At Sword's Point (4 page)

Following the policeman's gesture, Eberle saw two men in plain clothes interviewing a small, gray-haired man in the loden-green uniform and heavy boots of a forester. He tried to pick his way around the worst of the mud as he slogged over to where they stood talking.

"No, I tell you again," the forester was saying. "Camping is not permitted in this part of the woods. I don't know how they came to be here."

One of the officers glanced up as the old man continued trying to shift any responsibility for the location of the murders onto someone else. Eberle held up his ID, and the man nodded and moved back a step.

"Excuse me," Eberle said, interrupting the forester. "When did you discover the bodies?"

"It was about eight-thirty this morning," the old man answered.

Eberle looked at his watch. Almost four hours ago.

"I see," he said. "And when did you contact the police, Herr Forstmeister?"

At the mention of his title, the little man drew himself up into attention. "About half an hour later, sir."

"I see," Eberle said. "And I gather that camping is not usually permitted here."

"No, sir, although many young couples do pitch their tents in the woods for—" The forester cleared his throat. "For privacy, if you like."

"So, what brought you here?" Eberle asked.

"Last night, about midnight, people in the campgrounds farther to the north complained of being awakened by the sound of hunting horns. It lasted about ten minutes, then it stopped. This morning I came up here to see if there had been poachers in the woods last night."

The forester fiddled nervously with the
gamsbart
on the side of his hat. Eberle eyed him for several seconds before speaking.

"Thank you, Herr Forstmeister. Please give these gentlemen your name and address. We will contact you if we need any further assistance."

The forester saluted, and Eberle nodded in return, then turned and headed over to where Steinmazel knelt a few feet away from the body of the young man.

"Found anything?" he called out as he approached the forensic technician.

"Yeah," Steinmazel replied, carefully pouring quick-setting plaster into a shallow depression on the ground. "I've got a very clear footprint here."

"Not one of our nimble-footed local cops?" Eberle said, dropping down next to Steinmazel.

"Nope. It's a footprint, not a shoe-print—a bare foot, probably a man's, judging by the size of it." Steinmazel carefully finished pouring the plaster. "I'll show it to you in a few more minutes, when it's set up."

The two men stood up.

"Any chance that it's the victim's track?" Eberle asked.

"Not unless he put his socks on after he had his head chopped off." Steinmazel inclined his head toward the torso. The bottoms of the dead man's socks were caked in mud.

"So, Bubi, how do you read it?" Eberle asked.

Steinmazel cast a calculating look toward the body and the tent, then back at Eberle.

"I figure he was standing here, facing the direction he fell," he said, "when someone came up from behind and cut his head off." He crouched back down and carefully lifted the plaster cast clear of the mud. Turning it over, he gave a grunt of satisfaction and held it up for Eberle's inspection.

"Just as I thought. See how the impression is deeper along the outside edge of the foot?" Eberle nodded. "That's because the assailant's weight shifted in that direction as he swung the weapon that took off the kid's head." Steinmazel stood up and handed Eberle the plaster cast.

"Find a barefoot man with a two-handed sword, and you've got your killer," he said.

"Thanks, Bubi—I think." Eberle stared at the plaster impression of a man's foot for several seconds.

"Bubi, look for more footprints around here. I've got a hunch our killer wasn't alone."

Drummond's secretary had very kindly arranged the manila file folders on his desk into three neat piles: pending, ongoing, and closed. The prospect of going through them all was daunting, but it was better than thinking too hard about what had happened where he was during the two weeks he had been away. To ease back into the routine, he decided to start the day with the pile marked "closed." He picked up the topmost folder, opened it, and read through the arresting officer's report while he had a cup of coffee.

The suspect was a black female, age 62. The victim, described in the report as her boyfriend, was a black male, age 68. According to eye-witnesses, the woman, Ola Mae Harrell, had had an argument with Eugene Tubbs, the victim, shortly before he was killed. Following a heated exchange of words, Tubbs had left the second-floor apartment of the motel, gone downstairs, and was walking past the balcony when Ola Mae dropped a large watermelon on his head, killing him instantly.

Drummond chuckled drily to himself, initialed the report, and dropped it in the "out" tray on his desk, ready to send on to the DAs office for action. He had just picked up the next file when Sandy Morwood stuck his head around the door and tapped on the glass, grinning.

"Hey, John. Good to have you back. Mind if I come in and visit?"

"Sure, Sandy, pull up a seat. How are things on FLASH?"

Morwood flopped into a chair opposite Drummond, nearly spilling his coffee. He was the federal liaison agent for FLASH—Federal Legal Assistance in Solving Homicides—and drew his salary from the Department of Justice.

"Oh, just the usual nonsense. We brought a new computer on-line, it ought to make things run even better. Nothing very interesting while you were gone, though." Morwood sipped his coffee. "Anything interesting on your desk?"

Careful to keep a straight face, Drummond retrieved the watermelon murder file and slid it over to the federal agent.

"Just this. Hope it isn't a copy-cat killing."

Drummond opened the next folder in the "closed" pile and pretended to start skimming it, waiting for the explosion. Morwood nearly choked on his coffee when he got to the part of the report that described the late "Mr. Tubbs" as having been driven into the ground like a tent peg by the force of the falling watermelon.

"God, John," Morwood said between hoots of laughter, "this is funny. Do you mind if I send it out over FLASH?"

Drummond's answer was interrupted by the soft buzzing of his intercom.

"Yes, Alicia. What is it?" Drummond lifted his finger from the red bar on the squawk box.

"There are two men here to see you from the Israeli Consulate,
Capitan
." Alicia only used Drummond's rank to impress visitors. "Can you see them now?"

"Sure. Send them in." Drummond gave Morwood an apologetic shrug as the agent stood up to leave. Morwood nodded good-naturedly as he brushed past the two men just coming in, and as they closed the door behind them, walked over to the pert Chicana who was Drummond's secretary,

"Alicia, are those guys who just went into John's office supposed to be from the Israeli Consulate?" he asked quietly, bending over her desk.

"Sure. They had ID. Why?" She wrinkled her nose slightly as she answered Morwood's question.

"Because they're both packing iron," Morwood said. "You'd better alert security."

The two men opposite Drummond were well tanned and neatly dressed, but their dark suits were not quite well enough cut to totally mask the bulges under their arms. One look at their heavily scarred knuckles told Drummond that these were no ordinary diplomats.

"Gentlemen, please sit down." Drummond gave them his best public relations smile as he indicated two chairs on the other side of his desk.

As the Israelis settled down, the taller of the pair introduced himself.

"I'm Moses Trostler, and this is my assistant, Abe Meier." The thickset man to his right grunted. "We were hoping that you might be able to answer a few 'unofficial' questions for us." Trostler's English was perfect, without a trace of accent.

"My secretary said you were with the Israeli Consulate," Drummond said politely. "Do you mind telling me what you do?"

Meier shifted in his chair, but Trostler remained impassive as he said, "Not at all. Let's just say that we're with special security at the consulate."

"I see." Drummond left his public relations smile turned on. "What can I do for you?"

Meier leaned forward, both hands on Drummond's desk. "You can cut out the crap, for starters. We know all about you and your Nazi pals in Vienna."

His voice rasped with menace. Out of the corner of his eye, Drummond watched Trostler's reaction to his partner's aggressive display. Nothing in the Israeli's body language indicated any surprise at Meier's outburst.

So
that's it
, Drummond thought.
Good cop, Bad cop. And well-rehearsed, too
.

"Suppose you refresh my memory, Mr. Meier," he said, "and tell me all about it."

Meier's face darkened with rage, and he half stood up before Trostler's even voice cut across the growing tension.

"Captain Drummond. Who your friends are—well, it really doesn't matter. Just so long as it doesn't affect your career. All we want is a little cooperation, that's all." Trostler's threat said it all: play ball, or we'll go to your boss.

"Yeah," Meier said. "Cooperation. Like you gave your friends who killed Hans Stucke."

Drummond decided that it was time to terminate the meeting, but on his terms. Stretching one foot farther under his desk, he pushed a floor button that triggered a silent alarm outside his office. Through the glass wall behind the two Israelis, he could see two uniformed officers with shotguns already making their way toward his office, Morwood behind them, signaling the secretaries to leave the outer office.

"Gentlemen," Drummond said, as he stood up, "you are both under arrest."

Meier jumped to his feet. "Listen here—!"

The first officer through the door jammed his shotgun into the back of Meier's neck and ordered, "Freeze, asshole! Just move and I'll paint the walls with your brains."

Trostler remained impassive as Meier was shoved facedown across Drummond's desk by one of the cops.

"Captain Drummond, we have full diplomatic immun—"

"Hands on your head!" the other cop barked, underlining the command with a shotgun barrel in Trostler's back.

As Trostler obeyed, Drummond leaned across his desk and removed a large automatic pistol from the man's shoulder holster.

"Desert Eagle .357 Magnum." Drummond dropped the piece into his trash can with a metallic clatter. "It's a felony to bring a concealed weapon into a municipal building, Mr. Trostler." Sliding his hand into Meier's jacket, he pulled out another automatic. "Matching pair. Hope for your sake they're registered, Mr. Meier." It followed the other gun into the trash. As the Desert Eagle crashed into the tin wastebasket, Meier pushed himself up off the desk and made a grab for the policeman's shotgun.

"You fuckin' sonofabitch—"

Meier's outburst was cut short by the sound of the butt of a shotgun being cracked against the back of his skull. Knees buckling but hands still grabbing at the weapon's barrel, Meier sagged at the feet of the officer he had tried to attack. A knee in dark blue serge snapped up, catching the Israeli on the point of his chin and splitting his lip as it snapped his head back.

Reeling under the impact, Meier slowly crumpled facedown on the floor of the office. Trostler had not moved, with the second shotgun still jammed against his kidneys. Stepping from behind his desk, Drummond bent down and snapped a set of handcuffs on Meier. As one of the officers handed him a second pair, Drummond turned to Trostler and smiled.

"Assume the position, Mose."

Meier was stirring as Drummond cuffed Trostler, Very quickly, the two uniformed officers had the two prisoners on their feet. As they led the two Israelis out of his office, Drummond followed far enough after them to signal Alicia, who was returning to the outer office with the other secretaries.

"Alicia, get someone from Special Investigations up here right away, would you?" he said as she came wide-eyed back to her desk. "And while you're at it," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I suppose you'd better call Internal Affairs."

Returning to his office, he sat down on the corner of his desk and picked up the phone, feeling his adrenalin rush start to recede as he tapped in the extension of his supervisor.

"DeGrazzio here."

The voice was deceptively youthful. Commander Joey DeGrazzio had done two tours of 'Nam as an MP before joining the LAPD in 1965, and despite his initial lack of a college degree had moved up through the ranks to become one of the best homicide investigators in the LAPD. He was now finishing a master's degree in sociology. An outspoken critic of Los Angeles Mayor Tom Bradley, his appointment to deputy chief seemed to be on permanent hold.

"Joey, this is John," Drummond said. "I've just had some big trouble down here. I'd appreciate it if you could come right down."

"IAD?" DeGrazzio asked.

"Yeah, but I've asked 'em in," Drummond replied. "Special Investigations, too. I think I may just have caused an international incident."

"Okay, John. Be right down."

The line went dead, and Drummond replaced the receiver. The phone was hardly in its cradle when it buzzed softly.

It was Alicia, Drummond's secretary.

"The Special Investigations officer" is here, and Internal Affairs will be down in about ten minutes," she said. "Shall I call Commander DeGrazzio?"

"No, thanks. I've already called him."

Drummond replaced the phone just as the Special Investigations officer came in.

"You Drummond?" he asked.

"Yeah. And you… ?"

"Oh, I'm Pete Knickerbocker, Special investigations." He extended his arm and shook hands with Drummond. "You pop the two Israeli 'diplomats'?"

"'Fraid so," Drummond said.

"Well, then, you're gonna be in a world of shit for the next coupla weeks, pal. I've been working the embassies for three years now, and next to Sierra Leone, the Israelis squeak the loudest when you bust one of their people." He grinned at Drummond. "So, whatcha got?"

"This." Drummond reached down and lifted up his trash can, placing it on the desk in front of Knickerbocker. Taking a pencil, he reached in and hooked one of the guns by the trigger guard and lifted it out.

"Well, well, well. Desert Eagle .357 Magnum. You don't get those with your ordinary diplomatic passport," Knickerbocker said. "You bust them for packing in a public building?"

"Yup," Drummond said. "That and a whole cartload of attitude."

Knickerbocker winced. "Nobody got roughed up did they?"

"Sorry, Pete, but one of them got a little out of hand, and security knocked him down with the butt of his shotgun." Drummond smiled apologetically.

"Shit," Knickerbocker said. "I'll head over to the Israeli Consulate and see what I can do. In the meantime—" he pointed to the wastebasket on the desk "—get these over to the lab for a rush job in ballistics. I don't want them crying for their toys when they walk out of here—and they will walk. I give 'em a couple of hours at best."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"I wish I were. See you, Cap."

Knickerbocker turned to leave just as DeGrazzio was entering the small office. There was a slight shuffle at the door as the men stopped to let one another pass and then both stepped forward at the same time.

"Jeeze, this is like the Three Stooges," DeGrazzio said, when he finally got past Knickerbocker. "So, what's up?"

Drummond quickly filled him in as DeGrazzio stood on his tiptoes to peer over the rim of the wastebasket on the desk, looking at the two pistols at the bottom of the can.

"Boy, these are really big," he said. Then, without bothering to look at Drummond, "So, did you have anything to do with the old guy's death in Vienna?"

"No. Like I said, I was just there as a ride-along," Drummond answered.

"Okay, I buy your story." DeGrazzio glanced at his watch. "You go to lunch. I'll run these down to the lab." Picking up the wastebasket, he headed toward the door. "Meanwhile, don't talk to too many people until IAD gets to interview you." Looking into the can one more time, DeGrazzio let out a low whistle.

"Gee, these things are like cannons."

Dropping into the chair behind his desk, Drummond pulled open the top drawer and scooped out his wallet and some loose change. In the back of the drawer was his pistol snug in a soft leather holster. Contrary to his usual routine, Drummond slipped the stainless steel Smith 8c Wesson into the waistband of his trousers before heading out to lunch.