Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

“It’s Canelli, Lieutenant Hastings. Jeeze, I’m really sorry to bother you. I know how late it is, and everything, and I thought about it long and hard before I figured that I just had to—”

  “Wait, Canelli. I’m going to hang this phone up and pick up the one in the living room. If we get cut off, call again in two minutes. Clear?”

  “Yessir, that’s clear.”

  I cradled the phone, found my slippers, slipped into my robe and walked reluctantly to the living room, closing the hallway door behind me. Canelli was still on the phone. As soon as I answered, he began talking.

  “Maybe you won’t even want to take a look, Lieutenant. But, like I already said, I just figured that I had to at least touch base with you, especially seeing that Lieutenant Friedman is still in Sacramento, I guess, and won’t be up on the roster until tomorrow. So, when I thought about it, I figured tha—”

  “Canelli. Get to the point. What happened?”

  “Well, Jeez, Lieutenant—” As I listened to Canelli gulping for breath, I could visualize him. Because Canelli always perspired whenever he reported to a superior officer, his broad, swarthy, olive-hued face would certainly be slightly sweat-sheened. His forehead would be earnestly furrowed, his dark eyes anxious as he struggled to organize his thoughts. At age thirty, at a suety two hundred forty pounds, Canelli was the squadroom innocent. He didn’t look like a policeman or act like a policeman or think like a policeman. Result: He was constantly scoring accidental coups. On stakeout, he was always the last one to be recognized. Making an arrest in cooperation with other officers, Canelli sometimes found the suspect running toward him, trying to escape. No one took Canelli seriously—until it was too late.

  “What happened,” he was saying, “is that Charlie Quade got shot, for God’s sake. Killed. Just about an hour ago, maybe a little longer.”

  Charlie Quade …

  We’d gone through the ranks together, made detective together, went into Homicide together, years ago. I’d never liked Charlie, never trusted him. Soon after I made lieutenant, he’d been suspected of taking money from a pimp in exchange for concealing evidence against one of the pimp’s girls when she’d been accused of murder. I’d given Quade a choice: resign or talk to the D.A. The next day, he’d resigned.

  “If Charlie got killed,” I said, stifling a yawn, “he probably deserved it.” But then I remembered that Quade had resigned while Canelli was still in uniform. To Canelli, my remark might have seemed brutal. “Did you know him?” I asked.

  “Just a little bit,” he answered. “And I heard that he was a crook, which didn’t surprise me. I mean, I never really thought much of him. But that’s not the reason I’m calling, Lieutenant. I mean, if it was just a—you know—an ordinary homicide, and everything, I wouldn’t call you like this, in the middle of the night, even if Quade was a cop. No way. I’d handle it myself, if that’s all there was to it.”

  “Canelli. You still haven’t told me what happened.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Lieutenant. Well—” He drew a deep, portentous breath. “Well, the reason I’m calling, see, is that Charlie Quade was killed at Alexander Guest’s house, for God’s sake. You know, the big shot lawyer. And, what’s more, it turns out that Quade was working for Alexander Guest.”

  I sat up straighter.

  “And Mr. Guest, he wants to talk to you,” Canelli was saying. “He insists on talking to you, if you want to know the truth. Or, at least, he wants to talk to whoever’s in charge, whoever calls the shots. So I—you know—I thought I should at least fill you in, before you talk to him. I mean, he’s what you’d call a pretty powerful personality.”

  “Are you on the scene now?”

  “Yessir. I’ve been here for almost an hour.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What’s it look like to you?”

  “Well, it looks like Quade was inside the house, guarding the premises. And it looks like someone might’ve broken in, although I didn’t see anything jimmied, or anything. But, anyhow, shots were fired, no question about that. Several shots.”

  “Do you have a suspect?”

  “Well—” He hesitated. “Not really.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, Mr. Guest, he thinks he knows who did it. But I thought I should talk to you before I acted on his information. I mean, I figured I’d be exceeding my authority, see, if I—”

  “Is Mr. Guest there now?”

  “He’s upstairs, Lieutenant. In his bedroom. I’m down in the kitchen. Like I say, he wants to talk to you, privately—or, anyhow, someone in command, like I said. So that’s why I—”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Yessir. I’ll go tell him.”

  “When we’re finished talking, you come back on the line.”

  “Yessir.” The line clicked dead. I looked at the antique brass-and-glass clock on the mantelpiece, one of Ann’s heirlooms. The time was 2:35 A.M. Would I have to get dressed and go to work? With no sleep? At the thought, I realized that I was slowly, hopelessly shaking my head. The answer to the question was grimly self-evident. A homicide that involved Alexander Guest couldn’t be handled over the phone.

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” The voice in my ear was brisk, crisply authoritative.

  “Mr. Guest.”

  “That’s correct, sir. Has Inspector Canelli filled you in?”

  “To some extent. He wanted me to talk to you. He says you’ve got a suspect.”

  “I do. Definitely. Are you coming here?”

  To myself, I sighed. “Yessir, I am. But Inspector Canelli thought I should talk to you first. He says that—”

  “He was right, of course. Superficially, he looks like a bumbler. But, watching him work, it’s apparent that he knows his job.”

  I smiled. Alexander Guest didn’t mince words—and didn’t miss anything, either. “He does know his job,” I said. “No question.”

  “The man you want,” Guest said, “is Gordon Kramer. He’s thirty-six years old. Dark hair, dark eyes. Medium build. Regular features. He’ll be well dressed. And, most important, he’ll be traveling with a young boy, age six. If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d put out an all points bulletin for Gordon Kramer. Right now. In particular, you should get the airports covered. Immediately. Because I can guarantee—absolutely guarantee—that, right this minute, he’ll be trying to get on an airplane, bound for New York.”

  “Are you prepared to give us a signed statement that you’re accusing Gordon Kramer of murder, Mr. Guest?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you see him do it? Were you an actual witness?”

  “No, not an eyewitness,” he answered impatiently. “But I know he did it, and when you get here, I’ll give you details. But, for now, you’d better get it on the radio, Lieutenant. It’s been more than an hour since the murder was committed. He could be at the boarding gate now. And, to be perfectly frank, thinking down the line, it won’t look very good for you if the record shows that you didn’t act on the information I’m giving you.”

  My first reaction was a flash of momentary anger. Whenever anyone threatened me with his “influence,” my first reaction was to let him try. But I’d learned, the hard way, that people like Alexander Guest could do a lot of damage. So I let a long, deliberate beat pass while I tried to sort it out. Guest was a lawyer, therefore an officer of the court. If he wrote out a complaint, in front of witnesses, I would protect myself from a charge of false arrest because of insufficient evidence. If I took proper precautions, I couldn’t lose, doing as he asked.

  “Well?” he demanded, his voice harshly sarcastic. “What’s the problem, Lieutenant? Haven’t you the authority to have him picked up?”

  “Yessir, I have.” I let another deliberate silence pass, then said, “After I talk to you, I’ll talk to Inspector Canelli. I’ll order him to witness you writing out your statement. He’ll have a third party witness it, too. Then I’ll tell Canelli to put out the A.P.B., on my au
thority.”

  “That’ll be fine. You’re a cautious man, Lieutenant. That’s commendable.”

  “Thanks,” I answered wearily, at the same time reaching for a scratch pad and pencil. “Where’re you located, Mr. Guest?”

  “I’m in Sea Cliff. 270 El Camino Del Mar.”

  I wrote it down, then asked, “This Gordon Kramer—is there a connection between him and you?”

  I heard a sharp, bitter exhalation. “There was a connection. He used to be my son-in-law.”

  “And the boy. Who’s he?”

  “The boy,” he answered, “is John Kramer. My grandson.”

  TWO

  THE GUEST MANSION WAS Tudor style, three stories high, built of brick and cut stone, with a slate roof, lead-paned windows, and heroic chimneys. A magnificent round medallion stained glass window was set above the front portico, illuminated from within. The premises were entirely surrounded by a wrought iron fence topped by small, sharp fleur-de-lis. A driveway led along the right side of the building to a large garage built to resemble an old English timber-and-stucco carriage house. No gate secured the entrance to the driveway, and the pedestrian gate across the flagstone walkway leading to the mansion’s entryway opened to the touch. As I walked through the gate I wondered whether the gate was equipped with a warning buzzer that sounded inside the house.

  I didn’t recognize the uniformed patrolman stationed at the front door, but he saluted, called me by name and opened the massive carved oak door for me. As I entered, I saw the patrolman’s attention shift to the street. The white coroner’s van was backing into the driveway beside the house. A coroner’s station wagon followed, with two men inside. Checking my watch, I calculated that it had probably taken them an hour and a half to respond, about average for a Friday night. At the curb, I counted three black-and-white police units and two unmarked inspector’s cars.

  Canelli was waiting for me in the foyer. Sitting in an enormous carved wooden armchair that could have come from a throne room, Canelli looked lumpy and ill at ease. He was wearing run-over shoes, shapeless brown corduroy slacks, and a nylon windbreaker that bulged tight across his stomach.

  “Hi, Lieutenant.” On his feet, he came toward me. He looked and acted like he’d gone out to buy a six-pack of beer, got caught in a time warp and somehow wandered into the entryway of an English manor house. Obviously, he was awed by his surroundings. His voice was hushed, his eyes round with wonder. As I clipped my plastic identification badge to the lapel of my sports jacket I asked, “How many men have we got on the scene?”

  “I’m the only one from our squad,” he answered. “There’re five uniformed men securing the premises—four patrolmen and Sergeant MacFarland.”

  “Did you get Alexander Guest’s complaint?”

  “Yessir.” From an inside pocket he withdrew an unsealed envelope containing a single sheet of stationery. Beneath his letterhead, in his own handwriting, Guest stated that he believed Gordon Kramer had murdered Charles Quade inside the Guesthouse and would so depose. He further stated that Quade had been employed by him to guard said premises. Both Canelli and Sergeant MacFarland had witnessed the statement.

  “Good.” I put the envelope in my own pocket. “How long has the A.P.B. been on the air?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “Do you have any kind of a time frame for the crime?”

  He took a notebook from another pocket, frowned as he thumbed the pages backward and forward, and finally found the entry he wanted. “As near as I can tell, several shots were fired—three shots, at least—just a little after 1:00 A.M. Like, maybe five minutes after. Guest called 911, and the first black-and-white unit was on the scene at about 1:25. They verified the crime and called Dispatch. The dispatcher called Homicide. I was the only one catching. I got here about ten minutes to two. By that time another black-and-white was on the scene, and the premises were secure. I took a look at the victim. At first I didn’t recognize him. That’s because he was on his face, see. Then I talked to Guest. Or, more like it, he talked to me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean that—”

  A hallway door opened, revealing John MacFarland, a big, amiable, powerfully built man in his middle fifties, with a ruddy face seamed by twenty years spent riding a motorcycle.

  “Hello, Frank.”

  “Hello, Johnny. How’ve you been?”

  “No complaints.” He smiled. “I’m a grandfather. Just a week ago. Sally had a baby boy.”

  “I know. Kennedy told me. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. The coroner’s team is here. They want to know whether they can move the body.”

  “No, they can’t. The lab technicians aren’t on the scene yet.” Inquiringly, I looked at Canelli. He spread his hands and shook his head.

  “I called them as soon as I got here, Lieutenant. But it’s Friday night, you know. They’re out on another call: a wino, dead in a church, if you can believe that. I was just going to tell you.”

  “Then I don’t want anyone within ten feet of the body,” I said, speaking to MacFarland. “This one, we’ve got to do right. Just exactly right.”

  MacFarland nodded and turned away, closing the hallway door as he went.

  “Where were we?” I asked Canelli.

  “I was telling you about Guest.”

  “Where is he, by the way?”

  Canelli gestured to a carved oak staircase that curved gracefully up from the central entry hall to the mansion’s second floor. “He’s in his bedroom, at the top of those stairs. He says for you to go up and see him.”

  “Over the phone, he seemed pretty sure of his facts, pretty convinced he had everything figured out. Is that the way he seemed to you?”

  “Well—” Canelli frowned as he pressed a forefinger to his pursed lips. “He kind of comes on strong, I guess you’d say. I mean, he’s a dynamic personality, no question. But the way it looked to me, he sort of—you know—sized me up, and decided that I wasn’t—you know—an officer, or anything. So then he made it pretty plain, see, that he didn’t intend to waste his time talking to just anyone.”

  “Did he accuse Gordon Kramer of the crime when he first talked to you—when you first arrived?”

  Canelli shook his head. “No, sir. Not right at first. He said that he knew who did it, though. Then he said that he’d make his statement at the proper time, to the proper person. That’s when I decided to call you.” As he said it, he looked at me with his soft, anxious brown eyes, obviously still wondering whether he’d done the right thing, calling me. Canelli was the only cop I’d ever known who could constantly get his feelings hurt.

  “You were right to phone me, Canelli. No question.”

  “Oh, Jeez, Lieutenant. I’m sure glad you’re not—”

  “Come on. Let’s take a look at the body. Where is it?”

  “Here—back here.” He led the way down a wood-paneled hallway and opened an elegantly carved oak door. I was prepared for the smell of violent death: excrement and the sickly sweet stench of drying blood mingling in an odor a policeman never forgets, an odor that constantly lingers in the senses, is never completely purged.

  I was facing another hallway, this one narrower, less elaborate, leading straight to the back of the house. Two interior doors were on my left, both of them ajar. To my right, another shorter hallway led to an outside door, also ajar. Through the window of the outside door, bathed in the glare of police floodlights, I saw the coroner’s van parked on a large concrete apron that served a three-car garage.

  “It’s ahead,” Canelli said. “There’s another hallway that goes off to your right, back there. That’s where he is.”

  “You stay here. I’ll just take a quick look. You didn’t touch him, did you?”

  “No. I don’t think Guest did, either. But I’m not real sure.”

  Nodding, I walked slowly forward. The first room to my left was a small bedroom, darkened. The second room on the left was larger, also a bedroom
. The hallway light was enough to reveal a clutter of children’s toys through the half-opened door. Ahead, the hallway made a right angle turn to the right. As I approached the corner, I saw a hand, clenched in death’s final agony. Another slow, reluctant step revealed a bare forearm. Then I could see it all: Charlie Quade, sprawled facedown on the parquet wood floor. He’d gotten balder since I’d last seen him, and fatter. He was barefooted, and wore only his undershorts and a tee shirt. He’d bled a lot. Squatting for a closer look, I saw why: One bullet had gone through his neck just below the ear, probably rupturing the jugular vein. The other bullet appeared to have struck him in the shoulder or high on the chest. His eyes were open, staring at my foot. His mouth was open, too. His white, pudgy legs were drawn up close to his body; his torso was twisted. He’d probably suffered before he died. A lot.

  I saw a Colt .45 automatic lying about a foot from his hand. I remembered that gun. For their off-duty weapons, most officers choose the smallest, least conspicuous gun possible, usually a short-barreled revolver, easily concealed. Not Charlie. Off duty, he carried the big Colt .45 thrust in his belt, on display. He’d always been a show-off: a blustering, bad-tempered braggart. Guns, money, cars, women—Charlie flashed them all.

  Straightening, I looked down the short hallway that led to what seemed to be an outside door, half open. But no light from the driveway came through the door’s small eye-level window.

  “Does this door lead to the garage?” I called out.

  “That’s right,” Canelli answered.

  I looked a last time at Charlie Quade, then joined Canelli, standing exactly where I’d left him. I pointed to the first bedroom door. “Was Charlie sleeping in there?”

  “I guesso.” He pointed to the second door. “That’s the boy’s room, I know. Guest’s grandson, as nearly as I can make out.”

  We were standing within a few feet of the outside door that opened on the floodlit concrete apron of the garage. Over Canelli’s shoulder I saw the crime lab’s van pull to a stop beside the coroner’s wagon. I pointed. “There’s the crime lab. Finally. You stay with them until they’re finished—until they’ve got everything they want. And I mean everything. I want you to keep looking over their shoulders. Clear?” I looked him in the eye, hard.