Should she go outside, through the garage? Could she find a phone, call the police?
No. Not within walking distance could she find someone willing to let her inside during the wee hours of Saturday morning. Not in Pacific Heights.
And while she was trying to find a phone, Maxine could be in danger. James could be drunk, sleeping it off, unable to help.
At the thought she realized that she was moving forward toward the intersection of the rear passageway and the central hall. It was as if she were responding to a will independent of her own, as if she were helpless to resist her own slow, inexorable progress down the darkened passageway.
As she came to the front hall, light from the small windows above the front door fell across the oak parquet floor. Now she could see the door of the living room. Another step, and she could see the study.
As she took the final step that gave her a full view of the central staircase, she realized that she was standing motionless, sniffing the air. It was as if she were an animal, existing at some primitive level of alertness.
As if, suddenly, all her senses were drawn so taut that the sensation caused her pain.
Eight
MAXINE BRETT WAS SHIVERING uncontrollably as she sat in the darkness at the top of the stairs. But the night, she knew, was warm. When she’d gone to sleep, she’d only covered herself with one light blanket. Now, with a heavy quilt thrown over her nightgown, she was numbed by a cold she’d never before experienced, had never before imagined. Her teeth were chattering. Her hands, clutching the blanket, were shaking. Her legs were trembling. If she hadn’t sat down on the top step, she would certainly have fallen.
Above the quilt bundled closely beneath her chin, the pale oval of her face was twisted into a mask of frozen terror. The muscles of her neck were cruelly corded. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth, as if she were screaming. She’d been perspiring heavily; her ash-blond hair was damp, clinging in lank curls to the pallid flesh of her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were wide, inexorably fixed, focused by some force beyond her. Just as she was unable to will her body to move, so was she unable to wrench her gaze from the two figures at the bottom of the central staircase: her mother, bending over the blood-smeared figure of her stepfather’s body.
Nine
JOE CANELLI, INSPECTOR SECOND Grade, sat at his desk with his head resting on his crossed forearms. When his phone rang, he was dreaming that Angela, his younger sister, had hidden his service revolver. She was demanding two handfuls of bubble gum before she would tell where she’d hidden the gun. Because Angela would surely make him late for roll call, Canelli was threatening to tell their mother.
As he stared groggily at the phone, Canelli touched his revolver, safe in its holster at his belt. Raising the phone to his ear, he automatically noted the time: exactly 4 A.M.
“Homicide.”
“Who’s this?”
“Inspector Canelli.” He yawned. “Who’s this?”
“This is Sergeant Willard. Northern Station.”
“Oh, hi, Sergeant. How’re you feeling? I heard you were having a hemorrhoid problem.”
“No more. I had an operation. Everything’s fine.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s a homicide at 3251 Washington Street, near Lyon. A stabbing. It’s a pretty fancy house, pretty fancy people. Maybe you’d better call one of the lieutenants.”
“I’m not supposed to do that. Not until I check out the scene myself. What’s the address again?”
“It’s 3251 Washington.”
“I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Maybe a half-hour.”
Ten
FROWNING DOWN AT THE scrawled lines he’d just written in a small spiral notebook, Canelli thoughtfully tapped his teeth with a ballpoint pen. He sat at a small gold-and-white antique table placed against the wall of a large central hallway. The hallway was dominated by a wide formal staircase rising from the first floor to the second. Arms folded, leaning against the richly wood-paneled wall beside the antique table, Sergeant Willard looked down on Canelli as he waited for the detective’s next question. Except for the body of James Haney, the two policemen were alone in the entrance hall.
Canelli was a large, lumpy man in his late twenties. His hair was dark and thick, never quite combed. His face was broad and swarthy. Beneath dark, curly eyebrows, his soft brown eyes were perpetually anxious, as if he were never quite sure he’d heard the question—or could never quite remember the answer. Wearing a wrinkled poplin jacket that was a little too tight, and shapeless trousers that were a little too large, sitting hunched over the delicately carved antique table, Canelli looked like an overweight plumber laboring over his bill for services rendered.
“Jeez—” He shook his head. “I hate to do it at this time of the morning, but I think I gotta call the lieutenant. I mean—” He jerked his head toward the victim, then circled the elegantly appointed hallway with worried eyes. “I mean, with a deal like this, I just don’t see myself signing off on the body. Not without a suspect, or anything.”
Pointedly, Willard looked at his watch. In his fifties, Willard was a tall, lean man who seldom smiled and never drank with his subordinates. The closer he got to retirement, the less he liked his job.
“I’ve got an accident with two fatalities on Octavia,” Willard said. “And a car went through the plate-glass window of a motel down on Lombard. I’ve only got two men left at the station house. And the captain’s in Reno for the weekend.”
Worriedly, Canelli raised a placating hand. “Just let me make sure I’ve got it straight” He flipped the leaves of his notebook as he studied his entries. “Then I’ll call the lieutenant, and you can go. Okay?”
“Okay,” Willard answered grudgingly.
“Mrs. Haney called 911 at 3:10 A.M.,” Canelli said. “The first car got here at 3:25. They verified the facts, and called you at the station house. Right?”
“Right.”
“You dispatched another car. So there were four men on the scene. Right?”
“Right. I got here about 3:45. Everything was secure.”
“So what d’you think?” Canelli asked. “I mean, how d’you think it came down?”
Willard shrugged. “According to Mrs. Haney, it was robbery, so that’d make it murder committed in the course of a burglary. She said she knew something was wrong as soon as she got inside the house. She saw her husband”—Willard gestured—“then she heard a noise. Steps, coming from the direction of the study—” He pointed to an open door, one of six doors opening off the central hallway. The study was dark, but pale moonlight shone through floor-to-ceiling windowpanes inside the room. “There weren’t any lights on in the hallway, here, so she could see pretty good into the study, apparently. Anyhow, she could see a shadow—a man, going out through the French doors, there. She got closer, close enough so that she could see him outside in the garden, by moonlight.”
“That’s pretty spunky,” Canelli said thoughtfully. “Most people would’ve gone the other way. Right?”
Impatient to leave, Willard shrugged sharply. “I suppose so. She said she was worried about her daughter, who was sleeping upstairs. She wanted to lock the French doors—lock the guy outside, which she did. She also wanted to go for a gun, which her husband kept in the study.”
“Did she get the gun?”
Willard shook his head. “No. It was gone. Stolen, apparently. So then, after she’d locked the door, she checked on her daughter, to make sure she was all right. The kid was hysterical, apparently, so it took a while to get her calmed down. Then Mrs. Haney called us.”
“Where’s she now?”
“She’s upstairs, in her bedroom. I told her to wait up there. The daughter’s upstairs, too. She’s asleep, I guess.”
“How old’s the daughter?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”
“Could Mrs. Haney describe the guy she saw?”
“She said he was black. That’s about all
she saw.”
“What kind of shape is Mrs. Haney in?”
Once more glancing at his watch, Willard shrugged. “She’s upset, naturally. But she’s pretty calm. Considering.”
“How old a woman is she?”
“In her middle thirties, I’d say. Good-looking. Great-looking, in fact. Intelligent. Stylish. She’s—you know—” As if Canelli’s untutored innocence was trying his patience, Willard waved a harshly deprecatory hand. “She’s your standard Pacific Heights society type. They spend more for cars in a year than we earn.”
Canelli nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “Well—” He gestured to a decorative gold-and-white telephone, placed on the gold-and-white table. “Well, I guess I’d better call the lieutenant.”
“Which lieutenant?”
“Lieutenant Hastings. It’s his weekend on.”
Willard began moving purposefully toward the door. “I’ve got to see about those fatalities on Octavia. Tell the lieutenant he’ll have my report on Monday. Sooner, if he needs it.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. Thanks a lot. Really.” Canelli reached for the telephone.
SATURDAY
One
STANDING IN FRONT OF the bathroom mirror, Hastings ran a hand over his beard-roughened jaw as he considered what was likely to happen during the next few hours. The time was 4:50 A.M. The crime location was Pacific Heights. He might not arrive until 5:30, probably when units from the crime lab were arriving. It would be six o’clock, at least, before he had the preliminary facts sorted out, and witnesses identified, and the tentative time frame established. Another hour would elapse, certainly, before the lab technicians and the photographers were finished, and the body could be moved.
By seven o’clock, the sun would have been up for an hour. He’d still be at the crime scene, collecting the evidence and establishing the time and place connections the D.A. would need. It would be eight o’clock, at least, before the witnesses were interrogated, even sketchily.
Meaning that now, at 4:50 A.M., standing with his arms braced on the tile counter of the bathroom sink, yawning, staring at his tousle-haired, dull-eyed, beard-smudged reflection, the grim reality of his situation was clear: By the time he finished at the Haney house, it would be too late to come home and go back to bed. Therefore, he must now shave, and put on a decent sports jacket, and resign himself to staying on duty, probably for most of the day. Like it or not, he’d already had his night’s sleep.
Two
BRAKING TO A STOP opposite 3251 Washington Street, Hastings got out of his car and clipped his plastic identification placard to his lapel as he strode across the street. He was about six feet tall, about two hundred pounds. He moved smoothly and easily, with an athlete’s unconscious precision. His features were regular, neither displeasing nor strikingly handsome. His dark-brown hair was conventionally cut according to departmental preferences that originated with Chief Dwyer and were passed on by Hastings to the men he commanded. His dark eyes were watchful; his mouth was thoughtful. It was a serious, guarded face, a face that, moment to moment, revealed little. In his mid-forties, Hastings had been co-commander of Homicide since his late thirties. Because his calm, competent looks and his clear, concise speech fitted the stereotype of a police lieutenant, Hastings was a favorite target for TV newsmen. Some of his co-workers resented his media exposure; most didn’t.
Three black-and-white cars were parked nearby. One uniformed patrolman stood guard at the front door of the Haney house. As Hastings had expected, neither the coroner’s team nor the police laboratory’s technicians had arrived. In quiet, affluent Pacific Heights, at 5:30 on a Saturday morning, there were no curiosity-seekers clustered in front of the house. Therefore, Canelli hadn’t ordered the yellow barricade tapes strung across the sidewalk leading to the house. To himself, Hastings nodded; it was the right decision. The rubberneckers would arrive soon enough. Followed by the reporters and the cameramen.
“Hello, Lieutenant.” The officer at the door nodded. He was a young man, in his early twenties. Something in the fresh-faced patrolman’s tentative manner made Hastings think of the years he’d spent in uniform. They’d been long, lonely, unsettled years. He’d been the oldest rookie in his class at the Academy, with a ruined career and a wrecked marriage already behind him, festering in memory.
Hastings nodded a greeting. “Is Inspector Canelli inside?”
“Yes, sir.” The patrolman opened the carved wooden door and stepped smartly aside.
The small wood-paneled entryway led directly into a large central hallway. The victim lay about twenty feet ahead, sprawled on the oak parquet floor at the bottom of a broad, graceful staircase. With one hand half-raised in greeting, Canelli stood beside a small telephone table set against the wall. His round, swarthy face registered an uncomfortable smile. In the presence of a superior officer, Canelli was always ill-at-ease.
“Hi, Lieutenant.” Tentatively, the smile widened. “Sorry about how early it is, and everything. But I figured that—you know—” He waved the upraised hand in a vague gesture of explanation, calling attention to the affluence that surrounded them.
“It’s no problem,” Hastings answered. “You were right to call me.” As he spoke, his glance strayed to the body. With relief, he realized that the typical odor of death wasn’t too oppressive. The victim was dressed in pajamas. Perhaps, before going to bed, he’d emptied his bladder and bowels.
Standing beside Canelli, both of them eyeing the body now, Hastings asked, “How’s it run down?”
“Well—” Canelli consulted the spiral notebook that lay open on the table. “According to Mrs. Haney, the victim’s wife, it seems like he was killed when he surprised a burglar. Maybe he was trying to be a hero. Anyhow, she discovered the body. The assailant, apparently, was in the study—” Canelli pointed to one of the six doors opening off the central hallway. “She heard him—or else he heard her. Anyhow, he apparently went out the way he came in, through the patio door. At least that’s the way I get it. But I only talked to her for a couple of minutes. Five minutes, maybe.”
“She’s the only witness, then.”
“So far, yeah. But I haven’t asked around, or anything.”
“Where is she now?”
Canelli pointed up the central staircase to an upstairs balcony that curved across the entire width of the house. “She’s in her bedroom. It’s the last door on the left, there.”
“Does she know I want to talk to her?”
“Yes, sir.” As he spoke, the front door opened. Turning, the two detectives saw Alex Stark, one of the city’s three assistant coroners. Stark was a small, energetic man, slightly built. At age fifty, he was totally bald. Cheerfully nodding to Hastings and Canelli, Stark strode directly to the body. He was whistling the toreador’s march from Carmen.
“I’ll have a look,” Hastings said, speaking to Canelli and gesturing toward the body. “Then I’ll talk to Mrs. Haney. You wait here for the lab crew. Make sure they don’t go too fast. When it’s time to move the body, call me. And don’t let Stark leave before I’ve talked to him. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Canelli nodded. “That’s clear.”
Stark had put his bag on the floor and was standing beside the body, looking down reflectively. With Hastings beside him he asked, “Have you come to any conclusions yet?”
“No. I just got here.” Solemnly, Hastings dropped his eyes to look fully at the victim. Haney had probably been in his middle forties: a well-built, good-looking man with thick brown hair, stylishly cut. He wore paisley-printed pajamas. His feet were bare. He lay on his back. The right arm, bent, rested on the last step of the staircase. The left arm, fingers crooked into claws, was flung wide. His straightened legs were spread. From neck to waist, the silk pajamas were blood-caked. One eye was open wide; the other was half closed, showing only the white.
“What d’you think?” Hastings asked.
“Looks like a knife.” Very delicately, Stark touched the coagulating
blood with a fingertip. “Severed carotid artery, I’d say. Been dead for a few hours.” He straightened. “If you want a better idea of the elapsed time, I’ll have to turn him over, take his temperature. Is that okay?”
“Wait until they’ve taken pictures, and sweepings. Then check with Canelli, if I’m not here.” Hastings pointed up the stairs. “I’m going to question Mrs. Haney—the wife.”
“Right.” Kneeling beside the body, Stark opened his black leather satchel. Nodding, Hastings began mounting the staircase. Like the parquet wood floor of the central hall, the stairs were oak, uncarpeted. The balustrades were walnut, intricately carved to resemble English Tudor. Completing the old-English decor, a series of dark, somber oil paintings were hung in the upstairs hallway. As Hastings slowly climbed the stairs, he heard Stark softly whistling another aria.
Three
FOUR DOORS OPENED OFF the generous crescent of the upstairs hallway, each one closed. Quietly, Hastings knocked on the door farthest to the left.
“Come in.”
He turned the knob, pushed open the door, entered the large, tastefully furnished bedroom. With drapes drawn across the single floor-to-ceiling window, the room was dark; the only light came from a pair of small bedside lamps. Dressed in a long robe that was buttoned close beneath her chin and folded decorously across her legs, Katherine Haney lay full length on the queen-size bed, on top of a quilted bedspread. Except for the movement of her eyes, tracking Hastings as he approached the bed, she remained motionless. She was a slim woman, narrow waisted, long legged. In repose, the sharp swell of her breasts was exciting. Even though her pale face was expressionless, numbed by shock, her features were cover-girl-classic: a small, straight nose, a deftly sculpted curve of cheek and jaw, a generously shaped mouth above a small, decisive chin. Her forehead was broad and high. Beneath a golden curve of eyebrows, her eyes were a bright, clear violet Spread on the pillow in a corona around her head, her tawny-blond hair might have been arranged for a fashion photographer. Even though it badly needed attention, the simple, stylized elegance of her makeup was unmistakably Elizabeth Arden.
Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 2