Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Instantly sensing the reason for her hesitation, Canelli raised a quick hand. “It’s only—it’s not—I mean—” Impatient with himself, he shook his head, sharply clicked his teeth. “It’s only the gun and some loot that the lieutenant wants you to identify. And then maybe he’ll have someone for you to look at in the lineup, to try and identify.”

  “Identify? You mean they—they’ve found him? Is that what you mean?”

  “Jeez, I’m just not sure, Mrs. Haney. The only thing I know is that the lieutenant, he’s interrogating someone, right now. But that’s all I—”

  “What about Maxine? I can’t leave her alone.”

  “No, that’s okay. I mean—” Earnestly, he stepped closer. “I mean, there’s a policewoman. Nancy Shelby, that’s her name. She just got here, to stay with Maxine while we’re gone. And there’s guards, you know—” Canelli waved a pudgy hand toward the street. “We’ve got two cars, guarding the place. One in front, and the other one in the alley.”

  Her gaze wandered to Maxine’s closed door. She should be with her daughter when Maxine awakened. The child might be terrified, finding a stranger in the house.

  But she couldn’t refuse. She must identify their property, must try to pick the right man out of the lineup.

  “Just a minute. I’ll get my purse.”

  Nine

  HASTINGS LEANED FORWARD, DRAWING his chair a few inches closer to the small steel table. Behind the table, the young black man was sitting slumped far back in his chair, one arm flung over the chair back. His eyes were dull, his head was bobbing loosely. According to the arrest reports Hastings had quickly scanned, Cutter probably hadn’t been allowed to sleep since the time of his arrest, almost eight hours ago.

  “What we’ve got to do, Cutter,” Hastings said, “is account for your time last night. You were arrested at two-thirty this morning, after you’d broken into the premises at—” He glanced at one of the reports. “—at 2761 Broadway.” He looked up, asking casually, “Am I right so far?”

  “I told you,” Cutter said, “I already told you, man—I’m not saying nothing, not without I got a lawyer.”

  “That’s your privilege. If you want to wait for a lawyer, I’ve got no problem with that. You should keep it in mind, though, that the easier you make it for us, the easier we can make it for you.”

  Numbed by fatigue, hurting from the beating he’d taken, Cutter nodded. He’d heard it all before. Many times before.

  “I’m not telling you anything new, it looks like.”

  Cutter swung his head once from side to side.

  “Answer me, Cutter. Don’t just shake your head.”

  Hastings spoke quietly, but Cutter raised his eyes, licked his split, swollen lips, finally answered:

  “No. Nothing. Nothing new.”

  “You’ve been busted several times, right? Several times, for stealing. You know how it goes. Right? You know what I want, what I’ve got to have.”

  Cutter shrugged. “I guess so. Yeah.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You’re—” Frowning, Cutter tried to focus on the big man with the calm face, sitting across the table. “You’re Lieutenant—” He shook his head, shrugged again. “I forgot. You told me. But I forgot.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Hastings. And I’m from Homicide.” He paused, searching the suspect’s face for some flicker of reaction. And, yes, he thought he saw the mouth tighten, saw the eyes slightly narrow. Almost imperceptibly, the slim, muscular body stiffened.

  “Homicide,” Hastings repeated. “Murder, in other words.” He let a beat pass. Then: “I’m not in Robbery, Cutter. I’m in Homicide. I don’t investigate burglaries. I don’t give a damn who robbed who. I investigate who killed who.” He let another moment of silence pass before he asked, “Am I getting through to you?”

  “Wh—what’re you—what’d you mean, ‘who killed who’? What’d you—what’re you—”

  “I’m telling you that a man was killed last night, during the commission of a robbery. It happened on Washington Street, probably about one o’clock this morning. Where were you about one o’clock, Cutter? Who were you robbing? Where?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. Nothing.”

  “You’re right. You don’t. But think about this, Cutter: If you didn’t kill anyone, then you’d want to tell me where you were at one o’clock. You’d be anxious to tell me, anxious to clear yourself. So the fact that you don’t want to talk to me makes it look real bad for you. Do you see?”

  “No, I don’t see. Just because I was doing one little thing, that don’t mean that I—”

  “You’re the only thief we’ve got, Cutter. As far as we know, you’re the only one that was working Pacific Heights, last night. So you can see my problem, can’t you, Cutter? We’ve got a corpse. A dead body. And we need a murderer to even things up. And, so far, you’re it. Until you can prove otherwise, you’re it. Before you know it, you’ll be talking to the D.A. And he’ll be talking to the grand jury. And they’ll be indicting you for murder, Cutter. Sure as hell.”

  “But, Christ, there was lots going on, in Pacific Heights last night. Christ, I bet there was a dozen guys up there, stealing. Friday nights, that’s when it all happens, up there. Those fat cats go out to play—” He shrugged.

  “I don’t doubt it, Cutter. I don’t doubt it for a minute. But you’re the only one that got caught, last night. So you’re it, like I said. You’re the only one that fits the description we got. We’ve got an eyewitness coming downtown, to identify you. And the stuff you stole is in the crime lab right now, for fingerprint comparison. So if I were you, Cutter, I’d—”

  “But you—you—” Now the young black man was straining across the table. Fists clenched, eyes snapping, he said, “You’re setting me up, you bastard. You just said it, admitted it. You need someone, and I’m it.”

  Hastings sat very still for a moment, silently staring. He waited until Cutter’s furious gaze faltered, finally fell. Then, measuring the words with ominous precision, he said, “I’m going to give you a chance to wipe out that word, Cutter. One chance. And then your ass is fried.” He waited for Cutter to raise his eyes. “I’m going to give you a chance to tell me where you were, what you did, from eleven o’clock last night until you were arrested.” He turned to look at the clock on the wall. “You’ve got a minute. One minute, starting now. It’s your choice. Because when I walk out that door—” He let it go unfinished.

  Eyes on the clock, Cutter licked his lips, swallowed, shifted in his chair. As Hastings, too, turned to stare at the clock, Cutter said, “Is this going to be—you know—recorded?”

  Hastings nodded. “I told you it’d be recorded, before we started.” He pointed to the small microphone, placed on the table.

  As Cutter looked down at the microphone, he nodded. It was a sad, solemn acknowledgment that, once again, he’d come up a loser. He’d lost, and The Man had won. Nothing changed. Ever.

  “You’ve got twenty seconds, Cutter.”

  After one final ritual nod, Cutter squared himself to face the microphone. He cleared his throat, raised his chin, and began to speak: “I been out of work for two years. More than two years. I’m twenty-four, man, and I’m still living at home. There’s two bedrooms, and there’s five of us—six, sometimes. And sometimes more. And for every one of us, there’s ten rats. Half the time the toilet don’t work. When you piss, you gotta find a corner, somewhere—anywhere. So what’m I going to do? I want money, what’m I going to do? Am I suppose to go to the bank, and draw out some money, like you do? Hell, in my whole life, I never had a dollar in any bank. I didn’t, and neither did anyone else I ever know. My old man; he’s long gone. My mother’s forty years old. She ain’t worked since she was eighteen. She’s had four kids, maybe more, for all I know. She keeps bringing guys home, but they never stay. They make a big splash at first, buy all kinds of shit nobody needs. Then they split. That’s all right, because when they split, then there�
��s more sleeping space. More space, but less money. So what’m I supposed to do when I need some money? Beg? I did that once. I stood out on the corner of Divisadero, begging off the dudes waiting for a bus. I spent all afternoon, I remember. It was raining, I remember that, too. And I got four dollars and sixty-five cents. Four dollars, and enough shit to last me my whole life. So that night I took my knife and I went up to Pacific Heights. In an hour, I scored for three hundred dollars—three hundred dollars, and a hundred-dollar watch. And I’ll tell you, it felt good. I’d robbed before, lots of times. Everything from candy stores to a funeral parlor, once. But that was the first time that, you know, I ever see somebody scared, see someone hand it over, because of what I’d do to them, if they didn’t.” Suddenly breaking off, he sat silently for a moment, staring down at the table with eyes that had gone dull. He realized that his chest hurt, where they’d kicked him. Delicately, he massaged the bruised flesh. Some of them wore steel-toed shoes. He’d seen them, seen the steel caps on the toes.

  “My ribs,” he muttered. “I think my ribs is broke. Something’s broke, anyhow. I know it. I can feel it, when I breathe.”

  “Tell me about last night,” Hastings said. “Then we’ll get a doctor. You’ll go into the lineup. Then you’ll get a doctor. He’ll take good care of you. He’ll give you something to sleep. And you can have a private cell, too.”

  “A private cell?” For the first time since he’d begun his story, Cutter looked squarely into the other man’s face, searching for the truth.

  Hastings nodded. “A private cell.”

  As if to seal their bargain, Cutter nodded again. His voice was a low, dulled monotone as he said, “Eleven o’clock? That’s what you say—eleven o’clock, till they did me? Right?”

  Hastings nodded.

  “I was at Cathy’s, at eleven. She’s my—she’s Cathy Hutchins. We had some ribs. That was about nine o’clock, maybe nine-thirty. Then we went to her place.”

  With his notebook out, Hastings asked, “Where’s she live, this Cathy Hutchins?”

  “On Pierce Street, right near Eddy. She’s an X-ray technician, make good money. She’s got her own place.”

  “Go ahead. Keep talking.”

  “We got to her place about ten-thirty. And then we—you know—we started making it. We made it two or three times. Then, maybe it was midnight, we had an argument. I even—Christ—I even forgot what it was about, what started it. But anyhow, I put on my clothes, and I split. I was—you know—I was pissed. Really pissed. So I went over to my place, and I got my things, and I—”

  “What ‘things’?”

  Warily, Cutter hesitated. But, across the table, The Man sat silent as a judge, waiting. Judge, jury, policeman—their enemy faces were all the same, all one face, really. All one person.

  “I mean, like—you know—my tools, and everything. I got this cloth bag, you know, that I put down inside my pants, in front. I got a jimmy in it, and screwdrivers. And a knife, too. My switchblade.”

  “So that was midnight, you say.”

  Cutter nodded. “Yeah. Just about midnight.”

  “All right. What’d you do then?”

  “Well, I—you know—I went up to Pacific Heights, and started looking around. I mean, I was cruising, you might say. I was—you know—intending on just finding someone walking, and robbing him. But I couldn’t find anyone that looked right, looked easy. So then I started looking for places that looked easy, to rob. I looked at a couple of places, but they didn’t feel right to me. So finally I went down this alley, on Broadway, I think it was. I went about halfway down, and I saw a place with the lights on, and people inside. Two guys. I could see that they’d had a party, that they were saying good night to three other guys. It looked good. I mean, they looked drunk. And they was turning out the lights, like they was going to bed. I could see, a kitchen window, that they’d left open. So I decided to wait for the lights to go out, for things to settle down. Then I’d hop the fence, go in through the window. I mean, I was tired of just looking all night, not scoring. So I waited for—I bet it was an hour, anyhow—before they turned out the lights. Then I gave it another half-hour, to make sure they were asleep. Then I—”

  “Wait a minute.” Hastings was writing in the notebook. “Let’s go back. You say you left Cathy Hutchins’ place at midnight. You went home, got your burglar tools. You got up to Pacific Heights between twelve and one o’clock. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Cutter nodded. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “Then you waited for an hour and a half, approximately, before you tried to break into the place on Broadway. Is that right?”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “What happened,” Cutter said, bitterly shaking his head, “was that I got inside, all right. I went right through the kitchen window, no sweat. But then, Jesus, I heard this barking, and growling, just when my feet hit the floor. And then I heard voices, from upstairs. I already figured I’d go out through the back door, right off the kitchen, if the shit came down. So that’s what I did, got to the back door, just when I saw this monster dog in the door to the dining room, I guess it was. There was light coming into the dining room from outside, and I could see him real clear. He was a shepherd, a big fucking wolf, he looked like, just standing there, growling. And every time I made a move for the door, he’d growl louder, and come closer. I could see his fucking fangs, dripping. Really dripping. And the closer I got to the door, the closer he got to me. It seemed like an hour, that we were like that. And then, the next thing I know, I’m looking into two gun barrels, with a light shining in my eyes, blinding me. And that’s it. That’s everything.”

  “You’re lying to me, Cutter. You wouldn’t’ve stayed outside for an hour and a half. You’re not that kind of thief.”

  “What’re you saying, I’m not that kind of thief?”

  “I’m saying that you’re a mugger. You don’t plan things. You just do it, whatever comes along. You’re a goddam thug. I looked at your record. You’re nothing but a dumb, vicious thug. Period.”

  For a moment Cutter didn’t answer. He sat motionless, his heavily lidded eyes half closed. Then his lips stirred, registering slow, indolent contempt.

  “You’re trying to shuck me,” he said. “You’re trying to rile me, make me say something stupid.”

  To conceal his momentary confusion, Hastings moved the microphone to a different angle, concentrating. Then: “What about a gun, Cutter? Have you ever used a gun?”

  “Never, man. I never used a gun.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I can check, you know.”

  Cutter shrugged. “Check. Go ahead. Check.”

  “You’ve always used a knife. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  The black man nodded.

  Hastings looked at the suspect for a last long, thoughtful moment before he nodded to the uniformed patrolman standing in one corner of the small, windowless room. “All right, Cutter. Let’s see how it checks out. You’re going to have to stand for a lineup. Then you’ll see a doctor, just like I promised you. And a lawyer, too.”

  “What about that cell? That private cell?”

  Rising to his feet, Hastings nodded again. “That, too.”

  Ten

  AS HASTINGS OPENED THE office door his phone began ringing. Lifting the phone to his ear with one hand, he used the other hand to sort through the contents of his IN basket. Even on Saturday, the number of papers in the basket had grown during the hour he’d spent interrogating Cutter.

  “It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. I’ve got Mrs. Haney here.”

  “Can you talk?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s in the waiting room. I’m at my desk.”

  “All right. I want you to take her to the property room. They’ve just gotten the gun and the stolen articles back from the lab. See whether she can identify them. If she can, get her to sign a statement to that effect. Then tell her there’ll be a lineup. Explain w
hat she has to do. After you do that, take her to see Lieutenant Friedman. I want him to talk to her. Do you have a printout on Cutter?”

  “It could be on my desk, here—somewhere.”

  “If you don’t have a printout, take mine. I’ll have it on my desk for you.” As he spoke, Hastings propped the phone between his shoulder and his ear, using both hands to leaf through the five-page printout. “The complaintant’s name on the arrest report is Walter Gross, at 2761 Broadway. I want you to see how Gross’ statement compares with Cutter’s. Especially, I want to get the time frame nailed down. Cutter says he was staking out Gross’ place for an hour and a half before he was arrested. I want to find out whether he’s telling the truth. I want a minute-to-minute match-up, or else I want to know that no match-up is possible. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. But what about—?”

  “Wait. There’s more.” Hastings opened his notebook, quickly flipped the pages. “There’s a black girl named Cathy Hutchins—”

  He spelled the name. “She lives on Pierce Street, near Eddy. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Cathy Hutchins, on Pierce. Near Eddy.”

  “Cutter claims they were together from nine o’clock last night until after midnight. They had ribs, he says. And then they screwed for an hour or two. See what she says about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s Mrs. Haney doing?”

  “She seems to be okay. She’s worried about her kid, naturally. I’ve got Nancy Shelby there, for when the kid wakes up. That’s what I wanted to tell you. See, I promised Mrs. Haney that I’d take her home, right after she’s finished here. But—” Canelli let it go inquiringly unfinished.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be with her at the lineup. Then I’ll take her home. It’ll give me a chance to talk to her. Have you talked to the girl yet? Maxine?”

  “No, sir. The way I understand it, Mrs. Haney gave her a sleeping pill, to quiet her down. She did it probably about one-thirty, I guess. So who knows, the kid could be zonked out for quite a while. That happened to me once, I remember. I was just a little kid, and I had an earache. And my mom—”