In its heyday, the Hemingway Hotel had been a grand showroom. The
lobby boasted a chandelier hanging from the ten-foot high ceiling. A
circular bench covered in velvet sat under the ornate light fixture
while a solid oak bar ran the length of the room, separating the
customers from the staff while the patrons registered and checked on
their mail.
It had been named after Earnest Hemingway, the novelist. He had
frequented the hotel so many times in its first year that the owner had
changed it from Grandville Hotel to Hemingway.
Now, as Peter surveyed its crumbling facade, he saw vagrants
sitting along the wall, holding cups out to those adventurous enough to
come to this part of town. Most of the windows were either broken or
boarded up, adding more disgrace to the once proud building.
“Baker 13 to base.” Peter called into his radio’s microphone.
“Base, go ahead 13.” A female voice returned.
“I’ll be out on a warrant search at 1100 Central Avenue.”
“10-4, Baker 13.”
Peter replaced the microphone, still uncertain about not having
back-up. “Well, it’s not like you haven’t been in worst situations
without it, Caine.”
A green Corvair pulled up behind the Corvette, causing the
detective to look in his rear view mirror while reaching for the search
warrant.
Peter watched as the driver exited his car and walked over to a
newspaper box and got a paper. Deciding he was harmless, Peter left his
car for the hotel, unaware that he had picked up a shadow.
The lobby no longer had its chandelier. In its place hung a single
bulb suspended from a socket that exposed its wiring as it ran from the
ceiling, down a wall and to the master fuse box. Wallpaper was peeling,
bending over layers of graffiti and yellow stains. The air was stale
with the odor of an unflushed commode after several days use.
Peter thought of holding his breath, but reasoned that would not be
prudent. He wouldn’t want to pass out in this place. ‘I might not wake
up.’
A stairwell wrapped around the wall, its once red carpet now dingy
from abuse and inconteince of its new patrons. A man lay over four
steps as though he had passed out, unable to make it to his room.
Approaching what was left of the front desk, Peter slammed his hand
down on the desktop, startling the sleeping man on the other side of the
partition.
“What do you want?” he asked grouchily, stabbing at his eyes to get
the grit out then rubbed his jaw, rubbing his fingers across the long
stubble on his face.
“You seen this man?” Peter asked, showing the outdated picture of
Wilkerson.
The clerk looked at the picture, then at the clean-shaven young
man. “You a cop?”
“Yeah, now have you seen this man? His name is Wilkerson.”
“All I got here are a bunch of John Does and Smiths. Now, unless
you’ve got a warrant…”
Peter slapped the warrant down in front of the clerk, Peter’s hazel
eyes darkened with anger and frustration. “Now, unless you want me to
bring the whole precinct down here, you’ll tell me where this man is.”
It took only a few seconds for the man to tell the detective what
he wanted. Williamson had several things going on here in the hotel and
would be upset if the cops searched every room.
“He’s in 313.”
“Thanks.” Peter turned, warrant in hand, glad his bluff of more
officers had paid off. If Stiles wouldn’t let him even have back-up, he
sure as hell wouldn’t send the whole station.
Griffin watched from the building entrance as Peter made his way up
the steps, nodding in approval as the detective reached for his gun.
Griffin’s attention was caught by movement from the desk clerk.
“Better get out of there, a cop’s on his way to meet you,” The
clerk said into the phone. As he hung up, he reached under the desk and
withdrew a .38 revolver.
“I’d put that down if I were you.” Griffin’s voice was menacing as
he held the Desert Eagle in front of him. The business end of it aimed
at the clerk’s head.
The clerk did as he was told, his hand shaking as he watched the
stranger come to him, the large weapon never wavering.
“Where’d you just call to?”
“R-r-room 313.”
“Take your belt off.” Griffin continued, watching as his demand was
met. “Now, sit down.” Taking the man’s belt, Griffin wrapped the strap
around the man’s wrists and through the slats on the chair he sat in.
“One word from you and you’ll be talking without a face.” He hissed,
receiving an exaggerated nod.
Before climbing the stairs to follow Peter, Griffin retrieved the
clerk’s .38 and stuffed it into his waistband.
Kermit didn’t notice he also had a shadow that had followed him at
a distance after being deposited outside the hotel by a cab.
Peter had made it to the third floor landing, deciding to avoid the
delapidated elevator in the lobby. The police academy had taught all
the recruits that an enemy could be in the hallway with weapon ready to
fire, killing those on the elevator before they had time to react. The
landing connected to the hallway through a door that opened into the
middle of the hall. Rooms ran down the right and left side of the
entry.
With weapon drawn, not doubting that the suspect had been alerted
by the clerk, Peter slowly peaked around the corner of the landing down
the right and left hallway. They were empty except for the empty bottles
and discarded newspapers that littered the floor. He heard a door creak
open and stepped out to see a gray haired man glance down to the right.
As he turned his head to the left, he spotted Peter who had stepped into
the hallway with weapon drawn.
“POLICE! FREEZE!” Peter ordered.
Fear in the old man’s eyes made Peter’s blood run cold as the man
stepped further out into the hallway with nothing on but his boxer
shorts and shouted, “Watch it!”
Peter turned, sensing the presence behind him and found himself
face to face with Wilkerson. Wilkerson shot twice before Peter was able
to get a round off of his own. He watched the suspect fall to the
ground, then went to him.
Kermit was between the second and third floors when shots rang
out. He ran the last few steps to find Peter standing over Wilkerson’s
lifeless body, then watched as the young man turned to face him, gun
aimed at Kermit’s chest.
“Whoa, I’m on your side.” Kermit said, holding his hands up in the
air while removing his finger from the trigger of the Desert Eagle.
This lasted only a second as the small red stain on the officer’s
left side spread as the young man crumbled to the ground.
“Peter!” Paul’s voice called out from behind Griffin who turned to
see his friend running toward the fallen officer.
Paul knelt down, gingerly placing Peter’s head on his lap and saw
his son’s eyes open, though glazed.
“Why didn’t you wait for back-up?” Paul asked, feeling moisture
spring to his eyes as Peter grimaced with pain.
Smiling briefly, Peter answered, “Cap…tain thought…I could…go
in…alone. Guess he…was wrong.” Hot fire shot up to his chest and
through his abdomen. Peter didn’t look away from Paul’s steel blue
eyes; instead, he concentrated on them, attempting to forget the pain as
he felt someone pressing his side.
“Call 911?” Paul asked, not taking his eyes away from Peter, knowing
the young man was using him as an anchor in the concious world.
“Yeah, cops are on the way and an ambulance. How is he?”
“He’s going to be all right. Right, Peter?” Paul said, smoothing
Peter’s hair back.
Swallowing the threat of bile from his stomach, Peter nodded.
“Who…”
“A friend. Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right.” Paul placed
his finger over Peter’s lips, encouraging him to stay silent. “Keep
pressure on that, Kermit.”
“I will. I think I hear the calvary.”
“Who’s…Kermit?” Peter asked, losing focus on Paul.
Paul watched as Peter’s skin turned moist, his color slowly
disolving into a ghostly white. “He’s the guy you talked to on the
phone. Now, be quiet.” Paul talked in whispered tones, never losing
contact with his son.
A blanket was placed over Peter as footsteps and jangling metal
were heard coming up the stairs. Looking up briefly, Paul saw an old
man, dressed in his underwear, tuck a blanket under Peter then wipe a
tear from his eye. "My son died without anyone around.” Then the
stranger walked away, his mournful sobs heard by Paul and Kermit.
Stiles led the way up the stairs, holding his gun, ready for a
firefight. Instead, he felt the cold daggers fly into him from Paul’s
cold stare. In Paul’s lap was his officer, one he had refused aid. A
few inches away from Peter lay Wilkerson.
The paramedics worked on Peter, gently coaxing Kermit and Paul out
of the way. Paul refused to leave, instead, he watched as needles were
inserted into Peter’s flesh for IV’s, machines were hooked up via leads
to monitor the officer’s blood pressure and heart rate. An oxygen mask
placed over his mouth and nose, delivering what his blood and body
screamed for.
“What are you doing here, Griffin?” Stiles asked, angry at the
man’s appearance.
“A friend asked me to give back-up to an officer. Seeing how the
‘acting’ captain wouldn’t give him any.” Kermit hissed, stepping closer
to Stiles, feeling delight as Stiles stepped back. “You sent him in
here without any help.”
“I told him to call if he needed help. I can’t help it if he’s too
stupid or cocky to ask for backup.” Stiles stepped further away, his
voice carrying to Paul who spoke to Peter to block out the hurtful words
being said about him.
The sound of fist connecting with flesh and bone turned everyone’s
head in time to see Stiles holding his jaw then wipe blood from the
corner of his mouth. Kermit stood to the side, drawing back for another
hit.
“Kermit! Stand down!” Paul said loudly, wishing he had been the one
to deliver the blow.
“Paul, he moved his hand.” Annie’s voice broke through Peter’s dark
world.
“Glad you could make it back.” Paul grinned, though Peter could see
the hurt and pain still lingering on his foster father’s face.
“I wanted to…play hooky with…you and Frank.”
“Well, I went back to work yesterday. Frank’ll be back tomorrow.
However, I think you will be out for a few weeks.”
“I dreamed…you were with me. In the hotel,” Peter said, his eyes
protesting being opened for too long.
“I’ll always be with you, son.” Paul answered as he watched Peter
drift back off.
Annie felt for her husband’s hand. Squeezing it, she assured him
she’d always be there for both him and Peter.
Kermit moved from the corner he had been standing in as he watched
the interaction of the couple with their son. “He’s a lucky kid.”
Paul turned, “No, we’re the lucky ones.”
“What about Stiles?”
Looking to Annie, he patted her hand. “He’s been suspended for two
weeks. He’ll be over the SWAT team from now on, but he’ll never be over
the 101st again. I made sure of that.”
