Something pierced the cafe’s front window from outside, spiderwebbing the glass.
My immediate reaction was that someone had thrown a small stone at the window, but suddenly Gray jerked backward, and began to topple sideways toward the floor. I tried to grab his wrist to stop his fall, but I wasn’t quick enough.
A woman screamed-and a man yelled, “Gunshot!”
The instinct for self-preservation kicked in. I threw myself onto the floor, below the level of the window.
More screams. A babble of voices. A table turned over. Silverware clattered, dishes broke. Footsteps pounded toward the rear of the cafe.
Roland Gray lay a few feet in front of me. He was still, and his eyes were closed. Icy tentacles of fear knotted into a ball in my chest. I stretched my arm to give him a gentle prod on his shoulder. “Roland?”
He didn’t move.
On my hands and knees, I inched closer to Gray’s body.
Blood oozed from a red crease that ran across his forehead.
In the distance, I heard the faint shriek of sirens.
21
I searched for a pulse in Roland Gray’s throat and found a beat. It was faint, but he was alive. The blood from his head wound was matting his hair. Praying that the bullet had only grazed him, instead of penetrating deeper, I grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the table and pressed them against his bleeding forehead.
“Roland, can you hear me? Roland?”
No answer.
The sirens were closer now. Mercifully, there hadn’t been any more shots.
“Hang on, Roland. Help is almost here. Hang on.”
A paramedic van screeched to a stop in front of the cafe, double-parking next to the blue Rolls. Two emergency medical technicians jumped out. A man and a woman. The woman carried a medical kit. The man wheeled a gurney.
As soon as they were in the doorway, I waved my free hand at the EMTs and yelled, “In here-he’s been shot!”
The paramedics reached us at a trot. Immediately, I stepped back to get out of their way. Quick and focused, they bent over Roland, working on him. I couldn’t see what they were doing, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. All I could do was stand with my fingers laced together tightly in front of my chest and hope.
Seconds behind the paramedic van, a City of Santa Monica police car zoomed into view and came to a squealing stop. Two officers in uniform got out: one young and short-probably the minimum height for admittance to the academy-and the other older and a head taller. The older officer began to clear people away from the entrance to Caffeine an’ Stuff. The younger one hurried into the cafe, surveyed the scene, saw the EMTs at work, and used his mobile phone. I guessed he was calling for reinforcements.
Shocked customers watched the paramedics and the arrival of the police. Some started to chatter among themselves. Others moved toward the paramedics, craning their necks to get a better look at the star of this drama. The police officer ordered them to back off.
Two middle-aged men, in nearly matching leather jackets worn over T-shirts advertising a rock group I’d never heard of, demanded to know when they could leave.
“When we’ve taken statements,” the younger officer said. “Stay calm, everybody. Complaining won’t make things go any faster.”
He conferred with the paramedics. I saw the female EMT nod at me. The officer headed in my direction, taking a notebook out of his shirt pocket. When he reached me, I saw the nameplate on his chest identified him as Officer Currie.
With his pencil poised over his notebook, he said, “You were sitting with the guy who got shot?”
“Yes.”
Looking past Officer Currie, I saw the paramedics lifting Roland onto the gurney. They’d put an oxygen mask over his face.
“Officer, you talked to the paramedics-is my friend going to be all right?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“What hospital are they taking him to?”
“I can’t give you that information. Your name, ma’am.”
“Della Carmichael.”
“Address?”
I gave it to him.
“Do you have some ID, ma’am?”
“Of course.” I fumbled in my purse and found my wallet. I opened it to the driver’s license window and showed it to him.
“Remove the license, please, ma’am.”
I did as instructed and watched him study my photo as though he was trying to connect it with someone he’d seen on
He handed it back to me and nodded toward the direction of the stretcher the paramedics were placing in their van. “And who was he?”
Was?
“Please don’t talk about my friend as though he’s dead!”
“Sorry, ma’am. What is the name of the victim?”
I told him. He didn’t seem to recognize it.
Officer Currie was about to ask another question but I stopped him. “Wait. You should notify Detective Manny Hatch at West Bureau about this. He’s handling a murder case that could be connected to what happened here.”
He cocked his head and frowned at me with doubt, but he used his mobile to call West Bureau.
Twenty minutes later, more police officers had arrived on the scene. They used their vehicles and road flares to shut the street down. The area around the cafe was marked off with crime scene tape. A team from the Scientific Investigation Division had arrived. The SID technicians were photo-documenting the scene and searching for clues.
Three members of this law enforcement army were taking statements and contact information from the customers and employees of Caffeine an’ Stuff. Two more were questioning the people who had been sitting outside when the shot was fired.
Per Officer Currie’s order, I’d remained at the table and was watching the activity outside through the sunburst of cracks around the bullet hole in the front window. It wasn’t long before I saw a brown Crown Victoria with a red bubble light clapped to its top being let through the police barricade. It slammed to a stop next to Roland’s blue Rolls.
Detective Hatch got out of the Crown Vic. I’d expected to see him because I’d suggested he be called, but I was surprised to see Hugh Weaver with him.
The two detectives stepped carefully around the area where the techs were working and came into the cafe. They flashed their badges at Officer Currie. A few brief words were exchanged. Hatch pivoted toward me. Weaver’s eyebrows lifted in an expression of surprise when he saw me. The two detectives marched in my direction.
Detective Hatch demanded of me, “What happened?”
Choosing my words carefully to keep Hatch from learning that I was here to try to find out who killed Ingram- and possibly inviting a charge of interfering with a police investigation-I stuck to the barest of facts. “Roland Gray phoned to invite me out to coffee. I met him here.”
