Rich Conklin’s stride was a good match for Bergin’s, and he was really fit. As Conklin crossed Powell behind the trolley, I heard him yelling to pedestrians, “Outta my way. Get back.”

He couldn’t close the gap.

I was close enough to see Conklin hook the trolley’s grab rail with his left hand, step onto the rear step, and ride for twenty feet before executing a first-class flying tackle onto Bergin’s back, pulling the big man down.

Bergin fell to the sidewalk, grunting as the air went out of his lungs.

I was heaving, my legs wobbling with fatigue. I didn’t think my heart could beat any faster, but I was right there. I had my Glock in both hands, pointed at Bergin’s head.

“Stay down, you son of a bitch,” I gasped. “Stay down and keep your hands in front of you. Don’t move a finger.”

Chapter 87

Chapter 87

PANTING, I CALLED IN our location as Conklin cuffed Louie Bergin’s hands behind his back.

Bergin’s palms and the right side of his face were scraped and bloody from the fall.

But he didn’t say a word.

And he didn’t fight.

I was thinking ahead, and I was troubled. All we had on Bergin was “interfering with a police officer,” a charge that called for minimal bail, nothing more than that.

If he could cough up a thousand bucks, he’d be back on the street in half an hour. He’d be in Vancouver by dinnertime, and we’d never see him again.

Conklin read my mind.

“Lou, you saw him. He was resisting arrest.”

My eyebrows shot up. Resisting? The man was lying on the street like a dead tuna.

“He swung at me,” Conklin insisted, rubbing his jaw. “Got in a good one before I wrestled him down. Have to admit, Lou, this gorilla struck a police officer.”

“I wish I hadda struck you, dickhead,” Bergin muttered from the sidewalk. “I woulda broken your jaw.”

“Shut up, please,” Conklin said to Bergin good-naturedly. “I’ll tell you when to speak.”

I understood what Conklin was doing: upping the charge so that the bail bond would rocket.

It wasn’t playing fair, but we were desperate. We needed time to find out if Bergin had killed our Car Girls.

Conklin read Bergin his rights, stuffed him into the backseat of a cruiser just as Jacobi pulled up and offered me a ride to the Hall.

During the drive, I told Jacobi that I couldn’t wait to interrogate Louis Bergin, to get answers, to get a confession, to put a name to his accomplice, to put the Car Girl killers away.

“You okay, Boxer? You sound rattled.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’m thinking, what if Louis Bergin isn’t our guy? What’s next? Because I don’t have another idea in the world.”

Chapter 88

Chapter 88