"Sonny, those ‘two old-codgers’, as you call ‘em, have collared more men than the Pope!"

* * *

The blonde was attractive, about five-ten. Thirty-five her possible age, bust line, or both. She came in a slender athletic body and curves that would make a hair shirt look good. That's how St. James described her, but not in his police report.

He and Carter watched from across the street as Barbara Karley slid her long legs and short skirt into a sleek red convertible.

Carter raised a camera with a long telephoto lens. He squinted through the eyepiece.

Click. Click.

"Now I understand why Patterson clipped two wives," grunted St. James.

"I’d shoot you for that," nodded Carter. "At high noon with witnesses."

"Nice car, too."

Click. Click.

"Yeah, if you like things that are new and expensive."

There had been a Mrs. St. James, once, a woman Shamus found harder to handle than an all-night shift. Their divorce left scars and memories. The scars St. James could handle; the memories took whiskey.

Carter jotted down Barbara Karley's license number. "I think our mystery phone tipster with the southern drawl got this one right."

They had slouched since dawn in an unmarked car across from the upscale condo complex. Donut crumbs, dead coffee cups, and full bladders confirmed their long stakeout. Cigarette butts littered the ground outside Carter's window.

It was 8:42 a.m.

Records listed several Barbara Karleys in greater Los Angeles. One was 70. Another deceased. Two fit the profile. But one was black.

A check with Maryland authorities revealed this Barbara Karley had lived in Aberdeen. Her arrival in California followed Larry Patterson’s.

St. James did a U-turn and followed the small convertible toward the 101 Freeway.

That afternoon St. James’ big fingers punched a long series of numbers on his phone pad. "Got a hunch, partner."

"You're watching too many Dragnet reruns," wheezed Carter.

"Play along."

The phone rang on the other end. St. James handed the receiver to Carter.

"What am I suppose to do...?"

"Say you’re selling aluminum siding," he whispered.

Carter looked puzzled.

The precinct's tape recorder was running, the earplug in St. James’ hairy ear.

A phone rang a second time. Then...

"Hello," said a woman’s voice.

"...Hello," Carter frowned at his partner. St. James smiled and listened through the earpiece.

"Yes...?" said the phone voice.

"Uh...uh, winter’s coming...," stammered Carter.

Silence. Then...

"Yes...?" said the irritated disembodied voice.

"...and how’s...how’s your uh...aluminum siding? We have a special sale going right now...down here...at... Ajax’s Aluminum Siding."

"Don't need no damned aluminum sidin’. I’m in the projects."

Click.

"That's her!" St. James slapped the desktop.

"Who?"

"Our caller. Our mysterious Miss Scarlet. Didn’t you recognize that sweet southern accent?"

"It did sound--"

"That's our missing link: Mrs. Constance J. Halloran of Aberdeen, Maryland."

"Who?"

"The mother of the late Gertrude Halloran Patterson, Larry Patterson's first wife. Our anonymous 'Ma Bell'. I'd stake your badge on it."

* * *

The aging woman sat at a dirty breakfast table. A tattered slipper swayed below frail crossed legs; her foot nervously tapping cracked linoleum. The cramped kitchen was cold. A burner on the stove added more fumes than warmth.

Mrs. Constance J. Halloran breathed through a cigarette bummed from Carter. The two filled the closed room with smoke. A fresh can of beer held her attention. A collection of empties and an overflowing ashtray littered the table. A dirty white phone gripped the wall like week-old spaghetti.

Outside, brown snow along a graffiti-scarred wall did little to keep traffic noise from the small second-floor apartment. A vandalized sign proclaimed the block as senior housing.

"How’d you find me?" She brushed strands of gray hair from her lined face, then sipped her suds, waving the can toward the men. "You want one?"

They shook their heads.

It was 10:15 a.m.

"Wasn’t hard, Mrs. Halloran," said St. James.

She grunted.

Carter, as usual, preferred to let St. James do most of the talking.

"A good Samaritan led us to some old files and news clips on the shooting incident."

"Weren't no incident." Her shaky hand lifted a cigarette to a face St. James thought had once been beautiful. She exhaled. "My Gertrude was murdered!"

St. James wondered if it was the only unit in the high rise with a nicotine ceiling?

"Your daughter was murdered?" he asked.

"You got a hearing problem?" She flicked ashes onto the gritty floor.

Carter needed to use the bathroom. But he’d wait. It was probably worse than the rest of the apartment. Both men were coffeed-out, exhausted from their redeye flight.

"Hard to prove, Mrs. Halloran." St. James suppressed a yawn. He had hurriedly limped through two airports since leaving Los Angeles. Football injuries only get worse. He hated the thought of retirement.

"My baby was murdered by...by..." She lowered her eyes. "Don’t wanna say. I’m..."

She removed her dirty wire-rimmed glasses and wiped at her baggy eyes with a lump of used tissue.

"He killed her!" she spat, her voice cold. "I could be next. Except the bastard’s too cheap to hire someone to do it."

"Who’s too cheap?"

"I’ve said enough."

"You afraid, Mrs. Halloran?"

"You do need a hearing aid." She was blunt. "You figure it out."

"Did Larry Patterson kill your daughter?" Carter's first question.

"What do you think?"

"You tell us," he said.

She stared at the table. "Larry made my Gertrude go to the store that day. He always went, ‘cuz Gertrude thought he had a blonde slut down there, someplace." She swallowed more beer.

"She told me she was afraid," she continued. "He murdered by baby. That blonde bitch Barbara Karley drove the car. Can’t prove it, but I’ll bet ya a truckload of beer she did."

Mrs. Halloran got another brew. Carter could see inside the old refrigerator: two six—packs of cheap beer and a decaying head of lettuce its only contents.

"Bet them two did that bank out in California, too." She stifled a burp. "Read about it. Bet that bastard murdered his second wife, too."

* * *

An hour later the two detectives were wrapped around a fifth of Scotch and a bucket of ice.

"Patterson whacked ‘em both." Shamus’ big frame was sprawled on his motel bed, the mattress sagging; shoes on the floor. He chomped on some ice, gulping his third drink from a Styrofoam cup.

"As sure as water runs down hill." Carter yawned from a lumpy chair, nursing his first drink, his feet on his bed.

"Proving it is still ‘job number one’, partner."

"I think it’s about time," said Carter, "we talk to our cute California mystery woman with the little red convertible."

St. James smiled and finished his Scotch. "That should be fun."

"Then Patterson," added Carter.

* * *

Barbara Karley’s short, V—necked filmy dress hugged every curve of her perfect body. Better, thought St. James, than a wet T-shirt. She wiggled into the room and eased onto the couch, her perfume equal to her upscale condo. She deliberately crossed her long legs, knowing the men seated on the other side of her gold-trimmed coffee table couldn’t ignore her sensual moves. She knew men and their weaknesses, and intended adding two detectives to her imaginary charm bracelet.

A light, warm breeze came through the French doors overlooking an expansive lawn, manicured flowerbeds and palm-shrouded pool. The windy caresses gently tossed her long blonde hair.

She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said. Her soft voice offered a hint of Southern gentility. "May I offer you gentlemen some coffee? A drink?"

"No thanks," they said.

"Miss Karley, we believe you were an accomplice in a Southern California bank robbery and murder, planned and executed by Larry Patterson."

St. James liked to be blunt; to make suspects squirm.

"What...?"

Although more fascinated by Barbara Karley’s cleavage, St. James and Carter watched her face. It suddenly blanched behind fresh makeup.

St. James continued: "The woman murdered during the holdup was Mrs. Larry Patterson. Does that name mean anything?"

She tried to speak, then stopped.

"We also have reason to believe," added St. James, "you drove the getaway car in an earlier robbery in Aberdeen, Maryland." Phone records placed her in both states during both murders, he said.

"That don’t...doesn’t prove anything." Her southern accent and poise faded. Her eyes grew moist.

"Patterson's first wife-—Gertrude--was murdered there, we believe, by Patterson, and a female accomplice." St. James smiled. "We think you were involved."

Carter dropped several police photos on her coffee table: Barbara and Larry Patterson together——dining, swimming, and riding in her convertible.

"Telephoto lens are amazing," he said.

St. James slid another photo toward Barbara. "Good lighting, especially this one." Barbara and Patterson were kissing.

Barbara’s blue eyes filled with tears.

"We know you followed Patterson to California." St. James enjoyed the kill. "We've got your credit—card trail."

"And proof Patterson bought you your shiny red toy...with cash." Carter dropped a duplicate sales slip on the table.

"How...?" Her mouth stayed open. Twin tracks of mascara began vertical races beneath her eyes.

St. James wondered which eye would win.

"Maryland and California ballistics match the gun in both killings," added Carter.

St. James waved some official looking documents. "Patterson’s going to the chair. But you've got a way out."

"A detour," added Carter. He placed a mini tape recorder on the coffee table. "Just tell us what happened."

She began sobbing.

Ah, shit, thought St. James.

Her right eye won.

* * *

St. James knocked on the door.

"If he’s in there, he ain’t answering," said Carter. They stood on opposite sides of Larry Patterson’s front door, a search warrant in Shamus’ left hand, a pistol in his right.

Their muddy tracks marred the narrow walkway and porch. A heavy rain expanded the puddles on the home’s gopher-pitted lawn and graveled driveway.

"He’s there." St. James gestured toward fresh tire tracks behind Patterson’s spattered station wagon parked alongside the house, steam rising from the hood.

"I hear a television," added Carter.

St. James knocked again. Louder.

No answer.

"I’ll check around back." He disappeared around the corner of the modest frame home. Then did a double take and peered inside the old wagon. He held up two fingers toward Carter, pointed to the rear seat, and then placed both hands together against his tilted head.

The message was clear: the twins were asleep in the back seat.

Carter waited, then pounded the door. Instinct and training moved him to the side. "Patterson, this is Detective Sergeant Raymond Carter."

No answer.

"I’m with Detective Sergeant St. James. We have a search warrant, and Barbara Karley’s confession. Open the door. You can make this easy or har—"

Click! Click! A metallic sound Carter knew. It wasn’t a camera.

"Christ!" He instinctively shielded his face with his arms, and dropped onto the wet porch. Shamus could take care of himself.

The top half of the door disintegrated under the power, noise and smoke of what would later prove to be a pump-action, 12—gauge, sawed—off shotgun.

Click! Click!

A second blast, mixed with shattering glass, came from inside on the right, then more breaking glass, and running feet crunching gravel. Carter jerked a pistol from his shoulder holster.

Shotgun in hand, Patterson appeared from around the corner, ripped open his car door and jumped in. The engine roared into life.

"Hold it right there, Patterson!" yelled Carter. He crawled across the porch, arm extended, pistol aimed at the driver slouched behind the wheel.

"Stop, or I’ll shoot!" demanded the detective.

Two young voices screamed from inside the car.

The twins!

"Dammit!" Carter spoke though his clenched jaw.

The car lunged forward behind the house, then snapped into reverse. Its rear wheels grinding, tossing mud and gravel. It fishtailed backward down the driveway, jumped the curb, cut across the pitted lawn and slid into the picket fence fronting the street.

Carter turned and dashed toward the car. Its back wheels frantically spinning, digging, failing to reach traction in the mud and grass. He reached for the driver’s door handle. The big vehicle lurched forward, knocked him to the ground, and stalled. He staggered to his feet, ripped open the car door, shoving his pistol toward Patterson, desperately trying to restart his car.

The twins’ screamed somewhere on the floor in back.

"Out of the car!" ordered Carter, blood on his forehead.

Click! Click!

Patterson’s shotgun turned and stared at Carter like a one-eyed snake. He dropped to his right knee, slapped the short barrel away with his left hand and fired his pistol with his right. The shotgun exploded inches above his head. Lethal lead pellets completed the disintegration of Patterson’s own front door. Carter’s bullet harmlessly embedded in the back of the car seat.

"Daddy! Daddy!" shrieked one of the unseen children.

The car came alive again, jumped forward, and vaulted the curb back onto the graveled driveway. The open door flapped wildly, tossing Carter face down on the grass, his freed pistol cartwheeling across the slick lawn. He crawled toward the weapon, heard Patterson slip into reverse and saw the blue wagon bucking toward him, spewing mud, grass and fear, mixed with the sounds of screeching twins.

Dammit, where's St. James, thought Carter. He rolled across the rutted lawn onto the downed picket fence, barely escaping the car’s deadly right wheels. His muddy hands couldn’t find his gun in the tangled mix of weeds and splintered wood. His head and shoulders ached. Then he saw his powerful partner.

Patterson revved the engine, but the station wagon only rocked in place as its gyrating rear tires dug deep holes in the puddled lawn.

"Out of the car, turkey! Out!" The passenger door was open. St. James’ big left knee rested on the butt of the shotgun, now pinned across Patterson's lap. He rammed his pistol into the fugitive's right side. The driver's door, a dangling piece of twisted steel, had plowed under the car, lifting the vehicle's left side.

"One!" shouted the big cop over the roar of the engine. Patterson stared ahead, his foot pressing the accelerator, the car's rear wheels desperately digging, churning mud and water like the wake of a speedboat.

"Two!" screamed St. James.

Patterson didn't move, but slowly turned wide eyes toward the meaty officer.

"You ain't gonna hear three, Patterson." St. James drove the gun's barrel deeper into Patterson's ribs. "You want your kids to see you die like this?"

"Thre—-"

"Wait!" shouted Patterson. He took his foot off the accelerator. His trembling right hand slowly moved forward and turned off the ignition.

Carter ripped open the rear door. The wailing twins were on the floor strapped in their car seats, covered by a tangle of tears, blankets and toys.

"Thank God," he sighed.

* * *

"Barbara Karley cracked," said St. James, "like a homecoming queen tumbling for the star quarterback."

Inspector Goldstein grunted from his chair. He stirred three packets of sugar into his morning coffee.

"We found Patterson's pistol in his house." Carter fumbled with a crushed package of cigarettes. "It matched Maryland and California’s ballistics."

"Bingo!" smiled Goldstein. He added more sugar to his cup.

Carter lighted a cigarette and coughed.

"Guess where we found the bank loot?" asked St. James.

Goldstein shrugged and waved away Carter’s smoke.

"Half in a shoe box in Patterson's bedroom closet--"

"Brilliant!" Goldstein tapped the side of his head with an index finger.

"-—and the rest under his bed."

"Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!" added the Inspector.

"Patterson led a double life," said Carter.

St. James sipped at his morning coffee. "He lived modestly as the sympathetic widowed father of twins, but lived lavishly with Barbara Karley nights and weekends. Paid for the convertible, condo, dinners, wardrobes and expensive vacations under her name."

"She gobbled up the money like a Thanksgiving turkey," added Carter.

St. James smiled: "But if you’re gonna spend money on evil deeds, that ain’t a bad way to go."

"Miss Sweet Thing claimed she didn't know Patterson was gonna ice both wives," added Carter. "’Loved her', she said, but they—-the two wives--wouldn't give him a divorce."

Goldstein frowned. "Bullshit!"

"Couldn't get her to talk at first." Red embers from Carter’s crumpled cigarette tumbled onto his shirtfront.

"Then she wouldn’t shut up," grunted St. James.

"But she's agreed to be the DA's star witness." Unaware of potential disaster, Carter rubbed at his chest.

Goldstein and St. James watched in fascination as a series of small holes burned into Carter’s shirt.

Suddenly Carter jumped up, frantically pawing his chest. "Damn!"

"That a new shirt?" casually asked Goldstein.

"Was," replied Carter, examining the damage. "Damn!" he repeated.

"Carter, did you ever consider just shooting yourself?" said Goldstein. "It’s faster than self—immolation."

Carter scowled and returned to his shortened cigarette.

Goldstein turned to Shamus. "You were saying."

"Barbara Karley saved herself from the death penalty, Inspector. Sang like a double-chinned soprano at the Met. Admitted driving the getaway car in Maryland and joining Patterson for the California bank heist."

"Plea bargained it to two consecutive life terms." Carter coughed and smiled. "She’ll be so old when she gets out she’ll be turning tricks for Social Security checks."

St. James nodded. "Patterson will be out sooner, toes up, getting a free ride to the cemetery."

"It happens with death penalties," said Carter.

"Too bad you can’t execute a killer twice."

EPILOGUE

Within a year Patricia Patterson’s mother died. The twins were then adopted by a young couple who moved to Oregon.

Mrs. Constance J. Halloran is still drinking beer and adding nicotine to her ceiling in Maryland. She visits her daughter's grave twice a week.

Barbara Karley’s new lawyer has appealed her conviction.

Larry Patterson awaits execution while his attorney works on an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Inspector Ira Goldstein is retired, divorced, lonely, and now has adult-onset diabetes. His daughter and grandkids moved to Detroit. He tried politics, but lost his bid for DA. He dislikes golf and poker, but plays weekly to be with old friends. He’s also a volunteer instructor at the Police Academy.

Detective Sergeant Joe Carter’s two—pack-a-day habit hasn't stopped. His wife wants him to retire. He won't. He's plagued by her, an expanding waistline and cough, and a closet full of new shirts with cigarette burns.

Detective Sergeant Shamus St. James hasn’t stopped drinking or hating anonymous phone calls. He refuses to retire. Claims all retirees die within a year. He frequently daydreams about a beautiful young blonde with long legs who wore tight V-neck dresses and drove a shiny red convertible.

He keeps her picture hidden in his desk drawer.