where he could drive all the way through to the next street over. He’s long gone.”
Ronnie and Sid watched the helicopter making its passes high overhead, completing larger and larger circles in its search for the dark car, its rotors beating the air with a deepthrobbing noise. Now and then its spotlight would sweep across a promising sight on a nearby street, go back and stay on it, and then move on.
Sid looked at his watch. “It’s been hours. They could be in Palm Springs or Santa Barbara or Victorville by now, having their third drink.”
Ronnie sighed. “It’s after closing time. But maybe there’s a minibar in their hotel room.”
Sid said, “I wish there were one here.”
They watched the line of five cops walking the straight road away from them, their flashlights sweeping back and forth on the pavement, the gutters, and the weedy margins as they went.
The radio in a nearby cop’s hand said, “Hold up.” There was a brief silence and the voice said, “I’ve got something.”
Two sergeants and a detective hurried down to the spot to join the cop who had spoken. Sid and Ronnie listened to the radio traffic and watched the cops. In a few minutes the officer in charge of the scene, a plump, red-faced detective named Hebert, returned holding a plastic evidence bag with a brass casing. He announced to nobody in particular, “It’s a .308 Winchester. It must have been a hell of a shot from a fast-moving car. About three hundred yards.”
“I was impressed at the time,” said Sid.
Hebert said, “Have either of you thought of a good reason why the two men would shoot at you?”
“Not a good reason,” said Sid. “We were trying to come close enough to see who they were, or get a picture of their plate.”
“We told you about the case we came here to investigate,” said Ronnie. “We were trying to figure out where a victimcould have been dumped in a storm drain a year ago during the storms and end up in North Hollywood. We’re just getting started.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not as though we knew too much, so somebody would want to kill us. We don’t know anything yet. The original homicide detective in North Hollywood, Detective Kapp, had been trying to figure out where the victim was dumped, and we were just here to see if we could sort out which of the leads he had was the right one.”
“I’d say the shooter may have just told you,” said Detective Hebert. “Well, it’s after two a.m. I think we’ve got about all the information you can give us for the moment. If you two want to go home, you can.”
“Thanks,” Sid said.
“We’ll call if we need anything else.”
Sid and Ronnie walked back to their car. Sid got in behind the wheel and looked up at the hole in the windshield and the milky, pulverized safety glass around it.
“I’m alert enough to drive,” Ronnie said. “If you’re about to doze off and kill us both, I’d be delighted to take over.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m feeling alert. That big shot of adrenaline just after night fell got me going, and then standing around for hours didn’t make me tired, just frustrated.” He drove to the end of the road and then south away from the development. The roads at the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley were dark and sparsely traveled at this time of night. It was too late for the bar crowd to come home and too early for the early risers to go to work.
“Did you buy Hebert’s theory that the shooting told us that was where James Ballantine was killed?”
“No. The only thing this told me is that I have to get the windshield replaced. And I feel stupid. It never occurred to me that somebody would decide to follow us today.”
“Well no,” said Ronnie. “We’re supposed to be following them. A fox doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if he’s being stalked by chickens.”
5
Nicole Hoyt picked up the .308 bolt-action rifle, her five-foot-three frame and her small, thin fingers
Ronnie and Sid watched the helicopter making its passes high overhead, completing larger and larger circles in its search for the dark car, its rotors beating the air with a deepthrobbing noise. Now and then its spotlight would sweep across a promising sight on a nearby street, go back and stay on it, and then move on.
Sid looked at his watch. “It’s been hours. They could be in Palm Springs or Santa Barbara or Victorville by now, having their third drink.”
Ronnie sighed. “It’s after closing time. But maybe there’s a minibar in their hotel room.”
Sid said, “I wish there were one here.”
They watched the line of five cops walking the straight road away from them, their flashlights sweeping back and forth on the pavement, the gutters, and the weedy margins as they went.
The radio in a nearby cop’s hand said, “Hold up.” There was a brief silence and the voice said, “I’ve got something.”
Two sergeants and a detective hurried down to the spot to join the cop who had spoken. Sid and Ronnie listened to the radio traffic and watched the cops. In a few minutes the officer in charge of the scene, a plump, red-faced detective named Hebert, returned holding a plastic evidence bag with a brass casing. He announced to nobody in particular, “It’s a .308 Winchester. It must have been a hell of a shot from a fast-moving car. About three hundred yards.”
“I was impressed at the time,” said Sid.
Hebert said, “Have either of you thought of a good reason why the two men would shoot at you?”
“Not a good reason,” said Sid. “We were trying to come close enough to see who they were, or get a picture of their plate.”
“We told you about the case we came here to investigate,” said Ronnie. “We were trying to figure out where a victimcould have been dumped in a storm drain a year ago during the storms and end up in North Hollywood. We’re just getting started.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not as though we knew too much, so somebody would want to kill us. We don’t know anything yet. The original homicide detective in North Hollywood, Detective Kapp, had been trying to figure out where the victim was dumped, and we were just here to see if we could sort out which of the leads he had was the right one.”
“I’d say the shooter may have just told you,” said Detective Hebert. “Well, it’s after two a.m. I think we’ve got about all the information you can give us for the moment. If you two want to go home, you can.”
“Thanks,” Sid said.
“We’ll call if we need anything else.”
Sid and Ronnie walked back to their car. Sid got in behind the wheel and looked up at the hole in the windshield and the milky, pulverized safety glass around it.
“I’m alert enough to drive,” Ronnie said. “If you’re about to doze off and kill us both, I’d be delighted to take over.”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I’m feeling alert. That big shot of adrenaline just after night fell got me going, and then standing around for hours didn’t make me tired, just frustrated.” He drove to the end of the road and then south away from the development. The roads at the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley were dark and sparsely traveled at this time of night. It was too late for the bar crowd to come home and too early for the early risers to go to work.
“Did you buy Hebert’s theory that the shooting told us that was where James Ballantine was killed?”
“No. The only thing this told me is that I have to get the windshield replaced. And I feel stupid. It never occurred to me that somebody would decide to follow us today.”
“Well no,” said Ronnie. “We’re supposed to be following them. A fox doesn’t look over his shoulder to see if he’s being stalked by chickens.”
5
Nicole Hoyt picked up the .308 bolt-action rifle, her five-foot-three frame and her small, thin fingers
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