Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  I allowed a moment of silence to pass before asking, “When did this happen? At what time last night?”

  “Ab—about seven-thirty, I guess.” Fisher paused, furtively wiping his eyes. “At least, that’s when it started. After dinner.”

  “How’d it finally end?”

  “Well, he—he just wanted us to leave him alone. And after I broke in, and saw him just—just cowering there, I—we—decided that’s what we should do: leave him alone. So—” Shaking his head, he helplessly shrugged. “So that’s what we did. Eventually he went to sleep. It must’ve been midnight.”

  I turned to the woman. She sat as before, inert, gazing down at the carpet. Her eyes were empty. She seemed neither grief-racked nor frightened, but instead, almost catatonic—nervelessly waiting, without hope.

  “Do you have anything to add, Mrs. Fisher?”

  “No,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  With obvious effort she raised her head, blankly responding to the edge I’d put on my voice. Then, almost indifferently, she let her neck go slack. “I’m sure.”

  “Did you hear David say that he wanted to die?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you interpret that as a possible threat of suicide?”

  She made no response. She seemed to be sunk deep within herself. I sat watching her. She didn’t stir. Finally, in a deliberately demanding voice, I asked, “What happened this morning? How did David seem?”

  She roused herself. “He was quiet. He wouldn’t talk. But he seemed all right.”

  “Did he say he was going to school?”

  “I—I think so. At least, he didn’t say he wasn’t going.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Blue jeans and a yellow rain jacket.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “No.”

  “Was he riding a bike?”

  “Yes.”

  “What type of bike is it?”

  She could only shrug.

  “It’s a lightweight,” Fisher said. “Five speed. Red. It’s…”

  The phone rang. I got to my feet. “That could be for me.” I walked past them into the hallway, answering the phone on its second ring.

  “This is Manley, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes. Anything?”

  “Unit Charlie Eighteen just called in to say that a boy wearing a yellow jacket was seen in the vicinity of Balboa and Twenty-seventh Avenue.”

  “How long ago was he seen?” As I asked the question I turned toward the living room, moving with the phone so that I could see the parents’ reaction. Bill Fisher rose slowly to his feet, facing me. His wife still sat in the chair, unmoving. It was as if she hadn’t heard me speaking.

  “Six, seven minutes ago. Approximately one-forty P.M.,” Manley answered.

  “Can you hook me up to Charlie Eighteen?”

  “Yessir. They’re standing by. Just a second.”

  A moment later a crackle-blurred voice said, “Charlie Eighteen, sir. Jim O’Brien.”

  I turned away from the Fishers, facing the wall. “Hello, O’Brien. What’ve you got?”

  “We were proceeding east on Balboa. We hadn’t heard the first Fisher call; we’d been cleared, investigating a possible 302 at Thirty-seventh Avenue and Cabrillo. We saw a male Caucasian boy, age ten or eleven, wearing blue jeans and a yellow jacket.”

  “What kind of a jacket?”

  “Lightweight plastic—one of those shells, I think you call them.”

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Reddish.”

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “The subject was proceeding west on Balboa, walking on the south side of the—”

  “Walking?”

  “Yessir.”

  “He wasn’t wheeling a bike?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. What happened?”

  “Well, I looked him over, because—well, because he was acting a little odd. I had the impression that he might be in trouble—that he wanted us to stop. And we were just pulling over when we got a Code Two call at California Street and Twenty-first Avenue—an attempted 531 in progress. That’s where we are now. So when I heard the Fisher supplemental, I called in.”

  “As soon as you’re released—I’ll get you released—I want you to go back to where you saw him. Hook into Tach Three. I’ll be in my car. Manley, are you with us?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Get O’Brien replaced and released. Set me up on Tach Three.”

  “Yessir.”

  I turned to Canelli, just coming down the hallway stairs. “Anything in his room?” I asked.

  “Not really. But I…”

  “We’ve got to roll. Get into the car. Tune into Tach Three.”

  “Right.” He hurried to the front door. In a few words I relayed O’Brien’s information to the Fishers, telling them to remain in the house and await further word.

  Twenty-three

  CANELLI OPENED THE CAR door for me. “What’s all the excitement about, Lieutenant?”

  “Just a minute.” I picked up the microphone, at the same time gesturing up the block. “Drive to Balboa and turn left. Park at Twenty-seventh.”

  “Check.”

  As Canelli drove to the corner and turned left, I requested that a second black-and-white car and an inspector’s cruiser be assigned to me, rendezvousing at the Twenty-seventh Avenue corner. Then I instructed that Friedman be advised of the situation.

  “Park there,” I said. “In the meter.”

  “Right.” Canelli swung the car awkwardly to the curb, setting the brake. Turning in the seat, he sat regarding me with large, hopeful eyes.

  With a sigh, I gave him the rundown.

  “But I still don’t see why all the heat,” he said. “I mean, it looks to me like he probably just cut school. Or maybe he ran away to an all-day movie or something.”

  “Why’d you get me out of conference, then, if that’s all you thought could’ve happened?”

  He smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

  “I’m beginning to get the feeling,” I said, “that the uncle is innocent—and that the kid was telling the truth about Sunday.”

  “That makes someone else guilty.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Someone who likes to go around killing kids—two already.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the uncle admitted that the boy was lying. You said so yourself, Lieutenant.”

  “But I didn’t find out which day he was lying about. I assumed it was both days. Or, at least, I assumed that he was lying about Sunday, not yesterday. Because the whole case hinges on Sunday, assuming that the two murders are connected.”

  “Do you think the kid was lying about the dark-haired man yesterday? Is that what you mean?”

  “I don’t know, Canelli. But assuming the uncle is innocent, then we don’t have a looney for a suspect any more. And if we don’t have a looney, and it’s not a sex crime, then we need a motive. And I’m beginning to think that the motive resulted from some of the little games June Towers was playing. Blackmail, for instance.”

  He nodded avidly. “And Kent Miller probably knew about it,” he said, “and…”

  The radio crackled to life. “Inspectors Eleven.”

  I picked up the mike. “Inspectors Eleven,” I answered.

  “Friedman,” came the laconic voice. “Any developments?”

  “Negative.”

  “The boy’s still missing?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “And I’m considering the possibility that his testimony concerning Sunday might have been correct.”

  “Which makes the mother’s statement incorrect.”

  “Yes. And which also gives us a new suspect, possibly.”

  A moment of silence. Then: “While you’re trying to locate the boy, I’ll check out the other possibles.”

  “Roger.”

  “I’ll stay downtown
until I find out where we stand. Are you remaining on Tach Three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Roger. Markham and Culligan are on their way to meet you. Out.”

  As I clicked off the mike, I saw two black-and-white cars converging from opposite ends of the block.

  “Tell them to cruise the entire area,” I instructed Canelli. “Make sure they’re on Tach Three. And find out what else O’Brien knows, if anything. I’m going to take a walk around. You stay with the radio.”

  “Yessir.” Without checking traffic, Canelli swung his driver’s door open. A passing Datsun swerved, its horn bleating indignantly. Glancing briefly back at me, Canelli sheepishly raised his shoulders.

  I got out on the sidewalk side, standing motionless for a moment, looking down the block toward Twenty-sixth Avenue. It was a typical neighborhood shopping district: grocery stores and liquor stores, a dry-cleaning shop, a beauty shop, a nursery, a hardware store, and a small gas station. At two o’clock on a cold January Wednesday afternoon, threatening rain, there was little activity on Balboa Street. In the entire block, only a dozen cars were parked at the meters.

  It was almost directly across the street that O’Brien had apparently first seen the Fisher boy. Living on Twenty-fifth Avenue, between Fulton and Balboa, the boy had been approximately two and a half blocks from home when he was first spotted. He’d been seen about twenty minutes ago, walking.

  He’d left his home about 8:00 A.M., riding a red bike. O’Brien had seen him about 1:40 P.M.

  What had the boy been doing for those five and a half hours?

  Where was the bike?

  Where was the boy?

  And at that moment, where were the other possible suspects?

  I walked to the nursery, across the street. A bluff, beefy clerk informed me that he’d been working in the storeroom since lunch, on inventory, and hadn’t been able to see the street. I was the first person to come into the store since lunch, he added acidly—not counting a novelty salesman, who’d also taken him away from his inventory count.

  I thanked him and went on to the beauty shop and the liquor store, fruitlessly. The time was 2:10. I watched Markham and Culligan cruise by, passing Canelli with hardly a nod. They’d gotten their instructions by radio.

  Sample’s Superette Market occupied the southeast corner of Twenty-sixth and Balboa. A tall, scrawny youth with half-long hair, a sparse sandy mustache, and pale, discouraged eyes lounged behind the single cash register. His white grocer’s smock was wrinkled and stained; his hollow-cheeked face was acne-scarred. Probably deciding that I was a salesman, he eyed me with long-suffering indifference, sucking his teeth loudly.

  When I showed him the shield, he came to a kind of slack, shambling attention.

  I described David Fisher, stressing the yellow jacket and rust-colored hair, mentioning the possibility of a red five-speed bike.

  “Well, I don’t know about the bike,” he said, “but I think I saw the kid.”

  “Did he come in the store?”

  “No, he stayed outside, on the sidewalk.” The clerk pointed through the plate-glass window. “He seemed to be acting kind of suspiciously. That’s how I happened to notice him.”

  “Suspiciously?”

  “Yeah. He was hanging around by the mailbox and the telephone pole there. He acted like he was playing cops and robbers, or something.” Hearing himself say it, he glanced at me uncertainly, flushing faintly.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, it seemed like he was spying on someone. Or at least it seemed like that to me.”

  “Could you see who it was that he was spying on?”

  “Nope. But I figured it must’ve been someone in here, because that’s where he was looking. In here.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Well—” He reflected leisurely, running a forefinger across his upper lip, preening the scraggly mustache. “It must’ve been about one-thirty. Or maybe a little after. I wasn’t keeping track.”

  “Who was here besides you?”

  “Just me. Mr. Sample was still out to lunch. And so was Mrs. Sample,” he added pettishly.

  “What about customers?”

  “I guess there were maybe two, three customers in the store at the time,” he answered airily. “I don’t remember.”

  I stepped closer to him, lowering my voice. “I don’t know whether you caught my name and rank,” I said softly, “but it’s Lieutenant Hastings. And this isn’t just a ‘routine check,’ as they say in the movies. This could be very important.” I held his eye, silently intimidating him. “Do you understand?”

  His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed once—then once more. “Y—yes. Yessir. I understand.”

  “All right. I want you to think about it, and tell me who was in this store while that boy was outside.”

  He licked his lips as his eyes wandered out toward the sidewalk, then back into the store, scanning the cramped, cluttered shelves. Frowning, he was still stroking his mustache, deep in thought. But finally, he shook his head. “I—it’s no use,” he said. “I can’t think.”

  I said harshly, “Which way did the boy go when he left? Do you remember that?”

  He moved his head toward Twenty-seventh Avenue. “He went that way.”

  “Are you sure? The boy lives on Balboa.”

  “I’m sure. He went toward Twenty-seventh Avenue. I remember, because—” He stopped abruptly, eyes slowly widening, mouth slightly agape.

  “What is it?” I prompted.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I was just going to say that I remember which way the kid went because he went the same way as a customer did. And I remember thinking it was strange that the customer went that way. Because he lives on Twenty-sixth Avenue. And he usually just comes in and then goes right home.”

  “Do you know the customer’s name?”

  “Yeah. It’s Cross. Mr. Cross.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Would you say that the boy could have been following Walter Cross?”

  The youth brightened. “Hey, yeah. He could’ve, at that.”

  I thanked him and stepped out into the street, waving for Canelli to pick me up.

  “Go to Walter Cross’s house,” I said, reaching for the mike, calling Inspectors Twenty-three, Markham’s car.

  “Inspectors Twenty-three,” came the prompt acknowledgment.

  “What’s your position?” I asked.

  “Fulton and Twenty-ninth, proceeding west.”

  “Seen anything?”

  “Negative.”

  “Have you got a walkie-talkie?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Look for us on Twenty-sixth Avenue, about halfway between Fulton and Balboa, on the west side of the street. That’s the Cross residence. We’ll be parked directly in front of his house. When you see us and spot the house, I want you to drive around in the alley and cover the rear. When you’re ready, use your walkie-talkie to advise us. Channel Two. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Canelli had already pulled up in front of the Cross residence. The house looked precisely as it had when I’d first seen it: deserted, decaying. Nothing stirred, inside the house or out.

  “Is Cross our boy?” Canelli asked.

  “Could be. It looks like David was following him. Maybe Cross spotted the boy.” I nodded toward the house. “I don’t really think that Cross is inside. But we have to check.”

  “I bet Cross was screwing June Towers. And she started to put the arm on him.”

  “Maybe,” I murmured. I was thinking of my last interview with Cross, and of his sharp, sudden concern when I’d mentioned the possibility of interviewing his stepdaughter, who was still out of town.

  Had he been frightened?

  Frightened of what?

  As I was considering the point, Markham and Culligan cruised by impassively. Waiting for Markham to take up his position, I got on the radio to Friedman, outlining the new situation. He volunteered to coordinate a
wider, more intensive search, alerting the park detail and assigning additional units to me on Tach Three. I agreed. As I finished speaking, Markham called in. He was in the alley, ready.

  “Let’s hit it,” I said. “Take the walkie-talkie, Canelli. We can—”

  “Inspectors Eleven.” It was the radio. “This is O’Brien, Lieutenant.”

  “What is it, O’Brien?”

  “We have a report of the boy entering Golden Gate Park at Thirtieth Avenue, just about a half-hour ago—approximately two P.M.

  “Was he walking or riding his bike?”

  “Walking.”

  “Did he appear to be following anyone?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We got the report from a news vendor. I’ll check with him and see whether—”

  “Never mind. Proceed to the park. Communications, are you monitoring?”

  “Yessir,” came Manley’s voice.

  “Let’s get that area covered. We’ll be there in five minutes, unless you hear otherwise. We’re now at the Cross residence, at”—I glanced at the address—“at 761 Twenty-sixth Avenue. Clear.”

  “Clear,” he acknowledged.

  As we approached Cross’s front door, Canelli asked, “Are we going inside, Lieutenant?”

  “Let’s see how the lock looks,” I answered shortly. Canelli hadn’t yet learned not to comment on occasional illegalities.

  While Canelli repeatedly rang the doorbell, I probed the lock with a plastic card, unsuccessfully. “Ask Markham if he can get in the back door,” I said. “Hurry it up.”

  Hunching over the walkie-talkie, Canelli relayed the instructions to Markham. We waited two full minutes. Then, startling me, the latch clicked in my face. The door swung inward. Typically, Markham hadn’t kept me advised of his progress.

  “No one here,” Markham said. “Unless he’s hiding.”

  I took a moment to scan the living room. The place looked exactly as I’d first seen it. I was conscious of a stale, decaying odor—not the strong, unmistakable odor of death, but the subtler scent of neglect and despair.

  I turned to Markham. “The kid’s been spotted on Fulton and Thirtieth, entering the park, about a half-hour ago. I want you and Culligan to stake this place out, front and back. Get your car out of sight and stay out of sight yourself. He could come back here any time.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned abruptly away and took Canelli back to the cruiser.