“D.A.‘s office wants to prosecute you,” Samuelson said.
I nodded.
“Charges include resisting arrest, assault and battery on the Oceania security people, and being a bushleague fucking hot dog.”
“They been talking to your chief of detectives,” I said.
“They were toying with a kidnapping charge, but since the two guys you held were murder suspects, they don’t think it will stand up. But they also got some new hostage laws they want to try out, and they’ll probably charge you under one of them.”
“Good chance for them to practice,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We were quiet. The squad room behind us was nearly empty. Samuelson rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand.
“They want me to bring you down and book you.” The air conditioner under the window behind Samuelson cycled on with a small thump and a sound of air blowing.
“You got an airline ticket?” Samuelson said.
“In my wallet.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We went out of his office. He shut off the lights and closed the door carefully behind him. We walked through the squad room and out of the corridor and took the elevator down to the first floor.
“This way,” Samuelson said.
We walked out the front door and down the steps. The rain had stopped but the dampness still hung in the air. The night was hot and steamy. And you knew it would rain again soon. We walked around the corner and got into an unmarked Chevy sedan. Samuelson drove. We went onto the Harbor Freeway and headed south.
I had my head back against the seat, almost asleep. “You going to book me in Long Beach?” I asked.
“No.”
We turned off the Harbor Freeway at the Santa Monica Freeway and went west.
There was no traffic and Samuelson drove fast. In a few minutes we were in West L.A. We turned off the Santa Monica and onto the San Diego Freeway around a big involute cloverleaf. We went south toward the airport.
It was ten of one when Samuelson headed down Century Boulevard toward the L.A. airport.
“What airline you got a ticket for?” he said.
“American.”
The airport was brilliantly lighted, the lighting making an orange-yellow blur in the mist that seemed to hover over it about twenty feet up. It had the feel of a bright emptiness that a shopping mall has after hours. A single yellow cab rolled past us, going toward L.A. Two airline types in uniform waited at a bus stop in front of the international terminal.
SamueIson parked in front of American and we went in. There was a flight at I:20 for Dallas/Fort Worth that connected for Boston. It was boarding at Gate 46. Samuelson showed his badge to the cop at the security check, and they didn’t make a fuss when the metal detector buzzed at Samuelson’s gun. Mine was back somewhere in a drawer at the homicide bureau.
At Gate 46 Samuelson said to me, “Get on. Go to Boston. When it’s time to testify, I want you back.”
“I thought you were supposed to book me,” I said.
“You escaped as I was bringing you down,” Samuelson said.
“This won’t get you promoted to captain,” I said.
“I flunked the captain’s exam twice already,” Samuelson said. “Just be sure to come back when it’s time to testify.”
“I’ll come back,” I said.
“Yeah,” Samuelson said. “I know.”
I was swaying slightly as we stood there. It was one fifteen. I put out my hand. Sarnuelson shook it. “You did what you could for that broad, Spenser,” Samuelson said. “Including what you did at Oceania afterward.”
I nodded.
“D.A. don’t understand that,” Samuelson said. “Neither does the chief.”
I nodded again.
Samuelson said, “Nobody’s perfect.”
“That’s for goddamn certain,” I said.
I was asleep in my seat before we took off. Except for a half-conscious plane change in Dallas I slept straight through to Boston and dreamed of Susan Silverman all the way home.
