.38

4:59 p.m.

Steve Rackstraw was sitting in front of a mixing-board with a large pair of headphones over his ears, humming inaudibly to himself. Around him there were lights and dials and recording-level meters. The studio itself was not very large. One side was reserved for technicians, the other half for musicians. A booth in the far corner set the drummer off by himself.

Right now—except for Rackstraw—the studio was empty. Not aware that Spann and Scarlett had jimmied the front door with a piece of celluloid, he removed a small silver coke-spoon shaped like a bone from his pocket and dipped it into a glassine envelope filled with white powder. Scarlett waited till the man had finished his snort before he stepped out into the open.

Rackstraw dropped the coke-spoon the second he saw the man. He ripped the headphones from his head.

"Well if it isn't Sergeant Preston and his sidekick, Dickless Tracy. You got a warrant?" he asked, recovering quickly.

"No," Scarlett said.

"Then get the hell outa here, before I call my lawyer."

Scarlett crossed over to the man and seized the glassine envelope. "You were going to produce Hardy," he said.

"Get out."

"Where is he?"

"Get out, I said."

"Blow it out your ass!"

Rackstraw reached for a telephone, but stopped the moment that Scarlett put the .38 to his head. The spreading effect of the cocaine helped him visualize a third eye in his face.

"Get up!" Scarlett ordered.

"Hey, man. Take it easy. What sort of shit is this?"

"Get up," Scarlett repeated, and with his other hand he jerked the man to his feet. "Now downstairs."

"Just keep cool," Rackstraw said, his voice beginning to falter and paranoia in his eyes. The sour smell of fear was starting to seep from his pores. His glance darted to Spann as if for an explanation. "Why downstairs? What are you planning to do?"

"If you don't get moving," Scarlett said, "I'm going to ventilate your head right here and now. Move!"

"Better do as he says," Spann said with a shrug. Her eyes never left Scarlett, nor his finger on the trigger.

"But why downstairs?" the man asked again.

"So the shots won't be heard."

As Rackstraw's mouth dropped open in disbelief, Scarlett struck out with the pistol and hit one of his front teeth. With a crack the enamel shattered. The man's lip split and blood began to fill his mouth. "Are you crazy?" he shrieked.

As Scarlett cocked the pistol, Rackstraw moved toward the door. The two cops watched him open it and followed him downstairs. Spann Was very concerned. She was about to speak when Scarlett turned around and said: "Cover this asshole."

For a moment she hesitated, then took out her revolver. She stood on the bottom step and held the gun on Rackstraw. It was dark in the cellar, only the light from one bare bulb casting long black shadows out to the walls of the basement. Scarlett tapped the bulb to start it swinging, then opened the cylinder of his Smith and Wesson and pumped all six bullets out into his palm. Holding the empty pistol out, he said to Rackstraw: "Take it."

The man shook his head. "Look, I don't know where Hardy is. I swear to . . ."

Scarlett kneed him in the groin, sinking him to the floor.

"Take it!"

"No!"

Spann cocked her pistol, the snap of the hammer audible all around the room. When Scarlett reached out for her gun, Rackstraw took the empty pistol as if to head him off.

"Now look at the serial number," he ordered.

Still doubled over from the blow to his groin, the frightened man moved the gun in his hand to look for the stamp on the metal when Scarlett lashed out suddenly and wrenched the .38 from his grip. A shiver of fright, surprise and the spread of the coke rattled through Rackstraw's body. One by one Scarlett put the bullets back in his gun.

"Oh, Jesus. All right. Hardy's in LA. I'll give you the address. It's ..."

"Too late," Scarlett said, and he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the man by his shirt. With his right thumb he cocked the pistol, then placed the steel of the muzzle directly between Rackstraw's eyes.

Like a puppet show, shadows danced about the cellar. Outside they could hear the rush of the water and two of the basement walls were cracked so rain trickled in. It pooled on the floor.

"You said you'd find Hardy," Scarlett said, "and then you went and fucked me. Nobody does that. We know about the drugs coming in and the voodoo in New Orleans. We know Helen Grabowski was killed by Hardy, and so were all the others. We don't have Hardy, but we've got you. So try this for a theory.

"The US police arrested two cousins for the Hillside Strangler's rampage in Los Angeles. And now that's happened here.

"We can prove you're tied to Hardy and that Hardy is the killer. We think you killed them too. A joint sexual crime.

"We just came here to speak to you and suddenly you jumped me. Guilt I suppose. We fought for my gun which you tried to seize and in the struggle I killed you. Your prints on the metal will show that for a fact. Everyone will say the cocaine pushed you over the line. My partner here and I will be the heroes of the day. You won't be around to refute us.

"Now run for the door behind you and see how far you get."

With a shove Rick Scarlett pushed Rackstraw away.

As he raised the pistol to aim and shoot, Spann cried out: "No, don't!"

"Back off!" the male cop hissed.

"Oh, Jesus, no, don't shoot, don't shoot," the man on the floor screamed. "Hardy's in town. Hardy's in town. I'll tell you where he is!"

"Where?" Scarlett asked.

And Rackstraw told him.

Five minutes later the three of them walked out into the rain.

As the handcuffed man was climbing into the rear of the van, Rick Scarlett stopped him and whispered in his ear:

"We're going to put you somewhere until we check this out. You fuck me around and I'll be coming for your balls. Then I'm going to kill you." Rackstraw believed him.