Carlisle lifted Engels up, and I slung him over my shoulder. He didn’t seem to weigh much. I carried him through the dark apartment and out the door, my three colleagues forming a cordon around me. Covering our tracks, we carefully shut the door behind us. I ran toward my car, the unconscious killer bumping up and down on my back. My heart was beating faster than a trip-hammer and my eyes kept darting in all directions, looking for witnesses to the kidnapping. Dudley threw open the car door and I tossed Engels in a heap into the backseat. He came awake with a stifled scream and Dudley slammed him in the jaw with the butt end of his .45
“Get in back with him, lad,” he whispered. I did, pushing Engels headfirst onto the floorboards. Dick Carlisle got in the driver’s seat and hit the ignition. Dudley got in the passenger side and said very calmly: “You know where to go, Dick. Freddy, keep handsome Eddie out of sight. Lift his head up so he can breathe. Ahhh, yes. Grand.” He reached an arm out the window and gave Mike Breuning the thumbs-up sign. “Gardena, lads,” he said.
We took surface streets to the Hollywood Freeway. Mike was right behind us all the way. Dudley and Carlisle talked nonchalantly of major league baseball. I stared at the bloody swollen face of Eddie Engels and inexplicably thought of Lorna.
We took the Hollywood Freeway to Vermont, and Vermont south. As we passed the U.S.C. campus, Engels started to regain consciousness, his lips blubbering in mute terror. I placed a finger to them. “Ssshhh,” I said.
We stayed that way, Engels pleading with his eyes, until Dudley craned his head around and said, “How’s our friend, lad?”
“He’s still unconscious.”
“Ahhh, yes. Grand. We’ll be there in a few minutes. It’s a safe place, deserted. But I don’t want to take any chances. When Dick pulls over, you wake Eddie up. Put your badge back in your pocket. Keep your gun out of sight. We’re going to walk him in like he’s a drunken pal of ours. You got the picture, lad?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Grand.”
Eddie Engels and I stared at each other. Some minutes passed. We threaded our way in and around the early morning traffic. When Dick Carlisle stopped the car completely I pretended to wake up Engels. He understood, and played along. “Wake up, Engels,” I said. “We’re police officers and we aren’t going to hurt you. We just want to ask you some questions. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” Engels said, breathing shallowly.
“Good. Now I’ll help you out of the car. You’re going to be weak, so hang on to me. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
Carlisle and Smith threw open the doors of the car. I pulled Engels into a sitting position on the backseat. I removed his handcuffs and he rubbed his wrists, which had gone almost blue, and started to sob.
“Quiet now,” Dudley whispered to him. “We’ll have none of that, you understand?”
Engels caught the maniacal look in the big Irishman’s face and understood immediately. He looked at me imploringly. I smiled sympathetically, and felt vague power stirrings: if justice was the imperative, and good guy–bad guy was the method of interrogation, then we were already well on our way.
Mike Breuning pulled up in back of us and tooted his horn. I took my eyes off Engels and checked out the surroundings. We were parked in a garbage-strewn alley in back of what looked like a disused auto court.
“Freddy,” Dudley said, “you go with Mike and open up the room. Make sure no one’s around.”
“Right, skipper.”
I got out of the car, stretching my cramped legs. Mike Breuning clapped me on the back. He was almost feverish in his excitement and praise of Dudley: “I told you old Dud thought of everything, didn’t I? Look at this place,” he said, leading me in through a narrow walkway to a one-story L-shaped collection of tiny connected motel rooms, all painted a faded puke green. “This is great, isn’t it? The place went under during the war, and the guy who owns it won’t sell. He’s waiting for the value to go up. It’s perfect.”