Stuart Woods - Choke

“I understand you very well, sir,” Tommy said, trying very hard to hold on to his temper, “and now I want you to understand me.”

The chief’s eyebrows shot up, his face reddened, and he sat back in his chair. “Go on.”

“I’m not going to arrest Chuck Chandler for the murder of Harry Carras-at least not until I get a lot more evidence-because every instinct that I’ve acquired in twenty years of police work tells me he didn’t commit the murder, and I’m not going to subject a man I believe to be innocent to the ordeal of arrest and all the publicity that follows. I’m going to clear this homicide, one way or another, and if I have to, I’ll do it without my badge, so if that’s what you want, you can have it right now.” Tommy reached into a pocket, retrieved his badge and ID, and set them on the blotter before the chief. “No point in waiting until noon.”

The chief looked at him for a moment longer, then opened his desk drawer, raked Tommy’s badge into it, and slammed it shut. “Big mistake to try and bluff me, Tommy,” he said. “Now take a hike.”

Tommy got up. “I’m sorry you thought I was bluffing, Chief.” He walked out.

Daryl was sitting at his desk watching when Tommy walked out of the chief’s office and out of the squad room. Then the chief appeared in the doorway of his office and bellowed, “Daryl! Get in here!”

Daryl scurried into the chief’s office and started to take a chair.

“Don’t bother to sit down,” the chief said. “I’ll be brief. I want you to go down to the tennis club where Chandler works and if he’s there, arrest him for homicide and haul his ass back down here. If he’s not there, then I hereby authorize a statewide APB. Got that?”

“No, sir,” Daryl said.

“Which part didn’t you get?” the chief demanded, his face red.

“Oh, I got it; I’m just not going to do it. I agree with Tommy; Chandler didn’t do it.”

“All right, then,” the chief said, his voice rising, “get your ass into a uniform and report for foot patrol on the graveyard shift!”

“Uncle Art,” Daryl began.

“Don’t you call me that in this station!” the chief bellowed. “You have your orders, so get out of here.”

Daryl dug into a pocket, then tossed his badge onto the desk between them. “Stick this up your ass, Uncle Arthur!” he yelled, then turned and stalked out.

Tommy was hoofing it down Simonton Street when Daryl pulled up next to him in a sixtiesera Mustang. Tommy stopped and looked at him. “That’s not a police car, is it?”

“I’m not a policeman anymore,” Daryl replied. “Get in.”

Tommy got into the car and closed the door. “You weren’t supposed to do that, Daryl,” he said. “I’ve got a pension to lean on; you’re just starting your career.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Daryl said, flooring the Mustang. “When my mother hears about it she’ll be all over Uncle Art like a hive of bees, and so will his wife. I’ll be back at work tomorrow morning.”

“No shit?” Tommy said.

“No shit. Now, where you want to go?”

“The Olde Island Racquet Club.”

“In thirty seconds,” Daryl said.

When they pulled into the parking lot the first thing they saw was the yellow Porsche, and the second was Chuck Chandler, on the court, giving a tennis lesson to a young couple. They sat at a table next to the court and waited for him to finish.

“Morning, guys,” Chuck said, flopping down next to them and wiping his face with a towel. “How you doing?”

“Where you been, Chuck?” Tommy asked.

“Up in Naples at a tournament; Billy played.”

“How long?”

“All weekend.”

“How’d Billy do?”

“He won the damn thing; there’s going to be no living with him.”

Tommy looked around and saw a black-and-white pull into the parking lot. He turned back to the tennis pro. “Chuck,” he said, “it’s time to get a lawyer, the best one you can find.”

“Jack Spottswood is awful good,” Daryl said. “You want me to call him for you? He’s a friend of my folks.”

Before Chuck could speak, two uniformed policemen were standing next to the table.

“Morning, fellas,” Tommy said. “How’s it going?”

“Tommy,” one of the cops said, “the chief wants to see you and Daryl.”

“Yeah?” Tommy asked. “Tell him I said to go fuck himself.”

Chuck’s mouth fell open.

“He said to bring you both back in cuffs, if necessary,” the cop said. “Tell you the truth, I’d enjoy that.” He grinned.

“Oh, all right,” Tommy said. “We’re right behind you.” He stood up and turned to Chuck. “Maybe you could wait a while longer to take my advice,” he said.

“Okay, thanks,” Chuck replied.

“I’ll let you know if it gets necessary. Come on, Daryl.”

The two former detectives sat before the chief’s desk and waited.

“Okay, we all got a little hot under the collar,” the chief said. “Tommy, I respect your judgment; if you don’t think Chandler’s our man, go on investigating.”

“All right, Chief,” Tommy replied pleasantly.

The chief tossed both men their badges. “What’s your next move?” he asked.

“I want to go to Los Angeles,” Tommy said.

“Los Angeles!” the chief bellowed. “What the hell for?”

“There was a guy named Carman wasted up north of Miami yesterday. He’d been down here talking to Clare Carras. I think there’s a connection, and I want to check it out. It could be very important.”

The chief looked at them both for a moment, then pointed at Daryl. “Not you,” he said. “Tommy, bring me a travel chit, and I’ll sign it.”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy said, and both detectives rose.

“Travel cheap,” the chief said. “I don’t want to get any big bills.”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replied.

“And you,” the chief said, pointing at Daryl. “You ever talk to me that way again, I’ll whip your ass, I don’t care what my sister says.”

“Yes, sir,” Daryl replied.

Both detectives got out of there.

It wasn’t Tommy’s first trip to L.A. Work had taken him there three or four times, so he knew the town a little. He rented a car and drove up to Beverly Hills, then West Hollywood, where he’d booked at a suite hotel on a quiet street. He’d stayed there once before.

Numb from the three-hour time difference, he took a nap that turned into a deep sleep. The California sun was streaming through the windows when he woke up; it was half past nine, and he was hungry. He called down to room service and ordered breakfast.

He hadn’t intended to sleep through the night; he’d wanted to visit Carman’s office when there was no one around. He had a good breakfast, showered, shaved, and left the hotel. Carman’s office was in a three-story, semi-seedy commercial building on Melrose, in a neighborhood that would soon be too expensive for a PI. Tommy found a parking meter up the street and walked back to the building.

He looked up Carman’s name on the building’s directory, then took the elevator up to the third floor. CARMAN INVESTIGATIONS, the sign on the door read. In smaller letters there was an instruction to leave a message on the telephone answering machine if the office was closed. He tried the door; locked. He bent over to inspect the lock, but the door across the hall opened, and a woman strolled down the hall to the ladies’ room. A moment later, someone got off the elevator and went into another office. The place was too busy for messing with locks. He’d have to come back later.

He took the stairs to the ground floor and tried the lock on the stairwell door at each level. He could get into the stairwell, but not out, except to the street, and he couldn’t get in from the street. He walked to the side of the building and looked down a narrow alley. The fire escape seemed to mate with the window at the end of the hallway on each floor.