together?”
“There were three shots,” he said. “One shot, and two more. In the space of just a few seconds.”
“Three shots? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I exchanged a look with Friedman. Guest had been very specific: Four shots were fired. Had Friedman caught the discrepancy? Should I mention it?
I decided that, for now, silence was safer. There would be plenty of time later for us to confront the suspect with conflicting testimony.
“What’d you do then?” Friedman asked. “After you heard the shots?”
“I kept on going—fast. We got in the car, and drove to Oakland, to the airport.”
“Why Oakland? Why not San Francisco International? Oakland is farther away than San Francisco. Ten miles farther, anyhow.”
“When I heard the shots,” he answered, “I realized that there could be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I—I didn’t stop to analyze it. I remember thinking, though, that someone might be coming after us. You—the police. So I thought Oakland might be safer.”
To myself, I nodded, secretly feeling smug. He’d done exactly what I’d told Guest he might do. After Quade had appeared, and they’d exchanged shots, Kramer realized that San Francisco International would be covered.
“You were going to New York,” Friedman said.
He shook his head. “Not directly. I was going down to Los Angeles. Then I was going to take an early flight to New York.”
“Why’d you want to go to Los Angeles?” Friedman asked.
“For the same reason I went to Oakland. To keep from getting caught.”
“Did you have reservations?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t need them, to Los Angeles. That’s a shuttle. When I got to L.A., I intended to make reservations to New York.”
“You were running, then,” Friedman said. “You were running hard.”
Kramer made no response.
Glancing at his notes, Friedman asked, “Where did you stay in San Francisco? What hotel?”
“The Clift.”
“Did you register under your own name?”
“Yes.”
“How about car rental?”
“Hertz. Under my own name.”
“Did you turn in the car at the Oakland airport?”
“Yes.”
Friedman nodded, then looked at me, signifying that he’d heard enough for now. I nodded in return. As Friedman folded his notebook and slipped it into his pocket, he said, “The way it seems to me, Mr. Kramer, you came to San Francisco intending to take your son and leave town with as little fuss as possible. But you made a mistake. A very common mistake, I’m afraid.”
Kramer didn’t reply. He sat silently, lifting his head as Friedman rose to his feet, his eyes on Friedman’s face. Behind the fashionable glasses, Kramer’s eyes were hollow, smudged by fatigue, haunted by sudden hopelessness, and fear.
“You bought a gun,” Friedman said softly. “That was your mistake. You bought a gun. And you used it.”
FIVE
F RIEDMAN AND I SPENT the next hour eating pre-packaged lunch from a tray in the Hall of Justice basement cafeteria while we discussed the Quade homicide. We decided that, as usual, Friedman would work “inside,” coordinating information from the crime lab, and the coroner’s office and, later, from the FBI, in Washington. I would do the leg work. We agreed that I should interrogate Marie Kramer and Lester Bennett, the private investigator hired by Gordon Kramer to steal the boy. If I could manage it, I’d try to interrogate John Kramer, too. At age six, his testimony might not be admissible in court. But he could have the answers to some questions that might mean life or death for his father.
After we’d eaten I went home, took off my shoes, lay down on the living room couch, and tried to sleep. Ann and her two sons were out, and I had the flat to myself. But I’d been asleep for only twenty minutes when Billy, Ann’s younger son, came home—chortling. He’d been surf fishing off Ocean Beach, and had caught a twelve-pound striper. First, he apologized for
“There were three shots,” he said. “One shot, and two more. In the space of just a few seconds.”
“Three shots? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
I exchanged a look with Friedman. Guest had been very specific: Four shots were fired. Had Friedman caught the discrepancy? Should I mention it?
I decided that, for now, silence was safer. There would be plenty of time later for us to confront the suspect with conflicting testimony.
“What’d you do then?” Friedman asked. “After you heard the shots?”
“I kept on going—fast. We got in the car, and drove to Oakland, to the airport.”
“Why Oakland? Why not San Francisco International? Oakland is farther away than San Francisco. Ten miles farther, anyhow.”
“When I heard the shots,” he answered, “I realized that there could be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I—I didn’t stop to analyze it. I remember thinking, though, that someone might be coming after us. You—the police. So I thought Oakland might be safer.”
To myself, I nodded, secretly feeling smug. He’d done exactly what I’d told Guest he might do. After Quade had appeared, and they’d exchanged shots, Kramer realized that San Francisco International would be covered.
“You were going to New York,” Friedman said.
He shook his head. “Not directly. I was going down to Los Angeles. Then I was going to take an early flight to New York.”
“Why’d you want to go to Los Angeles?” Friedman asked.
“For the same reason I went to Oakland. To keep from getting caught.”
“Did you have reservations?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t need them, to Los Angeles. That’s a shuttle. When I got to L.A., I intended to make reservations to New York.”
“You were running, then,” Friedman said. “You were running hard.”
Kramer made no response.
Glancing at his notes, Friedman asked, “Where did you stay in San Francisco? What hotel?”
“The Clift.”
“Did you register under your own name?”
“Yes.”
“How about car rental?”
“Hertz. Under my own name.”
“Did you turn in the car at the Oakland airport?”
“Yes.”
Friedman nodded, then looked at me, signifying that he’d heard enough for now. I nodded in return. As Friedman folded his notebook and slipped it into his pocket, he said, “The way it seems to me, Mr. Kramer, you came to San Francisco intending to take your son and leave town with as little fuss as possible. But you made a mistake. A very common mistake, I’m afraid.”
Kramer didn’t reply. He sat silently, lifting his head as Friedman rose to his feet, his eyes on Friedman’s face. Behind the fashionable glasses, Kramer’s eyes were hollow, smudged by fatigue, haunted by sudden hopelessness, and fear.
“You bought a gun,” Friedman said softly. “That was your mistake. You bought a gun. And you used it.”
FIVE
F RIEDMAN AND I SPENT the next hour eating pre-packaged lunch from a tray in the Hall of Justice basement cafeteria while we discussed the Quade homicide. We decided that, as usual, Friedman would work “inside,” coordinating information from the crime lab, and the coroner’s office and, later, from the FBI, in Washington. I would do the leg work. We agreed that I should interrogate Marie Kramer and Lester Bennett, the private investigator hired by Gordon Kramer to steal the boy. If I could manage it, I’d try to interrogate John Kramer, too. At age six, his testimony might not be admissible in court. But he could have the answers to some questions that might mean life or death for his father.
After we’d eaten I went home, took off my shoes, lay down on the living room couch, and tried to sleep. Ann and her two sons were out, and I had the flat to myself. But I’d been asleep for only twenty minutes when Billy, Ann’s younger son, came home—chortling. He’d been surf fishing off Ocean Beach, and had caught a twelve-pound striper. First, he apologized for
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