William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

Except that it wouldn’t, he realized. He was pretty sure he could take down the man-bear in a fair fight, but what then? Without his badge, he had no power to make an arrest. And what he wanted more than anything was to see Kitteredge back in the custody of the Santa Barbara Police Department. If Lassiter launched an attack at him without the authority of the shield, he might actually aid in the professor’s defense once some commie lawyer started screaming about brutality.

Lassiter wanted his man, but even more he wanted to see him taken down the right way. He couldn’t do this on his own. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the first number on his auto-dial. He didn’t know how many friends he had on the force right now, but he was certain that no matter what had happened his partner would still be loyal to him.

Inside the bungalow, someone started singing. For a moment Lassiter wondered why Kitteredge would take this moment to belt out the chorus to “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero.” As soon as the thought crossed his mind he realized that the voice didn’t belong to the professor but to Bo Donaldson. And he knew why Bo was singing.

It was his special ring tone on Juliet O’Hara’s phone.

The song stopped, and Lassiter heard O’Hara’s voice in his ear. “Carlton?”

“I’m at the door, Detective,” Lassiter said and disconnected the call.

He moved in front of the open door as she emerged from the bungalow’s back room, holstering her phone, her gun in her other hand.

“What are you doing here, Carlton?” O’Hara said as she reached the doorway. “If the chief knew…”

“The chief sent me here,” he said.

She gave him a confused look. “You’ve been reinstated?”

“Not officially,” Lassiter said. “But Chief Vick must have known my help would be appreciated. I’m only sorry I got here too late.”

O’Hara studied him carefully, trying to decide if the truth he was telling matched up to objective reality. “Too late for what?”

“To protect Spencer and Guster.” He pointed at the shattered glass where Kitteredge had clearly broken in. “I’d guess that the mad professor came after them. They thought they’d be safe if they locked the door and cowered in the back, but he smashed his way in and took them hostage. Or is it worse than that?” He tried to peer over her shoulder. “Did he leave their battered bodies bleeding in the back room?”

O’Hara’s face hardened and she stepped up to block his view. “Kitteredge didn’t break in, Carlton,” she said.

“Then who did?” he said.

“I did,” she said. “With the authority of a court order signed by Judge Haskin.”

Lassiter tried to make sense of what she was telling him. But none of the pieces fit together. “Why?”

“Because Shawn and Gus were seen helping Langston Kitteredge escape,” O’Hara said. “They’re wanted for aiding and abetting a fugitive, as well as being the chief suspects in the theft of The Defence of Guenevere from the museum. And every police officer in Southern California is looking for them.”

“A hunchback?” Shawn whispered furiously to Gus.

“We’re about to be gunned down by a homicidal hunchback in a mysterious valley? When did we turn into the Hardy Boys?”

“We’re not the Hardy Boys,” Gus said, wishing his last words might be something more inspiring to future generations.

“You’re right,” Shawn said. “The Hardy Boys had a couple of chums. All we’ve got is him.”

Gus reflexively glanced over at the him in question. But Professor Kitteredge wasn’t on the ground where Gus had set him. He was on his feet, walking toward the armed man with his hands raised high.

“Not a step further,” the hunchback growled.

“Not even a box step?” Kitteredge said. He stopped walking forward and demonstrated the move. “How about a grapevine? It certainly seems appropriate here.”

Gus covered his eyes and waited for the rain of Professor Kitteredge’s body parts that would follow the inevitable gunshot. But when no sound came, he peeled his hands away from his face.

The hunchback had lowered the shotgun. And while Gus would not claim an ability to read expressions on that twisted face, he thought he saw something like a smile there.

“Professor Kitteredge?” he said, taking a step forward through the headlight beams.

“It’s me, Malko,” the professor said. “Now let’s see a couple of those moves.”

To Gus’ astonishment, the hunchback held his gun up like a dance partner and with surprising grace executed a perfect box step. “Haven’t forgotten a thing you taught me,” he said when he finished.

“A dancing hunchback,” Shawn said. “We’re leaving the Hardy Boys and joining up with Mel Brooks.”

“Malko, let me introduce you to a couple of friends,” Kitteredge said, turning back toward the car. “Gus, Shawn, come over here.”

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look, then stepped away from the car and toward the other two. Kitteredge waved them closer. Malko narrowed his one good eye and stared at them.

“Are these the two that helped you get away from the police?” he said. “When I heard they were last seen wearing tuxedoes, I thought the reporters were joking.”

Gus felt his heart pounding. So the cops were after them now. He couldn’t be surprised. He knew it would happen sooner or later. But he’d hoped that they would have time to find the real killer before they actually became wanted fugitives.

“We’ve been on the news?” Kitteredge said.

“You are the news,” Malko said. “We were expecting you. Come.”

Malko turned and started to walk away. Kitteredge followed.

“Wait a minute,” Shawn said loudly. “You were expecting us?”

Malko stopped and glared back at him. “Yes.”

“You shot at us,” Shawn said.

Malko shook his head wearily. “Yes.”

“What would you have done if you hadn’t been expecting us?” Shawn said.

“Aimed better.” Malko started to walk again.

“What do we do now?” Gus said.

“We know what’s behind the curtain,” Shawn said. “A long, dark walk back to Buellton, where half the police in the state will be looking for us. So we might as well go with what’s in the box. And hope.”

“Hope for what?” Gus said.

Up ahead, Malko and Kitteredge were about to disappear out of the range of the headlights.

“Hope that whatever is in the box isn’t us.”

If Malko had led them to a hidden Chamokomee tee-pee village where all ten thousand tribe members had been hiding for three hundred years, Gus wouldn’t have been surprised. At this point in the evening he was willing to accept anything as long as it didn’t start firing shotguns at him again.

But the hunchback merely led them to a battered golf cart filled with gardening equipment. He threw the tools on the ground and told the three guests to get in. Then he took off at what felt like fifty miles an hour until they reached a high stone wall. He turned the cart and followed the wall.

Gus wanted to ask Malko where he was taking them, but the hunchback’s attention was totally focused on Kitteredge, who was involved in a lengthy disquisition on the etymology of the word “foxtrot”-it was, apparently, commonly believed to be named after the vaudeville performer Harry Fox, but Kitteredge had come across a document suggesting that an earlier practitioner had actually coined the name for what he saw as vulpine movements-and when Gus tried to interrupt, Malko simply ignored him.

“There is no way this is going to end well,” Shawn said.

“Since when are you so concerned about our safety?” Gus said.