Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “And how did you find her? Did you notice anything different about her?”

  “No. I told you. I couldn’t make any sense of what she said.”

  “Did Mrs. Bayliss see her at Brentwood?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “But I don’t think so. You’d have to ask Mrs. Bayliss, though, to be sure.”

  “Thank you,” I said, turning the knob. “I will.”

  Twenty-four

  “I’M AFRAID I DON’T have much time, Lieutenant,” Katherine Bayliss said. “This dedication, it’s got us all running around in circles.” She waved an apologetic hand, then gestured to a large sheet of paper that covered most of the Regency desk. “That’s the seating diagram. Someone from White House protocol was supposed to be here to help. But the British prime minister is visiting the President on Sunday, as you know. So the White House can’t spare him, apparently.”

  “I won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Bayliss.”

  “Good.” Sitting behind the desk, she pushed the diagram aside. She looked at me for a moment, then said, “I understand that they’re getting the money together. Is that right?”

  “I don’t know. I’m leaving that to the FBI. I’m working the streets, trying to find Frederick Tharp before he goes for the money. At least, I was until now.”

  Her dark, gracefully arched eyebrows drew slightly together. “Until now? What d’you mean?”

  “Juanita Tharp was murdered last night.”

  “Juanita—” Surprise—or shock—tore at her face like a spasm of pain. “Murdered,” she said incredulously. “Does Don—does the senator know?”

  “Yes. He called me. I’ve just talked to him and Lloyd Eason.”

  She sat motionless for a moment. The perfection of her features was frozen; her eyes were far away, empty of expression. “Jesus,” she muttered. “Jesus Christ.” She sat for another moment, staring at nothing. Then, with a visible effort, she recovered herself, finally focusing her dark, intense eyes on mine.

  “Who did it?” she asked quietly.

  “We don’t know—yet. But the murderer took lots of chances and probably made mistakes. In a few hours, we should know something.”

  “In a few hours—” Once more, her gaze wandered away. But now her eyes were clear, calculating. “It’s all coming down to just a few hours, isn’t it.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “I mean the death threats on the phone, and the extortion payment, and the dedication tomorrow—and now this. It’s all—” She didn’t finish it, but instead shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts.

  “What I want—what I’ve got to have,” I said, “is information about Juanita Tharp.” I added, “When we talked in my office, you were a little less than candid about Juanita Tharp, it turns out.”

  Blandly ignoring the jab, she coolly asked, “What kind of information do you want?”

  “Anything you can give me. For instance, how long have you known her? When was the last time you saw her?”

  She frowned. “But I didn’t know her. I never saw her.”

  With my eyes challenging hers, I delayed a bit before I said quietly, “That’s not what Lloyd Eason says, Mrs. Bayliss. He says that it was you who arranged to pay her off.”

  “That’s true. But I never saw her face to face.”

  “That’s hard to believe. As I understand it, you acted for Senator Ryan from the mid-fifties until now, dealing with her.”

  As I said it, I saw her face close. The mannequin-like perfection of her features had hardened into a stranger’s face: all softness gone, all beauty frozen.

  “Did Lloyd say that?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Well, he’s mistaken. I dealt with her brother, Byron.”

  “Ah—” I nodded. “Yes, that could be. But, still, you knew who Juanita Tharp was, I assume. You knew about her and the senator—about her baby.”

  “Yes,” she answered, “I knew.” She spoke very quietly, very cautiously. Her face was still closed. Still a harsh, stranger’s mask.

  “How did you actually pay Byron? In cash?”

  “At first, yes. Later, though, I set up a Swiss bank account.”

  “When was the last time you saw Byron Tharp, Mrs. Bayliss?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. Ten, twelve years ago. Maybe more. I’m just not sure. However, about a year ago he called to say that she’d gone into an asylum. He wanted more money.”

  “Did you give him more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk it over with the senator before you gave him more?”

  “Of course. After all, it’s the senator’s money.”

  “Of course.” I sat silently for a moment, then asked, “Who do you think killed her, Mrs. Bayliss?”

  She, in turn, remained silent, carefully studying my face. Finally she said, “I have no idea. None at all.”

  “Her death could solve a lot of problems for you.”

  “Are you suggesting—” Her voice dropped to a low, ominous note that evoked all the power she could control—all the damage she could do to me and to anyone who threatened Donald Ryan.

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply saying—”

  “You’re implying that we—the senator—had her killed.”

  “Mrs. Bayliss, that’s not true.”

  “You’re supposed to be helping, Lieutenant. You’re supposed to be working for us, not against us.”

  “Mrs. Bayliss—” I drew a deep, tight breath. “At last count, we had fourteen men working on this case. Right now, right this minute, I’ve got four men, in three shifts, staking out the car that Frederick stole from his uncle. And, furthermore, we—”

  “I think,” she said, “that you should leave, Lieutenant. Go back to your—your cops-and-robbers games, whatever they are. I’ve got work to do. Important work.” Across the desk, her eyes blazed. Her voice shook with suppressed fury.

  “I’ve got work to do, too,” I said. “I’ve got a murderer to find. And I’ll find him, too. Believe me, I’ll find him.” I went to the door and left the room without looking back.

  At the elevators, the FBI man told me that he’d gotten a message asking me to call Friedman at the Hall. I took the elevator down to the lobby and called him from a pay phone.

  “What would you think,” Friedman said, “if I told you that Frederick Tharp wasn’t really Frederick Tharp?”

  “What the hell’re you talking about?” Ever since I’d left Katherine Bayliss, I’d been silently, impotently fuming. It was a relief to take my frustration out on Friedman.

  “I mean,” he answered, “that the original Frederick Tharp died two weeks after he was born. It was respiratory failure, apparently.”

  “Jesus—” Trying to comprehend it, I broke off. Then I said, “Are you sure? Positive?”

  “I’m looking at the death certificate,” he answered. “What happened, see, was that Santa Barbara sent us documents confirming what they’d said when we phoned them about Tharp. Except that, obviously, they don’t match up. Interesting, eh?”

  “Is there a birth certificate?”

  “There certainly is.” After a pause he added, “Under the circumstances, I figured that you might want to have a chat with Byron Tharp. So, to lighten your work load, I tracked him down. He’s at Trader John’s. He’s expecting you.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing, naturally. Except that there’ve been new developments.”

  “All right, I’m on my way. Anything else?”

  “Not really. But I was thinking that as long as you’re so close, why don’t you stop by the Datsun stakeout? You know, inspire the troops. It’s right on your way to Trader John’s.”

  “Who’s in charge of the stakeout now?”

  “Canelli. I think he’s inside the parking garage, ostensibly cleaning up.”

  “All right. I’ll stop by.”

  “Incidentally, we tried to beep y
ou.”

  I looked at the small pager clipped to my belt. The switch was in the “off” position. “My pager needs a new battery, I think.”

  “Hmmm.” It was a skeptical-sounding response.

  Twenty-five

  INSTEAD OF DRIVING INTO the parking garage, I decided to pull into a nearby loading zone. I would stay in my car for a few minutes, trying to pick out the two or three men, besides Canelli, who would make up the stakeout team. If I couldn’t readily spot them, they were doing their job. If I saw them parked in plain sight, they would hear from me.

  As I was using my microphone to clear my car with Communications, I saw a Ford Fairmont with two General Works men inside parked half a block away, opposite the garage. Both men were casually dressed, but otherwise they were obviously cops on stakeout: bored-looking, trying to be watchful without looking watchful. And, worse, their car was from the inspectors’ motor pool and showed a telltale two-way antenna protruding from the trunk.

  I had retrieved the microphone and was switching on the transmitter, when I glanced in my rear-view mirror and saw him: a slightly built man in his middle twenties, dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, a faded Levi’s jacket and a gaucho-style wide-brimmed leather hat. His face was pale and drawn. Dark blond hair was visible beneath the leather hat. He was approaching the garage on my side of the street. As he came closer, I saw restless brown eyes moving uneasily beneath the hat brim, ceaselessly sweeping the street and the sidewalk.

  From the picture hastily withdrawn from an inside pocket, I couldn’t be sure the stranger was Frederick Tharp. But twelve years of police work told me that, whoever he was, he was on the other side of the law.

  He was less than fifteen feet from the rear of my car, slowly sauntering toward me. The entrance to the garage was about twenty-five feet beyond my car on the same side of the street.

  I must make my decision in seconds.

  Normally I would let him pass, then use my walkie-talkie to alert the other members of the stakeout team. But I couldn’t use the walkie-talkie; I had no idea what frequency Canelli had assigned.

  Ten feet.

  I propped my head in my right palm, pretending to stare idly down the street in the direction of the Ford, parked another twenty-five feet beyond the entrance to the garage, about fifty feet from my car. The two G.W. men were looking at each other, laughing together. One of them must have told a joke.

  Without hope, I scanned the area for the fourth member of the stakeout team. The curbs on both sides of the street were lined with cars, all of them empty except for the Ford. A handful of passers-by were on the sidewalks, walking leisurely in both directions.

  Five feet.

  I unbuttoned my jacket, loosened my revolver in its spring holster, then put my hand on the door latch. I would wait for him to pass, then open the door. I would slip out of the car and fall into step behind him. Then, quickly, I would close the distance, jam my revolver into the small of his back. If he resisted, help would be close by.

  And if the slightly built stranger wasn’t Frederick Tharp, I would pretend that the operation was a drug bust. After a warning, we would release him—and hope he didn’t call the ACLU.

  He was drawing even with the rear of my car …

  Even with the door.

  Cautiously, I cracked my door. He was ahead of me now. Slowly, I swung the door open, at the same time glancing at the Ford. The two detectives were still talking, still laughing.

  I was out on the sidewalk now. Five, six feet separated us. As I closed the distance, he was drawing closer to the parking garage’s driveway. Would he turn into the driveway? If he did, the odds were in my favor, not the ACLU’s. I should wait, then, until he’d either passed the garage or else turned in.

  And still the two G.W. detectives were chatting amiably.

  With less than ten feet still separating the stranger from the driveway, a bright yellow Mazda sports car appeared from inside the garage. The driver was a girl, a cornsilk blonde. Waiting for traffic to clear, she stopped the Mazda in the driveway, blocking the sidewalk. The stranger was standing still, waiting for the girl to clear the sidewalk. Now he was turning to glance over his shoulder. With five feet between us, I stopped. Half turning, I pretended to glance pointedly toward the garage, as if I wanted to get my car and was impatient with the pretty girl behind the Mazda’s wheel. I would—

  Across the street, both doors of the Ford were swinging open. The two detectives were getting purposefully out of the car, unbuttoning their jackets. They’d recognized Tharp.

  Simultaneously, Tharp and I lunged forward. With his left hand he grasped the Mazda’s door handle on the driver’s side. Momentarily his right hand disappeared from sight—then reappeared holding a gun. The girl screamed. Once. Twice. Brakes squealed as a pickup truck stopped inches from the two detectives in the middle of the street. With my own gun in my right hand, legs pumping, I lowered my left shoulder, extended my left arm in a tackler’s sweep. If I hit him hard enough I could jar the gun from his hand or spoil his aim.

  But with my arm still inches away from him, I flung myself to the right, clear of the suspect.

  Because the muzzle of his revolver hadn’t swung toward me, or toward the two G.W. men. The muzzle was jammed cruelly into the girl’s neck just below her ear. The suspect’s hand was tangled in her hair, forcing her head back against the car’s headrest.

  “Back off,” he was screaming, his mouth open wide, his eyes wild. “Back off, you bastards. Now. Right now.”

  Slowly, impotently, I was straightening from my crouch. My revolver was pointed down at the sidewalk. I heard myself softly swearing. Standing with legs braced wide, revolvers steady on the suspect, the two G.W. men crouched behind a parked car.

  “Drop it,” they shouted. “Drop the gun.” To my right, in the entrance to the garage, Canelli and Fowler appeared, both dressed in white coveralls, both with guns drawn. I gestured for them to hold their positions as I stepped back from the suspect, still with my revolver pointed down. As long as Tharp threatened the girl, we were helpless.

  “Give it up, Tharp,” I said, speaking slowly and quietly. “Don’t get in any deeper.”

  Holding the Mazda’s door open wide, he stood with his body pressed close to the girl still sitting motionless in the seat, staring straight ahead. Her face was colorless, her lips pale. Her eyes were wide, terrified. Tharp whispered something to her, then turned to me.

  “You know me, then. You know who I am.” He spoke in a thin, ragged voice. He was breathing harshly, unevenly. But his eyes glinted with a kind of manic clarity. He was calm. Dangerous, and calm.

  “That’s right, Tharp,” I answered. “We’re here for you. And we’ll take you, too. Right now. Right here.”

  Mockingly, he shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “You won’t take me. Not as long as I’ve got her. You know you won’t take me. You know it.” For a moment his eyes held mine. In that instant I knew he was right. We wouldn’t take him. Not here. Not now. Words wouldn’t work with Fred Tharp. And threats wouldn’t work, either. Because danger and violence were the focus of his life. He lived for the terror he inflicted on others.

  “If you leave with her,” I said, “it’s kidnapping.”

  His only reaction was a slow, malicious smile. Did he know I was lying?

  Suddenly he tugged viciously at the girl’s hair, ordering her to get out of the car and stand between him and me for protection. As the girl stood up, I realized that she was a teenager. For a moment our eyes met. Mutely, she begged me for help, begged me to save her life. Helplessly, I nodded to her.

  With his gun pressed to the back of her neck, Tharp shifted his grip, circling her waist with his free arm, at the same time whispering again into her ear. I saw her eyes widen. Then Tharp slid across to the passenger’s seat, drawing her inside the car beside him, behind the wheel. With the gun threatening her, she would drive.

  As the Mazda’s door closed, I caught a furtive movement from the dir
ection of the garage. Canelli was easing out of sight. In seconds he would be calling Communications. In minutes reinforcements would arrive.

  As the Mazda’s engine revved up, my hand tightened on my revolver. Now, in this instant, I had my chance. I could shoot out the Mazda’s tires.

  But in line behind the sports car I saw a cluster of pedestrians gawking. My shots would ricochet off the sidewalk, hitting them.

  The sports car was moving forward. I saw the driver’s window rise. Inside the car, a Levi’s-clad arm reached out. With both windows up, he was locking the doors. The car moved out of the driveway, turning right with the traffic.

  Thrusting my revolver into its holster, I was sprinting for my car. The G.W. men, too, were running for their car. On the sidewalk, big-eyed pedestrians stood rooted, still gawking. A small boy was crying. A man was swearing loudly, his arms above his head, as if he were calling for help from heaven.

  As I fumbled with my key in the car door, I heard Canelli yell, “Want me with you, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes. Come on.” I jerked open the driver’s door, unlocked the passenger’s door and twisted the ignition key. The starter ground—and ground. The engine caught, faltered, died. Canelli was beside me. I twisted the starter again, floorboarded the accelerator, ordering, “Get on the radio. Get us a clear channel. Tell those others—those G.W. bastards.” As the starter ground again, I looked ahead. The yellow Mazda was turning right on Columbus, two blocks away.

  The engine caught again—faltered again—finally settled into a roar. Beside me Canelli was talking into his walkietalkie, telling the other team to monitor our transmissions on tach four.

  “Tell them to follow us,” I said, swinging away from the curb. “And let’s get some help, for Christ’s sake.” I jammed the flashing red light into its dashboard bracket and hit the siren switch. In the mirror I saw another red light flashing. Canelli was talking calmly into his microphone, calling out the suspect’s route and giving our position. I cut sharply around a pickup truck and passed a white van. I was approaching the Columbus Street intersection on the wrong side of the street against the light. I glanced to the left, swung the cruiser to the right, narrowly missing an elderly couple standing motionless in the crosswalk. Canelli was pointing urgently ahead.