The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Right again.”

  “I remember now. He came up to the Hall one time with his lawyer, to charge you with contributing to the death of his son. You were in Los Angeles at the time, and I handled them—more or less. The lawyer was as wild-eyed as Keller.”

  “Which is pretty wild-eyed.”

  “Wasn’t there an automobile accident?”

  I nodded. “Drunk driving, about six months ago. Keller rammed another car at an intersection. Which, incidentally, accounts for Keller’s limp. The other driver—a sixteen-year-old girl—was paralyzed for life. Keller was acquitted on criminal charges, because of a technicality. But he’s being sued by the girl’s family for the moon.”

  “Does he have any assets?”

  As I turned the last corner, I nodded. “At one time Keller was a very successful electronics engineer.”

  “The eccentric genius type.”

  “That’s it. He was always unstable, according to his wife. But he had talent, no question. When he was younger, he took out a patent on a certain kind of semi-conductor that’s still being used. So he has an income from that patent.”

  “Accounting for the thousand dollars in small bills, maybe.”

  Grimly, I nodded.

  “Has he ever tried to hassle you? Except for that episode with his lawyer, at the Hall?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a hassle,” I answered. “But it was eerie as hell. After his accident, he was in the hospital for a month. Which was probably the time, looking back, that he really went off the deep end. He called me and asked me if I’d come by the hospital to see him. I did. It was a mistake.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was in the orthopedic ward. As soon as he saw me, he smiled. And I remember thinking, like a fool, that maybe he’d turned the corner—gotten himself straightened out. But then, Jesus, he started talking. He spoke in a very low voice, so no one else could hear him. And all the time he talked, his eyes glittered. That’s what I remember most—those goddam eyes.”

  “You’re a real spellbinder, Frank,” he said with mild sarcasm. “Did he also clutch at you with a clawlike hand?”

  “He only spoke for a few seconds,” I continued, ignoring the interruption. “He just said that before he died, he’d see me dead.”

  “Were those his actual words?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there were no witnesses.”

  “No.”

  For a long, thoughtful moment Friedman didn’t speak. Then: “I don’t like the sound of this. When I talked to him, I thought he was just a harmless nut. But I’m changing my mind. He could be trouble.”

  Not replying, I parked in the driveway of my apartment house and beckoned Friedman to follow me as I unlocked the service door and walked down the passageway beside the garage, retracing the route I’d taken last night. I opened the padlock of my storage locker, swung the slatted door wide and stepped into the cramped cubicle. A tug on a pullchain switched on the bare bulb overhead. We stood crowded together between a stack of suitcases and a jumble of sporting equipment. Most of the equipment was broken—discarded mementos of other visits from my children, in other summers past.

  A brown paper sack was stuffed between a scarred skateboard and a pair of red water skis.

  “Careful of prints,” Friedman warned.

  Holding it beneath the bare light bulb, I opened the sack with thumb and forefinger. Two packets of used bills were inside, secured by thick rubber bands.

  “There’s a note,” Friedman said. As I held the sack open, he withdrew a crumpled sheet of ordinary typing paper, folded and refolded. In the exact center of the page I saw a single neatly typed line:

  Thank you for your cooperation.

  Five

  I WATCHED CHIEF DWYER glance at the Xerox copy of the note, then disdainfully drop it on his desk.

  “There’s no question,” Dwyer said, “that Internal Affairs will give you a clean bill of health. Absolutely none. Even if they discount your record—which they won’t—there’s Towne’s report, last night. It came in before the fact—before the phone call this morning. That’s definitely in your favor.” He spoke with crisp, decisive authority. At age sixty, clear-eyed and silver-haired, Dwyer personified the urbanely successful self-made man: an Irish bureaucrat who’d never been caught on the losing side of either a departmental Captain’s shakeup or—later—a bloodletting at City Hall. To complement his thick, beautifully barbered grey hair, Dwyer wore custom-tailored grey suits. His shoes always gleamed, his tie was always impeccably knotted. Habitually he carried his head high, displaying a decisively cleft chin and a wide, mobile mouth. Dwyer moved like a man who constantly expected to be photographed.

  Seated beside me on Dwyer’s long leather sofa, Friedman said, “The information I got this afternoon is even more in Frank’s favor.”

  “What information is that?” Dwyer spoke carefully, without inflection. As he looked at Friedman, his eyes were expressionless.

  “First,” Friedman said, “Towne turned up another witness who saw the subject—limping slightly—as he left Frank’s apartment building and went back the way he’d come. And besides that, a third witness remembered seeing the subject get into a white 1970 Chevrolet with a badly dented driver’s door. Furthermore, the sector car verified the presence of the Chevrolet at that location. So an hour ago I sent a man out to check Charles Keller’s car. Which, sure enough, is a white 1970 Chevrolet. With a badly dented driver’s door.”

  “Of course,” Dwyer said cautiously, “we have to consider how Internal Affairs is going to look at this.” He turned to face me directly. His blue eyes crinkled with easily counterfeited compassion. “I’m afraid the first thing they’re going to ask is whether this information was developed before the fact or after the fact.”

  I was aware that Friedman was hunching his shoulders as he leaned forward on the expensive leather sofa. I knew that mannerism. Even without seeing Friedman’s face, I could tell that he was angry.

  “They’re going to claim that my information was rigged in Frank’s favor. Is that what you mean?”

  As Dwyer turned to Friedman, the blue eyes chilled. The crinkles around the eyes had changed to a pattern of regretful disapproval.

  “I mean,” Dwyer said, “that the information we received before I got the phone call this morning has got to be more valuable to Frank than anything we develop later. It’s only logical.”

  I heard Friedman draw a deep, dangerous breath. I spoke quickly: “The problem is, sir, that I’m going on vacation Friday. I’m going with my son, who’s come out from Detroit for two weeks. It’s”—I waited until I could catch those bureaucratic blue eyes squarely—“it’s the only time I’ll have with him. All year.”

  “What Frank’s saying,” Friedman interposed, “is that he’s not worried about the inquiry. He’s worried about the time it’ll take.”

  Behind his massive walnut desk, Dwyer’s handsome head nodded unctuously. At the same time, his hand strayed to a sheaf of reports on the blotter before him. I noticed a diamond ring on Dwyer’s little finger. I’d never seen it before. Was the ring new—a gift from his recently acquired wife, whose family was reputed to own a square block of downtown Sacramento?

  “Let me think about it,” Dwyer said. “And meanwhile, let’s see what happens tomorrow.” As he lifted the first report, his diamond caught the light from an antique desk lamp. He began to read the report.

  In unison, Friedman and I rose to our feet. And, in unison, we left the office without speaking.

  In the hallway, furiously silent, Friedman walked directly to the coffee machine located in an alcove near the elevators. It was Friedman’s belief that, in the Hall, true privacy could be found only at the coffee machine or in the bathroom. I watched him insert the necessary coins, hand me a cup of black coffee and take a cup for himself—double sugar, double cream. His eyes were snapping angrily.

  “There are times,” he said, “when I wish I’d stuck with i
t, down in Hollywood. There’re worse things in life than being a bit player. Even a fat bit player—which I wasn’t, in Hollywood. I was skinny.”

  Sipping my coffee, I listened to him go on.

  “It would be different,” he said, “if you hadn’t volunteered, less than two months ago, to risk your neck in order to save Dwyer’s ass, when that so-called Masked Man was out to kill him.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” I said.

  “How do you mean?” Noisily, he drank half his coffee in one long, exasperated gulp.

  “Dwyer was scared. He was afraid he was going to die, and it showed. He let his guard slip, and I saw it happen.”

  “So, to restore his self-respect—to even the half-ass score—he’s going to lay back and see you get screwed out of the only time you have during the year with your kid. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Friedman hurled his empty coffee cup toward the trash receptacle—missing by more than a foot. “You’re probably right,” he muttered. “You’re probably exactly, goddam precisely right. That’s the way his mind works. Also, I’ve never—never—known Dwyer to stand by a subordinate. Not if it means the slightest risk to that handsome hide of his does he go to bat for anyone. Never.”

  “Well,” I answered, throwing my cup in the trash can, then stooping to retrieve Friedman’s, “I’m leaving town Friday afternoon, no matter what. Even if it means a suspension, I’m leaving.”

  “It won’t mean a suspension,” Friedman grated. “Believe it.”

  “I hope you’re right.” We were walking together toward the elevators.

  “There’re two things that have to be done,” Friedman said. “Immediately.”

  “What’s that?” I pressed the third-floor button.

  “First, we’ve got to make sure—absolutely sure—that the reporters don’t get hold of this. If it gets in the papers, and Dwyer starts worrying about his image, we’re screwed.”

  “What’s the other thing?” I beckoned him into the elevator.

  “The other thing is that we’ve got to get Keller down here, and let those witnesses take a look at him—especially the second witness, an ex-Navy officer. Towne says that’s the one who saw the subject’s face while he was under a streetlight.”

  “We can’t haul Keller down here just on suspicion.”

  “I think we can. Not on suspicion, maybe. But I think we can get him down here. All we’ve got to do is make him think he’s got you in trouble.”

  “How’re we going to do that?”

  “I’ll contact him, and tell him that we’ve got reason to suspect that you’ve been caught dirty—that you’re suspected of several infractions. I’ll say that I’m conducting a confidential investigation on behalf of the Department. Since he lodged a complaint about you some time ago, I’ll say, we want his testimony.” As he stepped off the elevator, Friedman spread his hands. “What could be more logical?”

  “Except that you’re in Homicide, not Internal Affairs.”

  “Keller doesn’t know that.”

  “He might find out, though.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Friedman asked, pushing open the door to our waiting room. I walked through the door behind him, and for a moment we stood together, absently nodding in unison to a uniformed man who sat in one corner of the waiting room. He was handcuffed to a homicide suspect. The suspect was staring at me with calm, impassive malice.

  “No,” I answered finally, “I don’t have a better idea. I’ve got a request, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you get Keller down here tomorrow, and if we don’t get a positive identification, I want to talk to him.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s wise or not,” I answered. “But I do know that if I talk to him, I’ll know whether he’s the one who’s trying to set me up.”

  “Maybe so,” Friedman said dubiously. “But personally, I think you’d be taking a risk.” As he spoke, a homicide inspector, just returned from the field, was gesturing to Friedman, pointing to a telephone receiver held in his other hand.

  “Duty calls,” Friedman said. “It’s four o’clock. Why don’t you get Darrell and go home? Otherwise, sure as hell, you’re going to start taking some of these calls.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Go ahead”—he shoved me toward the door—“don’t worry. Leave Keller to me. If I can’t get him any other way, I’ll frame him. Leave the reporters to me, too. They all owe me favors. And tonight, kiss Ann on the forehead for me. Chastely.”

  Six

  “I’M SORRY I DIDN’T have more time with you today,” I said. “I … had a couple of problems.”

  “That’s okay.” As we drove, Darrell had been looking out the window toward the bay. Now he pointed to a gleaming white cruise liner just passing beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. Behind the liner, the sun had dropped below a bank of offshore fog. Lying low on the dark blue of the horizon, the fog bank was tinted a delicate golden yellow by the sinking sun. In another hour, I knew, the color would deepen to a spectacular molten orange.

  “That’d make a good picture,” he said. “Especially in color. I wish I had my camera with me.”

  “Do you take many pictures?” I asked. Three years ago, for Christmas, I’d bought him an Instamatic camera, his first “real” camera. Until now, he’d never mentioned whether or not he used it.

  “I’ve been taking about ten pictures a day,” he answered. “Mom bought me a Minolta about a week before I left. For a vacation present. It cost two hundred dollars.”

  “Oh.”

  We drove a long, slow block in silence. We were within a half-mile of Ann’s house, and already a few minutes late for dinner. I still hadn’t told Darrell about Ann—about my feeling for her.

  I cleared my throat and said, “I … ah … met Ann—Mrs. Haywood—about six months ago. Her oldest boy was a witness in a homicide case. He’s sixteen—Dan. Her younger son is Billy. He’s almost twelve. So you’re—” Again I cleared my throat as I glanced at him. “So you’re just about in between them. Your age, I mean.”

  As soon as I said it, I knew it had been a mistake. I’d wedged him between the two Haywood sons, with no way out.

  “She’s a schoolteacher, you said.” It was a flat statement, subtly accusatory.

  “Right. She teaches the fourth grade. She’s … ah … divorced.”

  “Will they come to the cabin while we’re there?” Darrell asked.

  “No. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” I drove in silence for another block before I ventured: “Did I tell you—mention to you—that Ann and I … spend a lot of time together?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to be sure and meet her. Tonight, I mean.”

  No response.

  It had been another mistake. Friedman had been right. I should have waited until Darrell knew her before I tried to tell him about Ann and me.

  “Also,” I said finally, “we have to find out things about the cabin. So Ann invited us to dinner.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Oh—” I lifted my hand from the steering wheel in a vague gesture. “We have to know how to unlock the place, for instance, and how to turn the water on. Things like that.”

  “Oh.”

  We’d driven another block in labored silence before he suddenly said, “Canelli’s funny, sort of. But I like him.”

  He was changing the subject. Trying to save the situation.

  I smiled at him. “I do, too, when I think about it. Like him, I mean.”

  “Is he your driver? Is that his job?”

  “Well, yes and no. He’s not just a chauffeur. He’s a detective. But he drives for me, yes.”

  “He doesn’t act like a detective.”

  “That’s true. He doesn’t think like a
detective, either.”

  “I know.” Another pause. Then: “Has Canelli ever—shot anyone?”

  I turned into Ann’s block. “Yes,” I answered slowly. “Yes, he’s shot someone.” I pulled into a parking place and switched off the engine. Then I turned to him. I was thinking of Canelli, standing over the body of a man who’d been wearing only one shoe when he’d attacked Canelli with a bayonet. We’d never found the other shoe.

  Darrell’s expression was pensive as he stared through the windshield; his brows were drawn together in a thoughtful frown.

  “It’s not like on TV, I guess. Shooting someone, I mean.”

  “Nothing’s ever like it is on TV. Especially shooting someone. Because, usually, they’re shooting at you. Which means that you’re scared. That’s what they don’t show on TV. They don’t show how scared you get.”

  “Sometimes they do.”

  “Not often.”

  “Canelli told me that it’s like cowboys and Indians. You chase someone, and you get excited. So you forget about it, he said. About being afraid, I mean.” As he spoke, he turned to face me. Now he was frowning. He was trying to probe the nature of fear—and of heroism, the flip side of fear.

  He was a serious, reflective boy. He’d always been serious—always quiet.

  Like me?

  I nodded tentatively. “Canelli’s right—but he’s wrong, too. Sometimes, in the heat of a chase, you get carried away. But then, afterward, you get the shakes.” I hesitated, then decided to say, “Or else you mess your pants. The TV doesn’t talk about that, either.”

  “Do you get the shakes?” he asked. “Afterward?”

  “Yes, Darrell, I do. Everyone does. Whether or not they admit it. They—”

  “Hey, Frank. Hi.” It was Billy’s voice, Ann’s younger son. Turning, I saw him zooming toward us on his new motocross bike. Billy was the ebullient one. Constantly, he interrupted at the wrong time. Like now.

  Reluctantly, I rolled down the window. “Hi, Billy.” I waited until he braked to a flamboyant stop, hooking one freckled hand on the window frame beside me. “This is Darrell, Billy. My son.”