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The cop nodded.
Wohl started again toward the diner entrance and almost stepped on the body of a young person lying in a growing pool of blood. Wohl quickly felt for a pulse, and as he decided there was none, became aware that the body was that of a young woman.
He stood up and took his pistol, a Smith & Wesson “Chiefs Special” snub-nosed .38 Special, from its shoulder holster. There was no question now that shots had been fired.
“In here, Officer!” a voice called, and when Wohl saw that it was Teddy Galanapoulos, who owned the Waikiki, he pushed his jacket out of the way, and reholstered his pistol. Whatever had happened here was over..
Teddy hadn’t been calling to him, and when he ran up looked at him curiously, even suspiciously, until he recognized him.
“Lieutenant Wohl,” he said. It was not the right place or time to correct him. “Hello, Mr. Galanapoulos,” Wohl said. “What’s going on?”
“Fucking kid killed Captain Moffitt,” Teddy said, and pointed.
Dutch Moffitt, in civilian clothes, was slumped against the wall. A woman was kneeling beside him. She was sobbing, and as Wohl watched, she put a hand out very gingerly and very tenderly and pulled Dutch’s eyelids closed.
Wohl turned to the door. The cop from the paddy wagon was coming in, and the parking lot was filling with police cars, which screeched to a halt and from which uniformed police erupted.
“Put your gun away,” Wohl ordered, “and go get your stretcher. The woman in the parking lot is dead.”
A look of disappointment on his face, the young cop did as he was ordered.
A Highway Patrol sergeant, one Wohl didn’t recognize, walked quickly through the restaurant, holstering his pistol. He looked curiously at Wohl.
“I’m Inspector Wohl,” Wohl said.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Alex Dannelly said. “There was two of them, sir. Dutch got the one that shot him. The other one, a white male twenty to twenty-five years old, blond hair, ran through the restaurant and out the kitchen.”
“You get it on the air?”
“No, sir,” Dannelly said.
“Do it, then,” Wohl ordered. “And then seal this place up, make sure nobody leaves, keep the people in their seats, make sure nothing gets disturbed ...”
“Got it,” the Highway Patrol sergeant said, and went to the door and waved three policemen inside.
Wohl dropped to his knees beside the woman, and laid a gentle hand on her back.
“My name is Wohl,” he said. “I’m a police officer.”
She turned to look at him. There was horror in her eyes, and tears running down her cheeks had left a path through her face powder. She looked familiar. And she was not Mrs. Richard C. Moffitt.
“Let me help you to your feet,” Wohl said, gently.
“Get a blanket or something,” Louise Dutton said, in nearly a whisper. “Cover him up, Goddamn it!”
“Teddy,” Wohl ordered. “Get a tablecloth or something.”
; He helped the woman to her feet.
Officer Francis Mason and Officer Patrick Foley ran in, with the stretcher from the back of Two-Oh-One. They quickly snapped the stretcher open and unceremoniously heaved Dutch Moffitt onto it. Wohl started for the door to open it for them, but a uniform beat him to it.
The sound of sirens outside was now deafening. He looked through the plate-glass door of the diner and saw there were police cars all over it. As he watched, a white van with WCBL-TC CHANNEL 9 painted on its side pulled to the curb, a sliding door opened, and a man with a camera resting on his shoulders jumped out.
Wohl turned to the blonde. “You were a friend of Captain Moffitt’s?”
She nodded.
