Hire a Hangman

by Collin Wilcox

  Smiling minimally, Hastings turned to Susan Parrish. “I’ve got an appointment with Jason Pfiefer. I’m late. He said he’d meet me in the lobby here, at seven.”

  She scanned the spacious lobby, and pointed. “He’s over there. That lean, darkly handsome devil sitting beside the ficus tree. He’s a little strange, maybe. But undeniably handsome.”

  As he turned to track her gesture, Hastings said, “That could be a description of Brice Hanchett.”

  “They’re a lot alike,” Susan said. “Same looks, basically. Same egos, too. Basically.”

  Hastings thanked her, smiled, managed to keep the smile intact as he shook hands with Arnie and walked across the lobby to stand before Jason Pfiefer. Plainly considering the meeting a waste of his time, Pfiefer rose, shook hands perfunctorily, and gestured Hastings to a chair. Pfiefer was tall and lean. His eyes were intense, revealing nothing, demanding everything. His close-trimmed beard lent a satanic cast to his pale, deeply etched face. He wore a green surgical gown and white running shoes. A stethoscope was thrust into the pocket of the gown. His hands, Hastings noticed, were in constant, restless motion. His body language was uncompromising.

  “I don’t have much time, Lieutenant. I told you that on the phone. And you’re late.”

  It would be a mistake, Hastings knew, to apologize. Instead, trying to match the other man’s intensity, Hastings leaned forward. “I’ll come right to the point, then, Doctor. I’m investigating the murder of Brice Hanchett, as I told you on the phone. He was killed last night about ten-fifteen, as he was leaving your—as he was leaving Carla Pfiefer’s apartment.” Hastings watched for a reaction. Except for a slight compression of the thin lips, Pfiefer’s expression remained unchanged.

  “So?” It was a soft, sibilant monosyllable.

  “So—how do you feel about—about—” A final hesitant beat. But there was no retreat. He’d boxed himself in, and was forced to come out with it: “How do you feel about Hanchett and your wife seeing each other?”

  “Estranged wife. She’s filed for divorce.” Pfiefer’s voice was icy. “I presume you knew that.”

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “You’re over the line, Lieutenant. I’ve no intention of telling you how I feel about Carla and Brice.”

  Studying the other man thoughtfully, Hastings finally nodded. “I can understand how you feel. But there’s a man dead. There’s a man dead, and there’s a romantic triangle. Now, my business is like a lot of other businesses. It’s percentages. And according to the percentages, in a situation like this—a romantic triangle—the natural suspects are the man’s jealous wife and the woman’s jealous husband.”

  Pfiefer’s entire body tightened visibly as he rose to his feet. “Are you telling me—are you insinuating—that I killed Brice Hanchett?” Suppressed fury drew his voice taut. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Moving deliberately in a choreographed pantomime of the moment’s deadly delicacy, Hastings also rose. “We can make it real simple, Doctor.” A final eye-to-eye confrontation. “Just tell me where you were last night between ten and eleven. Tell me that, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Pfiefer’s mouth twisted into a malicious smile. His voice matched the smile. “I was here, Lieutenant. I was here all night. There was a liver, you see, that we were waiting for. It was delayed because of bad flying weather. Then the airplane had a mechanical problem. The whole transplant team was here. All night. All sixteen of us.”

  7:30 PM

  Now it began. The stillness that pulsated with a life separate from her own—the silence that beckoned from the darkness beyond the grave.

  But somewhere in that silence, somewhere in that darkness, the voices would begin. First the small voices, whispering. Then the heavier voices, smothering the one voice—

  Smothering her.

  All of it shattered by the first explosion. All of it consumed by the orange fire blossom.

  A trigger-touch of flesh on metal. Liberation. Silence. Peace.

  Promise.

  But then, today, the stranger had come. The large, watchful man with the still, knowing eyes. Was he the devil, this man with the golden badge?

  Was the watchful policeman her new tormentor, the one whose devil-voice would ignite the other voices, kindle the other eyes that always watched from the shadows?

  This she must know.

  Tonight, therefore, she must make the call—before it could begin again.

  9:15 PM

  “Mr. Vance? Clayton Vance?”

  With the door open on the night chain, a pair of eyes looked down at the gold badge in Hastings’s outstretched palm.

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Vance. I’m investigating the murder of Dr. Brice Hanchett last night. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  “You’re—” The four-inch door crack revealed a petulant frown and a peevish mouth pursed by either puzzlement or annoyance—or both. “You’re—what—a policeman? Is that it?”

  “I’m co-commander of Homicide. And I’d appreciate it if you’d let me in.”

  “Yes—wait.” The door closed, the chain rattled, the door came fully open to reveal a man in his early forties. He wore tight, fashion-faded blue jeans and a tight T-shirt imprinted LE MANS. The red T-shirt was perspiration-stained. Anticipating, Vance explained: “I was working out.”

  “Ah.” Taking the cue, Hastings looked him over: an improbably trim, muscular body, an improbably handsome male-model face. The mustache and the thick brown hair were complementary, both trimmed to suggest that they hadn’t been trimmed. The mouth was full, the eyes narcissistic, self-indulgent, self-satisfied. Perspiration had dampened the hair at the neck.

  Vance beckoned Hastings inside, closed the hallway door, led the way into a large single room that served as both living room and dining room. Vance’s apartment building was a modern high-rise built on the flatlands of North Beach, east of Russian Hill. The building was shallow and wide, a concrete-and-glass slab constructed so that each apartment had a view to the east. Each apartment had a small deck; almost every deck featured a barbecue.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant. I’ll be with you in a second.” Vance gestured to a chair, then abruptly ducked into a small hallway and disappeared. Reflexively, Hastings took his policeman’s quick survey: an upscale one-bedroom apartment in an upscale building. Probable rent, fifteen hundred. All the furniture, all the wall decor, all the rugs and drapes and pots and pans hanging in the pullman kitchen were coordinated, each one a trendy fashion statement.

  Wearing expensive-looking sweats, a towel draped around his muscular neck, Vance appeared in the doorway. Tanned hands gripping either end of the white towel, speculatively eyeing Hastings, Vance stood motionless for a moment, as if he were debating—or posing.

  Finally, Vance inclined his head toward the kitchen. “Get you anything?” As he spoke, he smiled. It was a tactical smile.

  “No, thanks.”

  Vance nodded, seemingly debated with himself for another moment, then strode into the living room to sit on a leather ottoman. Even sitting, Vance chose positions best calculated to display his body.

  “It’s getting late,” Hastings said, “so I’ll come right to the point.”

  Releasing the towel, Vance spread his hands. “Fine.” But, reacting to the new note of purpose in Hastings’s voice, the line of Vance’s body tightened almost imperceptibly. The eyes narrowed slightly; a fine line appeared between the gracefully arched eyebrows. Plainly, Vance was on his guard.

  Watching covertly for the other man’s reaction, Hastings said, “I’ve just been talking to Jason Pfiefer.”

  The line between the eyebrows deepened; puzzlement clouded Vance’s eyes. Was it genuine?

  “Jason Pfiefer is Carla Pfiefer’s husband. He’s a doctor at BMC. Carla Pfiefer was Hanchett’s girlfriend. His lover. He was leaving her place last night when he was killed.”

  Vance frowned, changi
ng his pose to face Hastings fully. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”

  “I already told you—I’m investigating Hanchett’s death.”

  “So?”

  “So—” Hastings decided on a flat statement of fact. “So Pfiefer is Carla’s husband—and you’re Barbara Hanchett’s lover. It’s two triangles, you might say.”

  “But—” In mute protest, Vance began shaking his head. “But you sound like you’re saying that I—that Barbara—”

  Still speaking quietly, matter-of-factly, Hastings explained, “It’s a question of motive, Mr. Vance. We’ve pretty much ruled out a street killing—a robbery that went wrong, for instance. We think the murder was planned—that someone wanted Hanchett dead. So that means there’s a motive. Premeditation, in other words. And generally, when we’re looking for a motive, we think of things like jealousy. The unwritten law, in other words.”

  “If it’s the unwritten law, then you should be talking to Jason Pfiefer.”

  “I told you, I’ve already talked to him.”

  “Ah.” Vance nodded mockingly. “So now it’s my turn.”

  Hastings decided to smile.

  “So what’s my motive, exactly?” Now Vance seemed to be enjoying their little game.

  “You and the victim’s wife could have the same motive. It’s another classic one, after all—right behind the unwritten law.” Hastings watched him for a moment. “The wife and her lover get rid of her husband so they can live happily ever after—especially if there’s a lot of insurance money. And in this case, there’d be an added plus for Barbara. She’d make her husband pay for his philandering.”

  Suddenly Vance laughed—a harsh, hostile laugh. “Jesus. You’re not serious, are you?”

  Hastings’s answering smile was polite. “Oh, I’m very serious, Mr. Vance. How about you? Are you serious? About Barbara Hanchett, I mean. About your relationship.”

  “That,” Vance said, “is none of your business, Lieutenant. None.”

  “Well, then …” As if the interrogation were almost ended, Hastings shifted forward in his chair. “Why don’t we get down to cases? Why don’t I ask you where you were last night between nine o’clock and eleven?”

  Vance’s smile turned to smugness. “Last night was Monday, Lieutenant. That was my racquetball night. There was a problem with the water pipes last night—a broken pipe, I guess. We didn’t get on the court until ten o’clock. By the time I’d showered and had a drink, it was midnight.”

  11:15 PM

  “Let’s go to bed,” Ann said. “You look tired.”

  Hastings smiled, pressed the TV wand’s Off button. “I was thinking you looked tired.”

  Her answering smile was wan. Now she sighed. It was a heavily burdened sigh. Something was bothering her.

  Facing a dark TV screen, they were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. He moved closer, touched her knee, let his hand linger on her thigh. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a much-worn, much-loved fisherman’s sweater. Why, Hastings wondered, did the flesh beneath faded jeans arouse him more than the same firm flesh of the thigh encased in nylon?

  “So what’s wrong?” he asked.

  The wan smile twisted bitterly. Hastings knew that smile. Victor Haywood, Ann’s ex-husband, had called. Haywood was a society psychiatrist with a passion for Porsches and a penchant for picking at the wounds their divorce had inflicted on Ann.

  “It’s Victor,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Isn’t it always?” Dispiritedly, she shook her head. “God, does it show that much?”

  “To me,” he said, “it shows.” He moved closer, took her hand. “So tell me.”

  “It’s the same old crap,” she said. “Basically, that’s what’s so … so disturbing. The lines never change. It always starts with money. This time it was a bill he got from the orthodontist, for Billy. Then, of course, he gives me a free psychoanalysis, during which he explains why, basically, I’m not qualified to raise Billy and Dan. And then he takes a shot at you and me, about how we’re living off him, off my alimony, that’s what it comes to, the son of a bitch. Sometimes I feel like tearing up his goddamn checks. I really do.”

  “If you feel like tearing them up,” he said, “then for God’s sake, tear them up. Mail the pieces back to him. It’d probably do you good.”

  She turned toward him, searched his face. Her eyes were cornflower blue; over the years, those eyes had warmed him, comforted him, sometimes challenged him. These were not the eyes of an alimony junkie, the middle-class American divorcée addicted to those monthly checks. These were Ann’s eyes. Ann, who had made him whole—finally, made him whole.

  “You mean that, don’t you?” she said. “It’d make you feel better, wouldn’t it?”

  “Definitely, it’d make me feel better.”

  She rose and gravely held out her hands to him. “Let’s go to bed.”

  11:20 PM

  “So he talked to you,” he said. “Hastings. The police lieutenant. He talked to you. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes, he talked to me. And he knew. I felt it. I felt that he knew.”

  “I’ll have to think about it. Will you be there all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He replaced the telephone in its cradle.

  11:21 PM

  With great care, she replaced the telephone in its cradle attached to the kitchen cabinet.

  She’d known the call would come. Today. This very hour. Tonight. This very moment. It had been destined. From the first, it had been destined.

  So she must remember.

  It was essential that she remember. Now. Beginning now. Beginning when it first began, not so very long ago.

  Tragedy, she’d learned, could begin with the ordinary, the inconsequential, the trivial. The devil spoke like everyone else. There was no difference.

  She’d been out of wine vinegar for the salad. The time had been about four o’clock in the afternoon; she’d never been sure of the exact hour. She’d gotten the vinegar and lettuce and tomatoes. Then she’d begun walking home.

  Somehow she’d felt his presence behind her as she walked. And when she’d heard his voice, she’d known it was him: the one who’d come to liberate her, show her the way, cauterize the open wound.

  Him.

  Wednesday, September 12

  9:20 AM

  “IT TURNS OUT,” FRIEDMAN said, “that we might be getting warm on the gun.” Drawing deeply on the first draught of the day’s first cigar and executing three large smoke rings, each one flapped away irritably by Hastings, Friedman gestured to the sheaf of printouts he’d put on Hastings’s desk. “In a nutshell, what we’ve got here is that, as I said yesterday, the Llama was originally owned by a Beverly Hills gun collector. He had fourteen guns stolen out of a collection of about fifty. The stolen guns were all pistols. That was a year ago, approximately.” Squinting against cigar smoke, Friedman leaned forward to consult a sheet of yellow legal paper that accompanied the printouts. “Three of the guns were recovered immediately by the pawnshop detail in L.A., and four more were impounded as evidence in crimes, also in the L.A. area. That was during the first six months. Also during the first six months—” Frowning, Friedman put on a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. “Also during that time, three more guns were recovered in New York and New Jersey. For a long while, that was it. My guess is that maybe the remaining guns”—he studied his notes—“four of them—were purchased illegally by ordinary citizens, for protection, whatever. That’s to say, I assume they were purchased individually and not as a group, by one person.

  “But then, surprise—” For effect, Friedman paused as, once again, he sent three rings sailing across the desk. Hastings got up, went to the window, opened it. Standing at the window, scowling, he waited. Unruffled, Friedman said, “Surprise, two more turned up at our old friend Floyd Palmer’s pawnshop, just before he got busted. Floy
d bought them on the same day. Which means, obviously, that he bought them from the same guy. Which means there’s a chance the last four guns might’ve been owned by the same guy, not by individuals. Which means, in turn, that there’s a chance, however remote, that the guy who sold the two guns to Palmer might’ve held on to the last two guns—the Llama and another one.”

  Hastings registered quick, avid interest. San Francisco’s biggest, smartest, slipperiest pawnshop operator, Palmer had finally been busted only two months ago.

  “I see,” Friedman observed, “that I’ve succeeded in arousing your interest.”

  “What’s Palmer’s status?”

  “He’s out on bail, awaiting trial. He’s been enjoined from pawnshopping, though.”

  “And? Have you talked to him?”

  “I have indeed.” Friedman smiled, a small, subtle, cat-and-mouse smile. Friedman was building the suspense. Again. Still.

  “Come on, Pete.” Impatiently, Hastings returned to his desk. “We’re on the same side. Remember?”

  Cheerfully acknowledging the point, all part of his favorite game, Friedman nodded affably. Now the words came more quickly, more crisply. “With Palmer, you know, it’s all smoke and mirrors. He’s a cockney, but he’s got the soul of a Turkish rug merchant. Let him find out he’s got something you need, and he’ll add a zero or two to the price. Always. And, to be honest, I think I might’ve played my cards wrong, let him see I wanted something I’d pay for.”

  “He had to give you a name, though—whoever pawned the guns.”

  “Oh, sure. But, naturally, it was a fake name. So the question is, does Palmer know the true identity of the guy who brought the two guns in? I think he does know. And he knows I think he knows. And he intimates that he’ll turn the guy for a price. Like immunity from prosecution for fencing. Except that, naturally, if he turns the guy, he cops to receiving stolen property. Fencing, in other words. Which makes it a very delicate transaction.”