“He says you did eight hundred dollars’ damage to his car.”
“That’s bullshit. That’s utter bullshit. A hundred, maybe. Not eight hundred.”
“The door is creased, he says. And the whole side of the car has to be painted.”
Creased? Could the door have been creased? Had he looked for a crease, looked for damage?
No, he hadn’t looked, not really.
He drained the glass of milk. “It was a dumb thing to do. I—Christ, it’s been a long time since I’ve done something like that, lost my temper. I wonder what his deductible is. Two hundred?”
“He wasn’t talking about deductibles.” Ann spoke in a low, tight voice. Her blue eyes had darkened, a sure sign of her distress. When he’d first known her, it was the eyes he’d always remembered whenever they were apart and he was thinking of her. And the line of her jaw, too. And her just-right nose, and the particular curve of her lips. And the sweep of her tawny blond hair as she moved her head.
“I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, touched her hand. “I should’ve known he wasn’t talking about deductibles.”
She made no response to the touch of his hand. Her eyes were growing darker, not lighter.
“He’s talking about court,” she said. “About going to court.”
He snorted. “For a dented door? I thought Victor was smarter than that.”
“He is smarter than that.” She drew a deep breath, looked at him squarely, with deep, reluctant gravity. “He isn’t talking about deductibles. He’s talking about custody.”
“Custody?”
“You don’t know him, Frank. Once he says he’ll do something—once he makes a threat—he goes through with it. Always. It—it’s part of his personality.”
“He won’t get custody of the kids after five years of divorce.”
“He’s married. He has a stable home. He makes lots of money. If he gets the right judge—a dinosaur …” She let it go bleakly unfinished. Now her eyes were downcast, dispirited. Ann hated controversy, hated the prospect of confrontation.
“I’ll talk to him, Ann. I—I’ll apologize. Swear to God.”
“It won’t help. I know what happened. Just listening to him, I know what happened. You threatened his masculinity. Victor can’t stand that. Physically, he’s a coward. When you threatened him physically, you—” She broke off, searching for the phrase. “You exposed him, brought the whole house of cards—his pasted-up public persona—tumbling down.” She smiled ruefully. “That’s a pretty labored metaphor, but …” On the Formica table, her forefinger began moving, as if she were drawing random designs in sand.
“What actually happened,” he said, “was that he got the best of me. I know better than to lose my temper. But he got to me with his goddamn”—he opened his hand, closed it to make a fist, struck the table with rigidly suppressed fury—“his goddamn superiority. If I—if I hadn’t hit his goddamn door, I’d’ve hit him.” He tried to smile, to reassure her. “And then we’d really be in trouble.”
“He hates you, Frank. He’s always hated you, I suppose, because you’re soiling goods that once belonged to him. That’s how he thinks, you know.”
“He’s sick. He’s supposed to treat people’s neuroses. But, Christ, he’s—he’s—” Angrily, he broke off. Releasing energy, he rose, put his dishes in the sink, ran water into them. She hadn’t risen with him. Instead, she sat as before, shoulders slumped, staring down at the table, still tracing random designs on the Formica. He went to her, took her shoulders, gently raised her to her feet, and turned her to face him. Then he drew her close, held her steady. When he felt her respond, felt her arms come around him at the waist, that one particular touch, he whispered into the hollow of her neck, “Let’s go to bed. Okay?”
He felt her nod, felt her arms come closer around him. She’d forgiven him, then. For causing them trouble—serious trouble, maybe—she’d forgiven him.
Thursday, September 13
9:20 AM
AS HASTINGS ENTERED THE squad room, he saw Friedman waving from behind the glass walls of his office. Good. From the particular pitch and arc of his arm motion, Hastings knew that Friedman had news.
Hastings picked up his messages and incoming files, opened his office door, and dropped the folders and printouts on his desk. Then he strode down the short, glass-walled hallway to Friedman’s office. He took a seat, said good morning—and waited.
“As I predicted,” Friedman said, “it was a forty-five Colt automatic that killed her.”
“I don’t remember your predicting that.”
Instead of countering, Friedman said, “The bullet went right through her and was embedded in the wall, so it’s not in very good shape. But Ballistics says that, for sure, it came from a Colt forty-five automatic.”
Hastings was aware of a visceral lift. “So it starts with Charlie Ross,” he said.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t end with Charlie Ross.”
“I think he’ll come around,” Hastings said. “He’s just giving himself room to maneuver.”
“So when’ll you see him?”
“Today. This morning. What about Fred Bell? Anything?”
“He’s apparently clean. His time card says he was at work promptly at eight o’clock. And that’s downtown. He’s a printer at the Sentinel. So that’s a half-hour drive, minimum. I checked back with Penziner, the next-door neighbor. He puts the sound of the shot at just a little after eight o’clock, absolutely. That’s because he finished watching ‘The Price Is Right,’ one of those game shows, at eight o’clock. Then he went right down to the garage to do some work on his car. That’s when he heard the shot. His wife backs him up.”
“So Teresa Bell was dead for what? About a half hour, when we got there?”
Friedman nodded. “Something like that.”
“And she was probably killed with a gun that Charlie Ross fenced.”
“Odds on, I’d say.”
“So someone wanted both Hanchett and Teresa Bell dead. He bought two guns, one for each job. He intended to ditch both guns, probably. But the Llama turned up.”
Once more, Friedman nodded.
“If someone wanted both of them dead,” Hastings mused, “then it’s got to have something to do with BMC—with the death of the Bell child. That’s the only connection between Hanchett and Bell.”
“I wonder,” Friedman said, “whether it could have something to do with a frustrated liver recipient, something like that.” Speculating, he settled more deeply in his chair, let his eyes wander away.
Hastings frowned. “That’d only make sense if the Bell child got an organ that otherwise would’ve gone to another child, and that child’s parents bore a grudge against both Hanchett and the Bells. But that’s not what happened. The Bell child didn’t get the liver. And he died. Which would have made Teresa Bell the perfect suspect. Grief drove her bonkers, and she exorcised her demons by killing Hanchett. Which, in fact, is exactly what I thought happened.”
“Which, in fact, is what could’ve happened,” Friedman said. “It’s still a good theory. Except that now we’ve got to account for Teresa’s murder. Which brings us back to Fred. Suppose Fred knew that Teresa killed Hanchett. Suppose he figured she’d talk. Which it sounds like she would’ve. And suppose Fred’s a little bonkers, too. Or maybe he isn’t bonkers, not like his wife was. Suppose he just can’t bear to think of his wife behind bars. He knows she’ll go crazy. So he puts her out of her misery. A mercy killing, in other words.”
Hastings shook his head. “If he’d killed her out of love, he would’ve done it when she was sleeping. Or when she was watching TV, turned away from him. Besides, Bell has an alibi.”
“He’s got a punched-in time card,” Friedman countered. “Time cards can be falsified.”
“Have you got someone checking at the Sentinel?”
“No. But I will. Definitely.”
“If we assume that the two guns came from Charlie Ross,” Hastings sai
d, “then both murders were planned well in advance.”
“So maybe Bell planned them. Planned them, and committed them.”
“If Bell killed Hanchett, why would he kill his wife?”
“Maybe because he knew she’d talk,” Friedman suggested mildly. “If he didn’t shut her up, she’d incriminate him. You said yourself that she’s a talker.”
“Hmmm …”
“Or maybe it was a suicide pact,” Friedman said.
“Hmmm …”
“In any case, the game plan seems clear. You should take Canelli, and you should talk to Charlie Ross. I have an idea he’ll go along. With his real-estate holdings, he’s got a lot to lose.”
Hastings nodded agreement.
“And then, no matter what Charlie says, you’ve obviously got to talk to Fred Bell.”
“Where’ll you be?”
“I’ll be here, until I hear from you.”
“Right.”
10:30 AM
“Oh—hi, Lieutenant.” Ross’s welcoming hand gesture was uneven. His smile was ragged. His eyes moved fretfully. “Hi. Come in. Hi, there, Inspector.” Ross stepped back from the door, making room for the two detectives. “I was just thinking about you guys when the doorbell rang. I really was.”
Without comment, his expression grave, Hastings nodded heavily and entered the apartment. Canelli had been coached, and his manner was equally solemn.
When they were seated, Hastings said, “You didn’t call, Charlie. I told you to call by ten o’clock. You didn’t.”
“Lieutenant, Jesus, I been waiting for a call myself, about—about this thing. And all I’m getting is promises. You know—‘I’ll get right back to you, Charlie. Be patient, Charlie.’” Dispiritedly, he shook his head. In the harsh morning light streaming through the huge window that overlooked Dolores Park, the skin of Ross’s face was as pale as a corpse’s. When he gestured, his hands trembled slightly.
Staring at the other man, Hastings let his eyes go stone cold. Then, pretending a regret so completely synthesized that it felt genuine, Hastings shook his head as he said, “Actually, Charlie, the way things’ve turned out, it’s not really important now. Not after what happened last night.”
Involuntarily, Ross blinked. His thin mustache began to twitch. But it was a cautious twitch, not a worried twitch. In the interrogation game, Charlie knew all the moves. Therefore he simply waited for Hastings to speak.
“There’s another murder, Charlie.” Hastings spoke with great gravity, as if he were breaking the bad news to a member of the deceased’s family. “And it looks like it was done with that forty-five-caliber automatic, the one that disappeared along with the Llama, from the Foster Crowe collection.”
“Yeah.” Canelli shook his head lugubriously. “That’s two for you, you might say, Charlie. Two strikes, put it another way. It begins to look like you’re in deep shit.”
Ross decided to register a puzzled frown. “Wait.” He shook his head, raised a narrow, liver-spotted hand. “Wait. Hold it. Lemme understand this. You guys got a couple of murders to solve, and you’re saying I’m it. Is that what you’re saying?”
Mock-sympathetically, Hastings shook his head. “We don’t have much choice, Charlie. See, Homicide’s different from Pawnshops. In Pawnshops, there’s an ebb and flow, you might say. We can’t connect a guy to a few TVs, for instance, then we’ll get him for a few computers, typewriters, whatever.”
“Yeah,” Canelli offered. “In Pawnshops, there’s always another train coming along. But in Homicide, there’s only one train. See?” Brow earnestly furrowed, Canelli asked the question solicitously, doing his best.
“And in Homicide,” Hastings said, “it’s all physical evidence. That’s all the DA cares about. Confessions, eyewitnesses, that’s fine—depending on the witness. But without physical evidence, nothing happens.”
On cue, Canelli picked up the beat. “And, see, we’ve got the Llama tied tight to the Hanchett homicide, with ballistics. And we’ve got the Colt forty-five tied to the homicide last night. And we’ve got you tied to those two guns. So I have to tell you, Charlie”—Canelli shook his head mournfully—“I have to tell you, it don’t look like the future’s too bright for you.” Canelli turned toward the sun-drenched view of Dolores Park, and the Bay Bridge beyond. “All this, Charlie, and you wind up standing trial for murder.” Canelli shook his head again. “What a waste.”
“Hey—wait.” Aggrieved, Ross held up both hands, palms out. Pointedly ignoring Canelli, speaking to Hastings, he said, “What you really got is Floyd Palmer, that’s who you got. You got him connected to a few guns from this gun nut’s collection, as I understand it, and then you got him saying he got the guns from me. Christ. What’s that? Is the DA going to take that to the bank? Come on, gimme a break here.”
Elaborately patient, Hastings leaned closer to Ross. “What I’m starting with, Charlie—what I’m assuming—is that Floyd Palmer is telling the truth. That’s where I’m starting. And then—”
“Telling the truth? Christ, Lieutenant, the guy’s waiting for a court date. He’d tell you his mother’s an ape if he thought it’d help. He’d—”
“Charlie. Wait.” Hastings shook his head sternly, raised his hand. “Wait. You interrupted me. We’re doing business, you and I. And the rules are, you don’t interrupt. I can interrupt you. But you don’t interrupt me. That’s because I’ve got a badge and you haven’t.”
Ross muttered something, shifted his bony body in his chair. One elbow cocked on the arm of the chair, he slammed his chin down in the palm of his hand as he looked peevishly away.
Continuing in the same patient voice, Hastings said, “I guess I didn’t make this plain yesterday, Charlie. I guess I’ll have to lay it out for you again, eh?”
Still sulking, Ross refused to respond.
“See, I’m starting with the supposition that Floyd Palmer is telling the truth, like I just finished explaining. And then I’m assuming, since you’re basically a wholesaler—an operator—that you started with a big part of the action, and that you broke it down for retail distribution. I’m assuming that you started with maybe ten guns from the Crowe collection.”
“Ten?” Ross frowned.
“I forget the exact tally. That’s not important. What’s important is that you sold two guns to someone who killed two people in this town the past week.” Hastings let a definitive silence settle before he said, “I’m not saying you pulled the trigger, Charlie. I know better than that. But, like I say, I’m assuming that you’ve got information I need—material evidence in a homicide. That’s my assumption. So then I assume that, since you’re not willing to cooperate, you’re obstructing justice. And that’s a very, very serious business.” As if the prospect of Ross’s fate dispirited him, Hastings shook his head. “Someone who obstructs justice in a capital case, Charlie, especially someone with a record like yours, he’s looking at some pretty heavy time. He’s looking at probably—”
“Hey. Wait.” As if he’d been touched by a hot wire, Ross’s whole body jerked. “Wait. You—Jesus—you’re trying to—”
At Ross’s elbow, a high-tech phone warbled. As if he were reaching for a prize, Ross grabbed greedily for the telephone and pressed it furtively to his ear.
“Yeah?” A pause. Then: “About time.” Exasperated, he tapped his teeth with a manicured thumbnail as he listened. Finally: “Where are you now?” A brief, impatient pause. “Okay. Stay there. Stay put. Do like I told you. This time, for Christ’s sake, do like I told you.” In one abrupt movement, suddenly all business, Ross cradled the phone, rose to his feet, and spoke briskly to Hastings. “Those two guns you’re talking about, that was the call I was waiting for, see, before I called you.”
Also on his feet, also all business, Hastings was ready with a notebook and a ballpoint pen as Ross recited, “Her name is Dolores Chavez. She’s a bartender at a place called The Haven, out on Church Street. Church and Twenty-eighth, Twenty-ninth, you can’t miss it. The
place is probably closed, door locked. But knock, and she’ll open the door for you. Don’t waste any time, though. Dolores, she’s still a little green. And she’s stubborn, too. She can be very hard to handle. But she’s got what you want. We talked last night, me and Dolores. It’ll take a hundred, though.”
“A hundred, Charlie?” Pocketing the notebook, Hastings shook his head and spoke reproachfully. “A hundred did you say?”
“Oh—Jesus.” Ross crossed quickly to a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, produced two fifty-dollar bills. “Here. Take them. Jesus. Just get there, if you want anything from Dolores.”
“Thanks, Charlie. We’ll be in touch.” Quickly, the two detectives strode toward the door.
“And don’t forget those goddamn brownie points,” Ross called out after them. “Pass the word downtown.”
“Gotcha.”
11:30 AM
The Haven was a workingman’s bar that had been upgraded when the yuppies with their briefcases and BMWs began infiltrating the Mission District, San Francisco’s traditional blue-collar bastion. Budweiser signs had been taken out of The Haven’s plate-glass window, random shake shingles had been nailed to the front façade, and the door now featured a small stained-glass window that was protected by clear plastic. A check with Mission Station suggested that The Haven’s record was good: no drug dealing, no pimping, few fights—and no known fencing of stolen property on the premises.
“Why don’t you stay in the car,” Hastings said. “I’ll see which way she jumps.”
“A lady fence.” Marveling, Canelli cocked his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a lady fence. I bet she wrestles on the side.”
Hastings smiled. “You don’t think bartending and fencing keeps her busy enough?” He got out of the cruiser, walked to the door of The Haven, tested it, knocked. When the door opened a crack, he was ready with the badge. Immediately, a small, quick-moving, dark-eyed woman opened the door wider. A moment later he was inside, with the door bolted, facing her. She was about thirty, short but robustly built, a full-breasted Latino beauty. Her dark, snapping eyes were bold, her body language strong-minded. Standing just inside the door, Hastings surveyed The Haven’s interior. With the chairs stacked on the tables and open cartons littering the mahogany bar, the place was lifeless, depressing, without purpose. In the rear, wearing Walkman earphones, a black man was leisurely mopping the floor, his slow strokes synchronized to some inaudible rhythm.
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