block away I saw Jo's green Suburban parked at the curb. I didn't want to come sliding in hot, squealing rubber because I didn't know what kind of a situation I had and didn't want to announce myself with a high-speed, tire- smoking stop. I pulled over half a block up, unholstered my Beretta, then made a low run across the street and up the grass onto the front porch at 346.
Nobody seemed to be home. The house was a small one-story, wood-sided number, badly in need of paint. The yard was overgrown. It looked deserted, but if Vincent had bought it as a place to hide out after the shoot-out, I didn't see him wasting a lot of time on maintenance.
Then I heard a gun shot.
Seconds later I heard a car start in the back of the house. I ran to the corner of the porch and peeked down the driveway. A huge black Ram 2500 truck, with high-suspension and dual tires on the rear, came flying right at me. Smiley was behind the wheel. At least I think it was him. He was wearing a woman's blonde wig, lipstick, and hoop earrings. Man-sized muscular forearms gripped the wheel. I jumped back as he roared past. Then I fired three shots at the fleeing truck. I broke some glass, but that was about it.
The black-and-white patrol car was just screaming up Hillside, going Code-3. Smiley steered the bigfoot Dodge right at it. In this deadly game of chicken, the huge, high-centered, pipe-grilled truck was bound to win. At the last moment Adam-22 swerved, hit the curb, and blew out its suspension skiding up on somebody's front lawn, tearing deep furrows in the grass. The Dodge disappeared up the street, smoking rubber around the corner. I knew Jo had to be in big trouble, but my first duty was to get Adam-22 back into the pursuit. I ran toward the squad car holding my badge out in front of me.
'LAPD! Take the black Acura. Go after him.' I threw my keys at them. 'He's a cop killer! Get it on the radio! Ida-May-Victor, five-eight-seven.' I yelled the truck's plate number and immediately one of the cops was putting it out on the air while the other ran to my car. He got in my Acura, his partner finished his broadcast and dove in beside him. They squealed away up the street after the Dodge truck.
I ran back to the house with my gun drawn, heading up the driveway, moving fast, but carefully.
Jo was lying up on the back patio, a messy hole, high in her chest. I ran to her and kneeled down, put my hand on her throat to check for a heartbeat. The bullet had entered just above her heart and had gone through her lung, blowing out a large exit hole in her back.
After a minute, Jo opened her eyes, looked up at me and started to speak.
'Save your strength,' I said. Then I took off my jacket and slid it underneath her, putting it over the larger exit wound in her back making a compress, pushing it tight.
She started to cough.
I grabbed my cell, dialed 911, ordered an ambulance, and put out an officer down. Then I prayed they'd get there in time.
Jo's face was turning pale and slick, her eyes were losing focus. I stroked her forehead and held her hand.
'This still ain't gonna get you laid, Hoss,' she whispered softly.
Chapter 39
Jo didn't speak again and lapsed into unconsciousness. I was holding her in my lap, watching the life leak out of her. Finally I heard the ambulance siren arrive out front, and the EMTs pulled into the drive. I yelled out and they quickly found us in the back.
The rest was a blur. I wandered around in the backyard trying to keep my wits about me as they loaded her on a gurney and set up an IV bag. I felt weak and nauseous. I was shaking, beginning to come unstrapped.
They lifted Jo into the ambulance and I hitched a ride, sitting in the front seat of the rescue unit with Jo's black leather purse in my lap.
'Get this thing moving,' I snapped at the driver who was slowly edging the big ambulance out onto the street.
Then we were speeding out of Inglewood on the way to the L. A. County King/Drew Medical Center, which was only five miles away. The siren heehawed, clearing traffic all the way down Crenshaw Boulevard to the hospital.
I found a spot in the E. R. waiting room as anxious surgeons ran down from the O. R. upstairs. Finally, I opened Jo's purse and used her cell phone to call her office. I told her lieutenant supervisor what happened, then hung up and scrolled through the numbers. I found a listing for bollinger, br. Bridget? I pushed dial and in a moment I had Sheedy, Long, and Bollinger Advertising.
'Is Bridget Bollinger there?'
'Ms. Bollinger? Just a minute,' the operator said. Then I was connected with some guy in New Accounts.
'I'm trying to speak with Bridget Bollinger,' I told him.
'Who may I say is calling?'
'I'm a friend of Josephine Brickhouse's.'
'Moment, please,' he said and put me on hold. I was listening to an inane muffler shop jingle.
He came back on a minute later.
'Ms. Bollinger cannot be disturbed. She's with an account,' he said.
'Hey, Sonny-this is Sergeant Scully, LAPD, and it's a police matter. You tell Ms. Bollinger to get her ass on the phone right now or I'll come down there and put the whole building in cuffs.'
I was shaking, my nerves and emotions in a boil. Calm down, I lectured myself. This isn't the way you get results. I was back on hold. Then a minute later I heard a female voice that was smooth and coldly inquisitive.
'What's this concerning?' she asked.
I pictured the pretty, black-haired woman with the high cheekbones and structured face.
'Ms. Bollinger, I'm Sergeant Scully, LAPD. Jo Brickhouse and I have been working a case together. She was shot this afternoon. She's in critical condition in L. A. County King/Drew Hospital. I thought you might like to know.'
'Oh, my God!' Bridget said, attitude replaced by anguish. 'Where is the hospital?'
'Wilmington Avenue, south of the one-oh-five.'
'Is she… is she going to be…'
'I don't know. She was hit in the chest, lost a lot of blood. She's in a coma. To be honest, it doesn't look too good. If you want to see her, you'd better get here quick.' I hung up.
They moved Jo upstairs to an O. R.
I waited on the surgical floor while the docs opened her chest and started picking out bullet fragments. The asshole had shot her at point-blank range, using a hollow point, which broke up on impact. They were desperately trying to tie off the bleeders and fix the mess inside her.
I called Alexa and told her what happened.
'Oh my God, Shane. I'm sorry,' she said.
'I tried to get there to warn her. She didn't know about Vincent. She thought she was going to see his sister Susan. He came to the door in a wig, shot her, and took off in a black Dodge truck. I don't know what happened after that, whether they caught him or not. Two blues crashed their unit, so they borrowed my car and went after him.
'I'll find out. Keep your phone on.' She hung up.
Ten minutes later she called back.
'You won't believe it,' she said, 'but the two guys from A-twenty-two tried to bust through an intersection against a red light and got broadsided by a city bus. Both of them are in Baldwin Hills Emergency. Your car is totaled.'
'And Smiley got away?'
'Looks like it,' she said.
Ten or fifteen minutes later people from the Sheriff's Department started showing up. Among them was Jo's
