stories below took him to the window, where he saw a squad car tearing out of the parking lot. The top carried the number 24 on it. Dean wondered if it could possibly be Peggy Carson. His mind flashed back to Peggy at the side of the corpse, and he wondered if, given her state of mind, she had not lifted an extension to deliberately eavesdrop on his and Ken's discussion. If so, she now knew of Dean's suspicions regarding Park. Could she possibly be acting on those suspicions in haste at this moment?
Dean quickly dialed dispatch downstairs, identified himself, and asked if he could be put in touch with Officer Peggy Carson at that moment.
'Officer Carson is off duty, sir,” replied the female voice.
'Can you tell me what her squad car number is?'
It took a moment for the response, Dean listening to the keyboard of a computer being punched repeatedly. “Twenty-four, sir.'
Peggy had just taken her squad car without authorization, and that was enough for Dean to know where she was going.
'I need a car and the address of Lt. David Park,” he told the dispatch officer.
'The motor pool can oblige you with a car, Dr. Grant, but I cannot give out the address of an officer without form A-213 in triplicate, or a warrant from a—'
'Damn it, this is an emergency!'
'Would you like 911?'
'No, no!” Dean wanted to stop Peggy, not get her busted.
'I can beep for Lt. Park, sir. Have him get in contact with you.'
'No, no—get me Dyer, Frank Dyer.'
Dean would try another way for the address.
'I'll be happy to start the paperwork for the unit, sir, and when you come on down, Dr. Grant, and sign the form, then I could fill it out for you and run it through channels. I'm sorry, but it's policy now. I'll let them know in the motor pool you're on your way. And I have Detective Sargeant Dyer on the line for you now.'
'Great.'
Dyer came on. “Dr. Grant, what's up?'
'I need help, Frank.'
'Anything I can do, you've got it.'
'Is Park with you?'
'No, he's knocked off for tonight'
'I need transportation, a siren, fast.'
'All right, meet me in the lot.'
'Frank?'
'Yeah, doc?'
'Don't bring Park in on this one.'
'Sure ... sure...'
Dean rushed out, unaware that someone stood at the end of the hallway in deep shadow watching his movements as he locked the final door and raced for the lot, bumping into strangers as he went.
NINE
Peggy Carson wondered if she should not call in her partner, wondered why she was driven to do this thing alone, driven to disregard the law and her own morals. Eavesdropping had never been her style. The cruiser sped directly for her destination, smoothly and silently taking her to the scalpers. She fantasized blowing their frigging heads off with her arsenal of weapons. The unit was equipped with a shotgun, and with her she had a .38 Smith and Wesson. A third gun, a long-barrelled .45, her own, was resting between her thighs at the moment.
It was seeing the dead girl, or what remained of her, and knowing in her heart that the girl had become a surrogate for death, a stand-in for Peggy herself, that was pushing the usually self-contained Officer Carson to a brink she had not known since childhood, when she had wanted more than anything in life to see a man killed.
As the car bumped over tracks and wound its way into Park's neighborhood, Peggy thought of the lonely Jane Doe on the slab. She would be alive today if Peggy had been killed that night herself. Dean said as much when he told her the killers had been in search of a black female's scalp. And now, with Dean Grant pointing the finger at Lt. David Park, Peggy felt she must do something—anything but go home. She felt an urgency like never before. She believed others like herself were at this moment being stalked by the bastards all the other cops were now calling the Scalpers. She wanted more than anything to blow their scalps off with her .45, and she wanted to see the little dwarf's body bleeding from as many holes as her shotgun could inflict. She wanted to see his body bounce from the impact of the weapon. And she wanted to see that cold son-of-a-bitch, Park, pay for his part in all this.
No, she couldn't just go home to an empty house and stay wide-eyed for ten hours, staring at the ceiling. Neither sex nor food nor any other band-aid solution was workable any longer. Nothing could stop the hurt but vengeance, vengeance for all those who had agonizingly died at the hands of butchers working over them while they remained alive. After seeing, really seeing, the truth, there was now no varnishing it or hiding from it. If she didn't take action, another black child would be dead tonight.
She had prior knowledge of Park's address, an apartment building near the bustling intersection of 436 and Interstate 4. The apartment complex was laid out like a Holiday Inn, a low-lying, rambling structure, wrapped around by a twisting parking lot filled with cars of every size and make. One of them she passed looked like Park's. He must be here. A confrontation was quite likely.
She pulled up to his door quietly and parked. Unsure what her next move might be, she tucked the .45 into her belt at the spine and unlatched the holster on her hip to free up the .38, opting to leave the shotgun on its rack. In a moment she was at Park's door, trying to see through the curtains into the dark interior. When she drove up she'd thought there was a light on, but not now. She rapped once, twice, three times and got no answer. She could've been mistaken about the light, but maybe not She knocked loudly again.
When it was obvious no one was going to answer, she determined the direction of the manager's office. The easiest way to gain entry was to flash her badge and “badger” the night manager into opening Park's door. It would be illegal entry, and anything she might gain from the process would be inadmissible in a court of law, but she had to know if Grant was right about Park or not ... and if he was right, perhaps she'd find a way to bypass the courts.
She turned to see a woman in an agitated state coming toward her, asking, “Can I help you, officer? What's the problem?” Keys jangled from a loop in the woman's jeans. The night man had turned out to be a woman.
'I need a key to this unit.'
'Is there something wrong?'
'Possibly—and possibly just a false alarm. Got a call about a disturbance.'
'Not from me, you didn't.” She began to bang on the door without result, calling out, “Mr. Park? You in there?'
'Please ma'am, the key,” said Peggy, taking out her long-barreled .45 as it was beginning to irritate her back anyway. “Or do I blow off the lock?'
The woman's eyes grew fearful at the sight of the gun. “All right ... all right.” She unhinged the key for Peggy and backed off, asking, “You want I should call the owner ... or anyone?'
'Not at this time. It could be a false alarm, ma'am.'
'I'm going back to the office,” she muttered. “No one inside there anyway.'
Peggy wasn't so sure and she was sweating badly enough to tear away the bandage over her forehead, revealing the still healing and stitched scar put there by the scalper. She took a minute to return to the unit and snatch out the shotgun, just in case.
Had he seen her pull up? she wondered. Was he inside, pretending not to be? She imagined him pressed against the other side of the door. On entering, he planned to jump her.
'Lt. Park!” she said through the door, “Open up, it's ... it's Officer Carson. I have to talk to you.'
Still no answer.
She listened for sounds, breathing, anything. Someone peeked out the door next to Park's, curious, taking a good, long look at Peggy, who by now knew that whatever went down, she was not going to get through it
