We were on the sidewalk now, with two storage sheds still between us and Pier 3. During the years of my childhood when the port of San Francisco had been operating at capacity, this part of the waterfront had been a beehive of activity day and night. Trucks rumbled down the Embarcadero to unload in the cavernous storage sheds. Switch engines were as busy as toy trains, pushing boxcars into these same sheds where their cargoes would be unloaded, then reloaded on the waiting ships.
As we were passing the second of the two sheds, I felt Friedman’s nudge against my arm. “Look,” he whispered, pointing to the shed. “One of the doors is open.”
He was right. Four huge doors, each one large enough to admit a truck, gave access to the sagging, abandoned shed. One of the doors was ajar.
“Let’s take a look.” As I said it, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my revolver in its holster. Beside me, Friedman was doing the same. Ahead of us at the curb two cars were parked, one a small Japanese sedan, the other a pickup truck. I lowered my head until I could see the dim light from an isolated street lamp shining through the windshield of both cars. Either the occupants were lying flat on the seats, hidden, or the cars were both empty.
Standing side by side in front of the massive door, Friedman and I glanced at each other and nodded. Friedman moved to his right. I pushed the partially open door slowly inward on its creaking hinges as I moved with it to my left, so that I wouldn’t be silhouetted against the night sky.
When the door was fully open, Friedman clicked on his flashlight. A Cadillac was parked just inside the doorway. Standing cautiously to the right of the doorway, Friedman played the flashlight beam over the car. I saw a shattered side window on the driver’s side.
Behind the steering wheel I saw a head resting motionless against the top of the seat, face raised.
“Bingo,” Friedman breathed.
With my revolver in my hand, I was moving slowly to my left, toward the driver’s side of the car. On the far side, flashlight in one hand, revolver in the other, Friedman was also advancing. Moments later, we stood on opposite sides of the car, both of us peering inside as Friedman played the light on Lloyd Eason’s dead face.
I holstered my revolver, took out my handkerchief and opened the door on the driver’s side. As the door swung open the interior light came on. Also using a handkerchief, Friedman was opening the door on the other side, now pressing his handkerchief to his nostrils against the odor. Gritting my teeth, I touched Eason’s neck just below the left ear. The flesh was cold.
“He’s been dead for a while,” I said. Gingerly, I reached in and opened his dark blue jacket across the chest. Two six-inch circles of blood stained his white shirt, one stain centered on his chest, the other lower, at the belt line. Powder burns surrounded both wounds. I looked at the driver’s window. The glass was crazed by countless tiny cracks radiating from two bullet holes, one about four inches down from the top of the window, the other directly opposite Eason’s shoulder where I saw a third wound. The blood that had come from the two abdominal wounds glistened in the pale light, not yet coagulated. But the blood from the shoulder wound was drying on the blue fabric of his jacket. Looking carefully at the opposite side of the car, I saw a small hole where one bullet had doubtless buried itself in the headliner above the front passenger’s door. On the seat I saw a Colt .45 automatic lying beside Eason’s hand.
With the flashlight Friedman was examining the floor of the car, back and front. “There’s nothing here,” he said.
“The money, you mean?”
“Right. The money.” He took the keys from the ignition and stepped to the rear of the car. Carefully, using my handkerchief, I picked up the .45 and sniffed at the barrel. Even through the excremental stench, I could smell cordite. As I replaced the revolver exactly as I’d found it, Friedman slammed down the trunk lid and replaced the keys in the ignition.
“Nothing.” He pointed to the automatic. “Has it been fired?”
“Yes.”
“What’d the wounds look like?”
“It looks like two shots to the torso, producing death. They were probably fired from inside the car. Two more shots were fired through the window. One is in his shoulder and the other is still inside the car. The shoulder wound is older than the other two.”
“Hmm.” He looked carefully at the dead man’s chest wounds, then drew back. “Let’s close it up,” he said, “and get some goddamn air.”
As I slammed the driver’s door, a few fragments of shattered glass fell on my shoe. I moved toward the shed’s open door, following Friedman.
“This,” he said, “is developing into a busy night.” He snapped off the light, then stood thoughtfully tapping the flashlight against his open palm. We were standing side by side, both of us staring back into the pitch-black cavern of the shed. Except for the nighttime sounds of the city in the distance, the Embarcadero was silent. Looking up, I saw pale starlight showing through gaps in the shed’s roof.
“What d’you think happened?” I asked.
“I think that Eason met Tharp at Stow Lake about eight P.M.,” he said. “I think he probably intended to kill Tharp. I think there was a shootout. Tharp was killed and Eason was wounded in the shoulder. He probably drove to a phone and called Katherine Bayliss.”
Still staring into the darkness of the shed, I nodded. “It had to’ve happened like that. But what happened next?”
“Obviously,” Friedman said, “someone killed him and took the money.”
“Katherine Bayliss.” I realized that I was whispering, awed at the thought.
“Who else knew he was here?” Friedman’s voice, too, was hushed.
“But why? It couldn’t’ve been for the money.”
“No,” he agreed, “it probably wasn’t for the money. Not even for a million dollars.”
“Then why?”
“He killed her child,” he answered softly. “He didn’t know that he’d done it. He thought he was killing Juanita’s child to protect Ryan. Don’t forget, he didn’t know that Katherine was Frederick Tharp’s mother.”
“But Tharp was Ryan’s son,” I said. “Either way, Eason knew he was killing Ryan’s son.”
“His bastard son,” Friedman corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Not to Katherine, there wasn’t a difference.”
“No,” he said, “not to Katherine.”
Thirty-two
AS WE WALKED SLOWLY across the Fairmont lobby, the clock above the registration desk read exactly midnight. From the night clerk, we’d already learned that Katherine Bayliss had returned to the hotel less than an hour ago. We’d stayed at the Embarcadero only long enough to see the area secured, leaving Culligan on the scene to handle the details.
“I’ve got to admit,” Friedman said, “that I’m a little shook up. I mean, here we are, about to—” He tossed his head. “About to what? What’re we going to do? How’re we going to do it? Do we arrest her for murder? Is that what we do?” As he’d been talking, we’d slowed our steps until we’d come to a stop beside the locked-up newsstand.
“We can’t do it now,” I said. “Even if she was just—just anyone, we can’t do it now. We’ve got to get her paraffin-tested. And we’ve got to wait for the lab reports and the ballistics, too. Besides, she’s not going anywhere. Not until tomorrow, anyhow, after the dedication.”
“You’re assuming,” Friedman said, “that we aren’t going to get a confession out of her. You could be wrong.”
“Yes,” I said, “I could be wrong. But don’t count on it.”
On the eleventh floor, the corridor was deserted.
“The dogs have been called off,” Friedman said, sotto voce. Behind us, the elevator doors slid closed.
“Well,” I said, also speaking softly, “Tharp’s dead, after all.”
“Do you know which room is hers?”
“Down here—” I turned to the left, then to the right at the first intersecting corridor. I realized that my steps wer
e lagging. I didn’t want to do it—didn’t want to accuse Katherine Bayliss of murder. “Maybe we’re making a mistake, doing this,” I said. “Maybe we should call Dwyer.”
“Calling Dwyer would be the mistake,” Friedman answered. “This is the best time to interrogate her, while she’s still shook up. You know as well as I do it’s the first rule.”
“What if she didn’t do it?”
“We’re still within our rights. Besides, we’ve got to tell someone on the Ryan staff about Eason, don’t we? And Bayliss is the logical person to tell.”
“You’re right,” I admitted, stopping in front of Katherine Bayliss’s door and pressing the buzzer.
After several minutes and three more attempts at the buzzer, she still hadn’t answered. Cautiously, I tried the door. It was locked.
“What now?” I whispered.
“We’ve got to try the senator.”
“The senator?” I hissed.
“Certainly,” he answered. “He sent you out, didn’t he? So naturally he wants a report, doesn’t he? What better excuse could you have? You’re checking in.”
“At midnight? Without preparing him? Without going through one of his staff? Pete, he’s a sick man.”
Irresolutely, we’d walked a few feet down the hall. Finally Friedman turned to face me. Speaking in a low, firm voice, looking me squarely in the eye, he said, “Any other way, we’re taking a chance. When all this—this political fallout has settled, it comes down to the simple fact that we’re either doing our job, or we’re not doing our job. Don’t forget, there’s some money missing—a lot of money. That’s how all this started, with the money. And we’ve got to find it. That’s our job. And if we don’t do our jobs now—right now—then we’re liable to charges.” He paused to let his words sink in. Then, still deadly serious, he said, “Don’t fall into the same hole Dwyer’s in, Frank. Just think about the law. That’s what it’s all about for us. The law.”
“But Ryan—Christ—he’s—” Helplessly, I let it go unfinished.
“It doesn’t matter,” Friedman said, speaking very slowly, very seriously. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s the job that matters. The law.”
Momentarily I looked away from him, glancing up and down the silent corridor. How had it happened that this particular choice had been forced on us, in this particular place, so far from the grifters and hoodlums and whores that filled up our days—and our nights?
I looked at him one last time, muttered a heartfelt obscenity, then led the way to Ryan’s suite at the end of the hall. I took a deep breath and pushed the button beside the door. Moments later, the door swung slowly open. Wrapped in a brocade dressing gown, Katherine Bayliss stood before us. The gown was gathered close at the waist, accenting the soft, exciting curve of her breasts. The “V” of the neckline revealed a froth of lacy nightdress. Beneath the hem of the gown, she wore silken slippers. Her hair was loose. She stood motionless. Her eyes were unfocused, staring at me but not seeing me. Her arms were rigid at her sides, fists tightly clenched. She held her head high, as if to silently, disdainfully deny fate itself. It was a regal posture. She looked like a noblewoman about to climb the gallows.
“We’d like to talk to you, Mrs. Bayliss.” I took a short step forward. “Can we come in?”
She didn’t reply, didn’t step back before me. Her eyes were blank, still so strangely unseeing. We were standing close together. I could smell her perfume. I could feel myself responding to the closeness of her, man to woman.
“Can we—” Hesitantly, I nodded to the darkened sitting room behind her, and the narrow shaft of light coming from inside the partially opened bedroom door beyond. “Can we go inside, please, Mrs. Bayliss?”
Without signifying that she’d heard, she finally turned away and moved like a sleepwalker toward a nearby armchair. She sat in the chair, gathering the rich folds of the dressing gown across a lace-covered thigh. Friedman and I sat side by side on the sofa facing her. I switched on a table lamp, tilting the shade slightly toward her, away from us. Then I settled back. I’d decided not to start it. If Friedman was so sure we were right, then I wanted to hear how he would begin.
I heard him clear his throat, then heard him say, “There’ve been two killings tonight, Mrs. Bayliss. Two murders. That’s why we’re here. You know that.”
She didn’t respond, didn’t look at him. She sat rigidly in the high-backed chair, one hand on either chair-arm, head held high. Once more she reminded me of royalty: a queen on her throne.
But still her eyes were utterly empty. She hadn’t spoken to us. Except to move obediently into the living room, she’d given no sign that she’d heard us.
“Mrs. Bayliss—” Friedman leaned toward her, sharpening his voice. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Frederick Tharp was killed tonight about eight o’clock. Later, Lloyd Eason was killed after he left to meet you at the Embarcadero. We’ve come for you—come to question you about Eason’s death. You know that’s why we’re here.”
Finally, almost imperceptibly, she nodded. I saw her lips part, heard her say, “Yes, I know. I know that’s why you’ve come.”
“Then—” Friedman hesitated. “Then will you tell us about it?”
Once more she nodded: a slow, disembodied inclination of her handsome head. She could have been in a hypnotist’s trance.
For a long, empty moment the silence continued. Until, finally, her lips parted again. Her voice was almost inaudible as she began speaking:
“I was like all the rest of them, then. I wanted to be in the movies. But it didn’t start out like that for me. Not at first. I’d already been married. I was only nineteen years old when I got married and we moved to Los Angeles. I was twenty when I had my first child. I carried it almost full term, but it was stillborn. I could feel it die inside me. I felt it die and told my doctor, and they cut it out of me. I never saw the baby. I didn’t want to see it, and they didn’t want me to see it.” She paused, drew a deep, unsteady breath. She sat as before, rigidly. Her eyes were still empty, still fixed on some memory from long ago.
“By that time,” she said, “we hated each other, my husband and I. So I left him and went looking for a job. I didn’t want to be in the movies. Not at first. I knew it was a skin game. I’d always known that. But I had what they wanted. They knew it, and so did I. Men wanted me. But I didn’t want them. I hated them for what they’d done to me. I hated them to touch me. But the more I hated them, the more control I had over them. Because hatred—pure hatred, controlled—is the secret of everything. I knew that. Even then, I knew that. Or at least I felt it. So I decided to see how far I could go—how high I could climb. And that’s what I did. And it was so easy. Until I met Donald one night at a party, it was all so easy. Anything I wanted from a man, I could get. Because they were all so stupid. And so weak, rutting and posturing and preening, playing their pitiful sex games.
“But the moment I met Donald, I knew everything was different. I’d heard of him, of course. And when I saw him, that first night, I remember feeling a kind of exhilaration. I suppose—” She broke off, frowning slightly. It was the first sign of emotion I’d seen since she began her story. “I suppose that he was to have been my ultimate conquest, the final proof that I could do whatever I thought I wanted to do.
“But, of course, that’s not the way it happened. We left the party together, and we’ve been together ever since. We’re part of each other.”
“And the boy, too,” I said. “Frederick—or Donald. He was part of you, too.” I spoke very softly, unwilling to disturb her reverie.
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, he was part of me.”
“And Eason killed him,” Friedman whispered. “Tonight, in the park. Eason killed your son.”
I saw a momentary flash of pain tear at her face before she nodded, trancelike again. Once more, her face was without expression, as empty as her eyes. She was drifting away.
“Eason didn’t know the boy was your son,”
I prompted. “Did he?”
No response.
“Mrs. Bayliss—” Reluctantly, I knew, Friedman dropped his voice to a hard, uncompromising note: “Mrs. Bayliss, we know what happened tonight. We know that Eason called you. We know that you met him.”
“And when Eason told you that he’d killed your son,” I said, “you killed him. You used Eason’s own gun.”
“You might not’ve even been aware that you were holding the gun,” Friedman prompted. “You might not’ve intended to do it—to kill him. But you did it. You killed him because he’d killed Fre—Donald. That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
Still she gave no sign that she’d heard. I leaned forward, asking, “Where’s the money, Mrs. Bayliss? Do you have the money?”
I saw her look toward the half-open door. “The money is there,” she said. “In the bedroom.”
Hearing her say it, I felt myself relax. If Friedman and I had lost track of a million dollars, Dwyer would have lifted our scalps. As if to echo my thoughts, I heard Friedman sigh.
I decided to try another approach. Speaking softly, soothingly, as if I might be consoling a close friend, I said, “You brought the money back, Mrs. Bayliss. That’ll go in your favor with the D.A. And you killed the man who killed your son. You didn’t know whether your son was alive or dead until Eason told you and admitted that he’d killed him. All you knew was that Eason needed help. That’s all he told you on the phone. So when you learned that he’d killed your son, you acted in anger, on impulse. That’s mitigating circumstances. You could go free. You’ll have to stand trial. But you could go free.”
“It’s like the unwritten law,” Friedman offered, also speaking in a low, intimate voice, trying to get through to her.
It worked. I saw her eyes quicken as she looked wonderingly at me, saying, “All those years, and now he’s dead.”
“Yes,” Friedman said. “We know. And we’re sorry, Mrs. Bayliss. We’re very sorry.”
“But—” The frown returned as she turned to look at Friedman, puzzled. “But you couldn’t know. How could you?”
Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 22