“P.D., three-oh-eight is entering Escondido from the east.”

“Hold back, three-oh-eight. If she hears you, she’ll run.”

“Ten-four.”

I could easily enough imagine Vanessa Davila outrunning me…but I couldn’t imagine her losing either Thomas Pasquale or Robert Torrez.

“P.D., can you see her yet?” I asked and released the switch.

“Negative.”

I looked at Estelle. “There’s a streetlight there somewhere,” I said.

“Posadas, she’s coming through the window right now. It looks like she’s got something in her hand. It could be a gun.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “That’s what it is. She’s putting it under her coat.”

I cursed and jumped to my feet. I could picture several ways that a confrontation between an armed Thomas Pasquale and an armed Vanessa Davila could turn out, and any one of them was enough to give me the willies.

“P.D., hold back and see if she’s heading toward her trailer. Three-oh-eight, did you copy that?”

“Ten-four, 310.”

“Thomas,” I said, hoping that switching to his name would snuff out any chance of error, “do not approach her, do you understand?”

“Ten-four. It is a handgun. I saw it clearly just a few seconds ago.”

“All right, hang back. Don’t do a thing. Now listen, Thomas,” and I realized I was pressing my nose into the speaker face of the handheld. “If she goes to her trailer, just let her go, do you understand?”

“Ten-four.” He sounded disappointed.

“If she goes anywhere else, we’ll handle it at that time. Do you copy?”

“Ten-four.”

“And three ten,” Torrez said, “I’m going to swing around and get myself on the north side of the interstate on Grande, in case she decides to head downtown.”

“Ten-four,” I said. I looked over at Estelle. “Vanessa Davila with a gun,” I said in wonder.

“Dennis Wilton,” Estelle murmured. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“And even that doesn’t,” I said. I heard a discreet clearing of the throat in the living room. Francis was leaning against one of the bookcases, hands still in his pockets, watching us. Estelle caught the exchange. “Your husband thinks I’m going to drop dead,” I said.

“That’s not funny, sir.”

“Indeed not,” I replied.

“She’s heading across the trailer park toward her place,” Thomas Pasquale said, and I pushed the talk switch twice. Pasquale continued, “She’s up on the porch, door open, and she’s inside.” I half expected the kid to add, “Touchdown!”

“Sit tight,” I said into the radio and beckoned to Estelle. “Let’s get over there.”

She didn’t move. “Sir…”

“What?”

“We don’t need to do that, sir.”

I stared at her incredulously. “What are you talking about? That kid’s got a gun. And the closest cop to her is Thomas Pasquale.”

She nodded. “And in another minute, the supervising sergeant will be there. And so will experienced backup, sir. Thomas Pasquale isn’t even going to get close to the front door of that trailer by himself, if at all. Sit down and relax.”

I stood rooted, not knowing what to say. As if to break the silence, the radio barked. “Three-oh-seven, three-oh-eight. Ten-twenty?”

Eddie Mitchell’s voice, even over the scratch reception of the handheld, was calm and unperturbed. “Three-oh-seven is just turning onto Grande at Bustos. ETA about a minute.”

“Ten-four, three-oh-seven. You’ll see the P.D. just inside the entrance to the park. Park there and approach on foot.”

“Ten-four.”

“I’ll pull right through the place and park on the north side of the trailer. That way we’ll have spotlights on both sides.”

“Ten-four.”

Estelle looked at me as if to say, “There, you see?”

I sat down again and leaned forward, keeping my voice down. “Estelle, now listen to me. Remember a long, long time ago there was a day when you helped me escape from a goddamn hospital when I needed out of there the most? Do you remember that?”

She nodded slowly. “And you ended up back there again, too.”

“I know that, but not before we did what needed to be done. Now look. This is important to me. It really is. Tell your husband there that I’ll check myself into his goddamn hospital at 8 A.M. sharp, Monday morning. Then he can do whatever he wants. Brain transplant, fiberglass hip joints-hell, I don’t care.” I lowered my voice even more. “I just figured something out about Vanessa Davila.”

I sat back and Estelle mused at the expression of satisfaction on my face. “What’s that, sir?”

“She’ll talk to us now.”

“You think so?”

I nodded vigorously. “She didn’t before because she had plans.” I held up my right hand and made a pistol with thumb and index finger. “She was after someone. She decided to go get them…him…whoever…in her own way. We arrest her tonight and even she has to know that she isn’t ever going to get to do that.”