Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [41]
“Cozy,” she said.
“Crowded,” he corrected. “Let’s go. Hope the dude’s home
Portelain was about to open his door when Johnson’s hand on his arm stopped him. “There he is,” she said, pointing to Warren, who’d come around the corner.
“Doesn’t look like a piano player to me,” Portelain said.
“What’s a piano player supposed to look like?” she asked.
“I don’t know, little and nerdy, long hair, weird
She didn’t bother debating the stereotype as Warren reached the building’s entrance, paused, and noticed the unmarked, illegally parked vehicle. He squinted to see through the tinted glass.
“Let’s take him,” Portelain said.
“Looks like we won’t have to,” Johnson said as Warren approached the car.
Johnson lowered her window. “Hello, Mr. Warren
“What are you, following me?” Warren asked, his lip curled.
“Just need to ask you a few questions,” Johnson replied.
“I’ve already told you, I have nothing to say
“That may be,” she said, “but we’d like to hear you say it again—for the record. Come on, get in. We’ll spend a few pleasant hours at headquarters and that’ll be it. Our boss is anxious to meet you
Warren guffawed, without humor.
“This my partner, Detective Portelain,” Johnson said. “He wanted to meet you, too
Warren, who cradled a thick file folder to the Mozart on the chest of his T-shirt, looked at Portelain. The detective smiled. The young Canadian stepped back from the open window, his expression reflecting his ambivalence. Portelain opened his door and got out. Warren continued backing away.
“Hey, man, don’t do somethin’ silly,” Portelain said as he came around the front of the car. Johnson, too, slipped out of the vehicle.
“Grab him,” Johnson said as Warren turned and started walking up the street at a brisk clip.
Portelain took off after him, taking heavy steps, walking as fast as he could. Johnson ran by him. Seeing her, Warren, too, began to run. Portelain progressed from walking to a lope. He stopped to pull his gun from its shoulder holster, and to take in some air. As he did, he saw Warren disappear around the corner, with Johnson close on his heels. “Oh, man,” Portelain said as he started moving again, hoping his partner could corral Warren. “Get him, baby,” he muttered as he reached the corner and peered down the cross street. Johnson stood on the sidewalk a hundred feet away. “He’s down there,” she yelled at her partner, pointing to a narrow alley that ran between buildings.
Portelain reached her, his breathing labored.
“In the alley,” she said, pointing again. “No way out
Portelain peered down the alley. It ended thirty feet away, at the rear wall of an apartment or commercial building. Both sides were lined with walls high enough to make scaling them virtually impossible unless the Canadian was Spider-Man.
People on the street became aware of the commotion and surrounded the two detectives. Portelain still held his revolver.
“Put it away, Willie,” Johnson said.
He followed her suggestion.
“He’s not armed,” she said.
“Hope not. We call for backup?”
“No
She stepped into the alley, with Portelain close behind.
“I made a collar in here once,” she said. “There’s that Dumpster and some garbage cans
“I see ’em,” Portelain confirmed, still breathing heavily, and wincing at a stitch in his side and a dull ache in his left arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? Hell, yes. Let’s go. We got a crowd
They took slow, tentative steps into the alley, each staying close to a wall and twelve feet from each other, eyes and ears on alert.
“Hey, dude,” Portelain barked. “Let’s not have anybody get hurt here. Let’s wise up and play it cool
There was no response.
They reached a point only a few feet from the Dumpster, overflowing with fragrant garbage, and glanced at each other. The sound of something hitting the Dumpster’s metal side caused them to stiffen.
“Look out!” Portelain yelled as Warren burst from behind the trash container and attempted to run between them. His sudden move caught Johnson by surprise, but Portelain reacted quickly, extending his