“There were other women in your husband’s life,” I said.
“Yes, there were other women. I always knew it, really. Even when I couldn’t face it, I knew it. When we lived here in San Francisco, and I had my babies, I didn’t mind. Donald’s factories were down in Los Angeles, and he’d go down there once a week or so. He’d always stay for a day or two. Sometimes he’d stay for a week. And I knew that he had women down there. I hated knowing it, but I couldn’t shut it out. At least—” She broke off, frowning. “At least, I couldn’t shut it out without—” Once more she broke off, agitated by her own thoughts. I knew what she was thinking. She was remembering the time during her life when she began drinking. She was remembering the loneliness and the desperation and the endless pain of defeat. She was remembering the long, blurred nights and the stark, cruel days that always followed.
“And then,” she said, “Donald went into movies and TV in Hollywood. He kept the aerospace business, of course. But that was in the early fifties, and my father-in-law told him to get into TV. So he did. He always did what his father told him.
“So then—” She sighed regretfully. Her moment of agitation had passed, and she’d once more succeeded in detaching herself from the story she was telling. “So then, because it was Hollywood and the newspapers loved to write about the movie stars, I began to read things in the paper about Donald. They were only hints, of course, in the gossip columns. But I knew, and everyone else did too. Of course, Donald didn’t like it. He was furious. He ruined one of the columnists. Her name was Hilda Ware, and Donald arranged it so that Hilda Ware couldn’t find a job.”
“Hilda Ware …”
In the fifties, Hilda Ware had been world-famous.
“She was very bitter,” Belle was saying. “She was ruined, and she was bitter. So every once in a while she’d call me or send me a note. They were always anonymous notes. But of course I always knew who sent them.”
Anonymous notes …
“She’d tell you about your husband’s lovers,” I said. “Was that it?”
“Yes. That’s where I first heard about Juanita Tharp, from one of those notes. There were other names, of course. But the reason I remember Juanita Tharp’s name is because the note said that she had a baby. She went to Santa Barbara, and she had a baby. That’s what the note said.”
“You mean—” I realized that I could hardly bring myself to say it: “You mean that Juanita Tharp’s baby was—the father was—” I couldn’t finish it.
Calmly, almost serenely, she nodded, saying softly, “The father was Donald. Yes. At least, that’s what the note said. Of course, I never showed the note to Donald. He would have been furious if I’d showed it to him. Simply furious.”
Eighteen
I’D PARKED ACROSS THE street from the massive verdigris gates that led into the Ryan mansion. All I could think about, crossing the street to my car, was that I had to get back to the Hall and find Friedman. Together, we must try to decide how to deal with the possibility that Frederick Tharp was Donald Ryan’s bastard son.
Already, in the minutes that followed my interview with Belle Ryan, I’d become hopelessly confused just considering the possibilities. What if we found Frederick Tharp and arrested him for committing sodomy upon the person of his half-sister, and for attempted extortion on the person of Donald Ryan, his natural father? How would the media handle the story? How would Ryan’s staff handle it?
No one could predict where it would go, or where it would end. But, at that moment, one person could decide how it would start. Me. Sitting in my cruiser and staring blankly off toward the orange spires of the Golden Gate Bridge rising above a billowing blanket of white ocean fog, I was the keeper of confidential information that, if made public, could ruin Ryan’s career.
But the spot I was in could be dangerous. If I decided to keep the secret, helping Ryan avoid a scandal, and if Tharp were arrested for trying to kill Ryan, then it would become obvious that I’d been guilty of suppressing evidence, concealing a motive for murder. If, on the other hand, I put the secret on record, and the media ran with it, my career could be finished.
Either way, I lost.
There was only one solution: buck the problem upstairs. I would tell Friedman, and Friedman and I would tell Chief Dwyer. It was the only way I could protect myself, by putting Dwyer between me and Ryan.
At the thought, I realized that I was sighing. By the book—by the civil service system of survival—everything was simple.
As I reached for my microphone, I saw a black Cadillac sedan turn into the street ahead of my car and come slowly toward me, on the opposite side of the street. As part of my security briefing, I’d been told that Ryan’s staff would be using a fleet of four identical black limousines to shuttle all of them, in addition to his family and various dignitaries, between the Fairmont, the Ryan mansion, the airport and, later, the newly dedicated Donald A. Ryan Federal Building.
Now the Cadillac was swinging toward the center of the street, preparing to turn right into the Ryan driveway. As it drew even with me, I recognized the stolid face of the driver. It was Lloyd Eason.
I sounded my horn and waved urgently, beckoning for him to join me. He looked at me, nodded impassively and stopped in front of the huge gates. One of the two gates swung open and a man emerged, one of Ryan’s staff. Eason got out of the Cadillac, spoke briefly to him and then crossed the street to my car. I swung the passenger door open. “I’ve been trying to get you,” I said. “I left a message at the hotel.”
“And I left a message for you,” he said, “just about an hour ago at police headquarters.” He turned his big body in the passenger’s seat, half facing me. The movement stretched the dark cloth of his jacket across the bulge of a shoulder holster beneath his left armpit.
“You carry a gun.”
“Yes. I’ve carried one for years.”
“What kind do you carry?”
“It’s a Colt .45, the automatic.”
“You couldn’t do better.”
He didn’t reply, but only stared at me with his dark, still eyes. Waiting.
“How’s the senator feeling?” I asked.
Eason raised his big shoulders, shrugging. “He should retire. He should’ve retired when he had the heart attack.”
“I agree. Then all of this would be simplified. Doesn’t he know that?”
“He has responsibilities.”
“I know. But he can’t discharge them.”
“He tries.”
I studied him silently for a moment. His expression didn’t change. His eyes never left mine.
“Saturday night, Eason, when the senator called me, I gathered that only you and Katherine Bayliss knew that he sent for me. Is that right?”
“I believe so,” he answered, speaking in a slow, even voice. “Did you find him? Frederick Tharp?”
I let another moment of silence pass before I said, “So he told you about Tharp—told you his name.”
He nodded.
“When?”
“Yesterday—Sunday.” Then, reproachfully, he added, “The senator was waiting for you to call yesterday.”
“I wanted to see whether I could find Tharp before I called him. Then later when I tried to get through to the senator, I couldn’t do it. Doctor’s orders.”
“Yes—” He nodded again. “The senator had a bad night.” He paused, then asked, “Did you find him?”
“I think that I should talk to Senator Ryan about what I found. I’m not trying to put you down. It’s just that the senator wanted me to report to him directly. What he does after that is up to him.”
Instead of replying, he reached into an inside pocket and produced a plain white envelope, which he silently handed to me. “Lieutenant Hastings” was written across it in big, decisive script. And in the lower left-hand corner: “Eyes Only.” I ripped open the envelope and took out a single sheet of stationery imprinted simply Senator Donald A. Ryan, The Senate Office Building, Washington, D
. C. 20002. The message was brief and to the point.
Lieutenant Hastings:
Regarding the matter we discussed on Saturday night, I would like you to communicate your findings to Lloyd Eason, who will relay them directly to me.
The signature, D. A. Ryan, was done with a flourish, matching the inscription on the envelope.
I reread the letter, refolded it and tapped it against the steering wheel.
“What this tells me,” I said, “is that you’re the senator’s closest confidant. When the chips are down, it’s you that he trusts.”
He looked at me for a moment with his opaque eyes. Then, quietly, he said, “I’ve been with the senator for almost thirty years. His father hired me to look after him. That’s what I do. I look after him. It’s my job.”
“You live with him, you told me. Wherever he is, you’re with him.”
“Yes.”
“No days off?”
“Once in a while.”
“You have no wife? No family?”
He blinked and seemed to wince. But his voice was still steady and calm as he answered quietly, “No. No family. My wife died.”
“How old are you, Mr. Eason?”
“Fifty-six, next month.”
“So you were about twenty-six when you went to work for the Ryans.”
“Yes.” He paused, then frowned. “Why’re you asking?”
“I just want to find out who I’m dealing with, that’s all.” I gestured with the folded letter. “This tells me to turn over what I’ve found to you. As it happens, I’ve discovered some things that, potentially, could be pretty important—pretty devastating, in fact, for the senator. I want to know that I’m not making a mistake telling you.”
He pointed to the letter. “That should tell you that you aren’t making a mistake.”
“Except that I’m not sure how much the senator expected me to find out,” I answered. “And, besides, I’m not sure how much I’m authorized to tell without orders from my superiors. I don’t work for the senator, you know. I’m an officer of the law. Certain things I can reveal before an indictment has been rendered, but certain things I can’t. I’d prejudice the D.A.’s case if I said too much.”
He didn’t reply, but only looked at me.
I decided to try to split the difference: tell him part of what I’d discovered and let the rest of it go unsaid, at least until I could talk with the senator privately.
“All right,” I said, hopeful that I sounded resigned to telling the whole truth, “here it is. We discovered that Frederick Tharp is a habitual criminal. He’s been in trouble since he was a teenager. He’s been in prison until about a month ago, when he was paroled into the custody of his uncle, Byron Tharp. Byron Tharp lives in San Francisco and owns Trader John’s, which is a well-known nightclub here. Fred lived with his uncle and worked at Trader John’s. However, about a week ago he disappeared and hasn’t been seen since—except for yesterday evening after Susan returned from her family dinner.” I gestured to the mansion.
“Yesterday?” Eason said. “Susan saw him yesterday?”
I nodded. “He was waiting for her when she got home. He had a gun. He made her go into her house with him through the garage. He terrorized her and then forced her into giving him oral sex.”
“He—Susan—” He couldn’t finish it. He sat stiffened with rage, fists clenched on his knees, lips drawn back from gritted teeth. In the depths of his dark, obsidian eyes, I saw a small, murderous gleam.
“Where’s Susan now?” He spoke in a tight voice, as if his silent rage were choking him. His eyes held mine, remorselessly.
“She’s with her mother.” Once more, I gestured to the bronze gates. His Cadillac, I noticed, was gone. Someone had driven it inside the compound.
“With her mother?” Surprised, he let his gaze follow mine.
“She didn’t want to stay in her own house, not after what happened. It’s understandable.”
“But is she—is she all right?” He was still looking fixedly toward the Ryan mansion.
“She’ll be all right, I think. These things take time. She had a hell of a shock.” I watched him, waiting for him to speak. When he remained silent, still staring across the street with his smoldering eyes, I said quietly, “What can you tell me about a woman named Juanita Tharp?”
At first I thought he hadn’t heard me. Then slowly he turned to face me fully. He was frowning. Was it a frown of puzzlement? Or was it something else? I couldn’t decide.
“Juanita Tharp,” I prompted. “She’s Frederick Tharp’s mother. She’s about fifty years old, maybe more. She used to be an actress, I think.”
He shook his head. “No,” he answered, “I never heard of her.”
“You’re sure?”
Eason nodded. “I’m absolutely sure.” Then suddenly he turned away, opening the door. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to see Susan. I’ve got to help.”
“Don’t forget,” I said as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, “I want to talk to the senator. The sooner the better.”
He didn’t reply, didn’t look back as he strode purposefully across the street; a big, burly man in an ill-fitting blue suit, walking with grim, menacing resolution.
Nineteen
“WHAT WE’VE GOT HERE,” Friedman said, “is one very, very hot potato.”
“I know—” Irritably, I finger-flicked a corner of the manila folder marked “Donald Ryan.” The folder was one of three, each one bulging with meaningless directives and fruitless interrogation reports.
“Obviously,” Friedman said, “we’ve got to cover our asses. If we sit on information that establishes a connection between Ryan and Tharp, we’re asking for trouble. Like legal trouble for concealing evidence.”
“But if the information gets out, and we’re the cause, we could be in even more trouble.”
“So, like I said, we cover our asses. Let’s buck it up to Dwyer and then have lunch.”
I studied him for a moment. Normally Friedman hated to call his superiors into a case. For as long as I’d known him, he’d been engaged in a guerrilla war with the “politicians,” as he called them. Which, translated, meant anyone with authority over Friedman.
“That’s pretty offhand,” I said finally. “It doesn’t sound like you.”
He shrugged. “Whenever I’m trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped, I lose interest.”
“You don’t think Ryan wants to be helped?”
“Not if it means blurring his precious public image.”
“I’m beginning to think,” I said slowly, “that he doesn’t have much to sell except his image. Which is why he has to be so careful.”
Friedman snorted contemptuously. “Politicians,” he grunted. It was his most damning epithet. He sat staring moodily at the papers on my desk, then said, “When you talked to Lloyd Eason, did he say much about himself—about his past?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just for the hell of it,” Friedman said, “I decided to run Ferguson, Katherine Bayliss and Lloyd Eason through the FBI central computer.” As he spoke, he opened the folder I’d been toying with and extracted a printout sheet. “And guess who killed his wife back in 1947?”
“Eason?” I asked.
“Right. Eason.”
“What was the charge?”
“Originally, second-degree murder. He copped a plea and fell for involuntary manslaughter. At the time he was working for Patrick Ryan, Donald’s father, right here in San Francisco. In fact, when I saw this—” He gestured to the printout sheet. “I even remembered the case vaguely. It was right after the war. Eason was a sergeant in the Marines, a war hero. He found his wife in bed with another man. There was a fight, and Eason killed both of them with his bare hands. The man, he really messed up. Beat him to a pulp and killed him with one of those Marine Corps chops to the windpipe that collapses the trachea. You know, like they show in the training films but no one really does.”
I took the printout sheet and glanced at it. Aside from the usual officialese, there was nothing that described the crime.
“How do you know the details?” I asked. “Do you remember them from the papers?”
He pointed to the line marked “arresting officer.” The name was “Roger Sobel, Inspector First Grade.” It was vaguely familiar.
“Sobel retired about fifteen years ago,” Friedman said. “He’s raising grapes down in Hollister. I called him this morning after I heard from the FBI.”
“How’d Eason get the charge reduced?”
“According to Sobel, it was one of those unwritten law things. In fact, if it’d just been the other man that died, he probably never would’ve gone to trial. No question, there was a fight. But the wife died from a blow to the head. Eason claimed it happened during the fight when she climbed on his back and he threw her off and she struck her head on the corner of a table.”
“Did he serve any time?”
“No. He got probation.”
“He must’ve had a good lawyer.”
“The best. Patrick Ryan picked up the whole tab according to Sobel. Also, that was right after the war, don’t forget. Eason’s war record helped—a lot. And his—”
My phone rang.
“This is Culligan, Lieutenant. I’m down at the Brentwood Sanitarium. Lieutenant Friedman told me to come out here and do some checking. Is he with you?”
“Yes.” I gestured for Friedman to pick up my extension phone. “Go ahead. He’s on.”
Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 13