Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “She’s all right, though, isn’t she? The girl, I mean.”

  “Oh, sure, she’s all right. Mrs. Haney checked on her. Several times. She’s just sleeping, is all. It’s probably the best thing. As I understand it, she actually saw her stepfather’s body, and it gave her a hell of a shock, which is only natural.” Canelli paused, then added, “Jeez, Mrs. Haney is some great-looking woman, isn’t she, Lieutenant? I mean, she’s one of those that’s beautiful all over, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean, Canelli. Definitely, I know what you mean.”

  Eleven

  THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR of Friedman’s office, Hastings saw Katherine Haney sitting with her back to the door, across the desk from Friedman. Even in pantomime, Friedman’s manner was plainly attentive, in contrast to his usually oblique, cat-and-mouse style. As he tapped on the door and turned the knob, Hastings covertly smiled. Even Friedman wasn’t immune to Katherine Haney’s breathtaking good looks.

  “Hello, Mrs. Haney.” Hastings drew up the second of Friedman’s two visitors’ chairs, placing it to face her. “How’re you feeling?”

  Not attempting to smile, she sat silently for a moment, simply looking at him. Her manner was controlled, even withdrawn, as if she had retreated inside herself. Self-consciously, Hastings looked away from the lightweight cardigan sweater that clung to the swell of her breasts.

  “Thank you,” she answered. “I—I’m all right.”

  “The stolen property and the gun,” Hastings said. “Were they yours?”

  “I’m not sure about the gun. I never really looked at it closely. But the other things—” Woodenly, she nodded. “Yes, they were ours.”

  “Well,” Friedman said, “we’re sure about the gun.” Significantly, he glanced at Hastings. “We just heard from Sacramento. The gun was sold to Mr. Haney seven years ago, and never reported stolen.”

  “The knife, too—the ornamental dagger that was found with the loot,” Hastings said, turning to the woman. “Is that yours?”

  Visibly shuddering, she nodded. “It—Lieutenant Friedman said it had blood on it.”

  Impassive now, Friedman asked, “Where was the dagger kept, Mrs. Haney?”

  “It was in James’ study, on the desk. He used it as a letter opener. It was a memento, a gift from the Vice-President, in fact, when he was a senator.”

  “What about fingerprints?” Hastings asked, speaking to Friedman. “Are there any prints on the knife?”

  Meaningfully, Friedman glanced at the woman. Then he shrugged. “There’s nothing yet.”

  But the question had alerted Katherine Haney, who asked, “Is that what killed him, then? The dagger?”

  Resigned now to answering, Friedman spoke shortly. “There was blood on the knife, as you know. But we don’t know the blood type yet. We’ll know more when the lab’s finished with it.”

  Inquiringly, Hastings looked at Friedman, saying, “If you’re finished, they’ve got the lineup ready.”

  With a gallantry unprecedented in Hastings’ experience, Friedman rose to his feet, half bowing to Katherine Haney. “Thanks so much for your help, Mrs. Haney. I wonder—” He gestured smoothly toward the door. “Would you excuse us for just a minute? There’s something I have to tell Lieutenant Hastings.”

  Hastings opened the door for her, closed the door, and stepped closer to the desk. With his eyes on the woman standing in the hallway outside, Friedman said, “Have you got her story—her time frame—for last night?”

  “Not really. I think she was with some guy. And Haney was apparently with a woman. I didn’t want to come down on her too hard.”

  “Understandable.” Friedman grunted. “Still, unless we get a confession from Cutter that fits the facts—all the facts—we’re going to have to get everyone checked out. Including Mrs. Haney.”

  “I’ll be driving her home. I’ll see what she says.”

  “Good. I think we should check on James Haney’s movements, too. He could’ve brought someone home with him. Or someone could’ve followed him, knowing he was drunk.”

  “Right. I’ll put someone on it, after I’ve talked to Mrs. Haney.”

  “What’d Cutter say? How’s he strike you?”

  “It’s hard to say. He’s tough enough to kill someone. And stupid enough, probably. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I intend to.” Friedman checked his watch. “It’s one o’clock. Why don’t we figure on meeting here at, say, five o’clock? Do you have any plans for tonight, you and Ann?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “We don’t, either. Maybe you and I should plan on working through the evening, if it looks like that’s the way this thing is going. What d’you say?”

  Ruefully, Hastings sighed. “Why not?”

  “Why not indeed?” It was a cheerful-sounding response. Looking at the other man more closely, Hastings could guess at the reason for Friedman’s good cheer. Friedman was speculating that the Haney homicide was developing intriguing dimensions that might yet provide him with a satisfying puzzle.

  Twelve

  SITTING IN THE INTIMATE, theaterlike half-darkness of the viewing room, Katherine realized that she was physically aware of Hastings’ masculine presence. They sat side by side in two chairs that were joined together with five others, making the small room seem like a mini-auditorium. An assistant district attorney named Byrnes sat beside Hastings, a detective named Culligan sat beside her on the other side. They faced a wall that was half glass. Moments ago, the glass had been dark. Then, suddenly, lights had blazed, revealing a scene that was eerily familiar, a scene seen in countless crime movies: a small stage with scaled lines in the background, calibrated for height. An impassive uniformed policeman stood at either end of the platform. One of the policemen held a microphone in his hand. Beside her, Hastings held a similar microphone. She saw him raise the microphone, press the switch set into the handle.

  “We’re ready when you are.” As Hastings spoke, she turned to look at him. Had it been only a few hours ago that she’d first seen him? It seemed incredible. Mentally, she did the arithmetic. Eight or nine hours had elapsed since she’d heard his knock on her bedroom door. Had he suspected that, even with her husband’s body still lying sprawled so grotesquely at the foot of the stairs, one part of herself was covertly appraising him, running through the sexual calculus that, by now, had become second nature to her? Had he realized that, even with the memory of Maxine’s terrifying hysterics searing her memory, she’d nevertheless still automatically taken the debit-and-credit sexual inventory: a muscular-looking body, no visible fat, plenty of hair, an intriguingly closed, thoughtful face, steady, introspective brown eyes, a confident, controlled habit of movement. All of that, credited, was balanced only by the realization that, as a policeman, he must lack sensitivity. To survive as a policeman, dealing daily with death, a man must—

  On either side of her, she sensed the men’s attention sharpening, felt them shifting in their chairs. Turning, she saw one black man mount the stage, shuffle to the spot indicated by the policeman with the microphone. Another black man followed—and another three of them now, five sullen men, each one blinking into the bright lights that obviously blinded him.

  “They can’t see you,” Hastings said quietly. “You know that.”

  “I know.” As she spoke, she felt her forearm touch his on the armrest they shared, felt him draw quickly away. Was he married? He had the settled, satiated manner of a married man. He—

  “We’re going to start at your left,” a brassy metallic voice suddenly said, broadcast through the loudspeaker. “Well start with subject number one.” She saw the policeman say something unheard to the first man, who stepped forward, turned to his right, turned to his left, then stepped back.to stand as before, stolidly squinting. Yes, it was exactly like the movies. And, yes, she. felt as if each one of them could see her through the plate glass. Each of them, it seemed, was memorizing her face, vowing to make her pay for this indig
nity, this threat to his freedom.

  Were they all criminals? Carefully, she looked at each of the five black faces in turn. She realized that, yes, each face resembled the other. They all looked alike, recalling the ancient WASP stereotype that a white person couldn’t differentiate between black people. Each man was slim, each was young, each was hostile: five thugs, one of whom was suspected of the murder. Had he actually been caught with the loot? Were his fingerprints on the dagger? She had no idea. The sly, fat lieutenant—Friedman—had seen to that, had used his eyes to warn Hastings that he was saying too much.

  How reliable was fingerprint identification? Apologetically, Canelli had taken her fingerprints, carefully explaining that it was necessary, for “elimination.” They’d take Maxine’s fingerprints, for the same reason. And, yes, they would doubtless take James fingerprints, too, pressing the lifeless fingers on the ink pad, then rolling them on squares of white cardboard.

  Now the second man, subject number two, was stepping forward, turning left to right, stepping back. She must concentrate, must imagine herself standing in the doorway of the study, staring at the figure of an intruder: a young black man, going through the French doors, escaping the scene of his crime.

  “Subject number three, step forward.”

  Beside her, she sensed Hastings subtly shifting in his chair. She glanced at him, for guidance. But, impassively, he stared straight ahead. He wouldn’t give her a hint. He knew, but he wouldn’t tell. Rigidly, scrupulously, he would observe the rules. He was that kind of a man.

  On the stage, number three was stepping back. Now she could see that his face was bruised. He’d been in a fight, perhaps resisting arrest.

  Number four stepped forward. He was stockier than the others, and seemed more indifferent to his fate, less resentful. Perhaps he was a ringer, recruited to fill up the line. He could even be a policeman, play-acting. The fifth man, too, seemed to be walking through a charade, turning left and right, glowering theatrically at the audience, finally stepping back.

  Now the two policemen and the five black men filed off to the left, and the stage went abruptly dark. She could feel the men in the small viewing room turn their eyes on her. She drew a deep, unsteady breath. Why was her throat suddenly closing, as if her body was trying to choke off what she knew she must say?

  “It’s—” She was forced to break off, clear her throat, begin again: “It’s number three. The—the third man from the left. From my left.”

  Instantly, she was aware that, yes, she’d done it. She’d picked out the right man.

  Thirteen

  ONCE MORE SITTING BESIDE Hastings, this time in an unmarked car with a police radio muttering under the dash, she was again aware of the detective’s physical presence. But she was also aware of an overwhelming exhaustion of body and mind that dulled the sharpness of whatever desire she might have felt. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to go slack in the seat, allowed her head to lie back against the headrest.

  This was how it started. Always.

  Driving in a car, with a man beside her. Driving—or parking. With a man, or with a boy. The pattern had never changed, would never change. Love in America was another product of Detroit, just as skillfully hyped as the most expensive, most desirable automobile. A car—the right kind of a car—was as essential to the teen-age mating ritual as a pack of rubbers.

  She’d been parked in a Chevrolet, the first time she’d ever been seriously, soulfully, sexually kissed.

  It was in the front seat of a Cadillac that she’d first let Howard Cole feel her up. Vividly, she could remember the feel of his hands on her naked breasts, straining nipple-taut to his touch. With his crotch writhing against her, he’d come in his pants. When she’d realized that he’d done it, when she’d felt his body go suddenly slack, satiated, when she’d smelled the pungency of his semen in the closed, locked, window-steamed car, she’d experienced a kind of grave, calculated ecstasy. Because she’d realized that, from that moment on, she controlled Howard Cole.

  Less than a month later, in that same Cadillac, they’d done it: gone all the way. They’d done it in the back seat, parked beside an artificial lake. Hours later, lying in her bed, freshly showered and scented, thinking about it, she’d realized that, yes, the experience had fitted neatly into the plans she had for herself, even then. One of the most sought-after boys in the whole high school, with a successful father and a lively mother, Howard Cole had been perfect for the part he’d played in her life. The Cadillac had been perfect, too.

  There’d been the others: Jack and Carl and Frank. All boys. Frantic, fumbling boys. Later, there’d been the men. Many, many men. Most of them fumbling, all of them frantic.

  Always, boys or men, she’d sensed the power of her own sexuality. From the first, she’d never doubted herself, never questioned her own desirability, never suffered the agony of adolescent uncertainties that had tormented her friends.

  Her friends?

  Had she had any friends, even then?

  There’d been the boys—always the boys, as dumbly driven by desire as animals. Literally, the boys had followed her around. Just as, in later years, the men had followed her. Just as dumbly. Just as—

  “—look exhausted,” the man beside her was saying. Without opening her eyes, she knew that he was looking at her, hopeful that she’d turn her head toward him.

  She decided not to reply, not to open her eyes. With her head against the headrest, with her chin lifted, her throat curved taut, eyes closed, lips compressed in perfect profile, she sensed that she was in control. He was a compassionate man, this silent policeman. And compassion, encouraged, could—

  “Have you had something to eat?” he asked. “Anything to eat?”

  “I had some coffee, and a croissant.” Still with her eyes closed, without moving her head, she spoke quietly. Yes, she was in control: Still in control.

  “It’s one o’clock. That’s almost twelve hours since—” He broke off, let it go unfinished.

  Was he going to ask her to lunch? Was that the purpose of the question?

  To find out, she decided not to reply, decided to let silence work for her. But now the silence was lengthening; the moment of advantage had passed. Had she miscalculated? Or had his resolve deserted him? There were, after all, proprieties. He was a policeman, on duty. She was the widow of a murder victim.

  A widow …

  Incredibly, the word applied. She was a widow now. And widows must act like widows, must ask widow’s questions:

  “What’s going to happen now?”

  “Well, we’ve got to get everything together, get the facts straight. We’ve got to see what the D.A. wants—what he needs.”

  From the pattern of his speech, she knew that he was slightly unsure of himself, slightly discomfited. She’d done that, accomplished that, at least. She decided to open her eyes, turn in her seat, look at him.

  And, yes, he was looking at her, as she knew he would.

  And, yes, he was smiling at her. On cue. It was almost a shy smile. Certainly not a policeman’s smile.

  “Did I identify the right one?” she asked.

  The smile faded. The stolid, serious cop was in conflict with the sexually aware male. Almost with amusement, she watched him frown, struggling to solve the problem she’d so effortlessly created for him.

  “Do you feel like answering a few questions—filling in a few blanks?”

  He’d answered a question with a question. Policemen learned techniques like that. Good policemen, anyhow. Policemen who didn’t want to get involved—yet.

  “Whatever I can do, yes,” she answered. She watched him draw a deep, somber breath. Reluctantly, he was about to get down to business:

  “The man you identified—his name is Cutter—doesn’t admit to the crime. He’s told us a story that supposedly accounts for all his time between eleven o’clock last night and the time he was arrested, which was about two-thirty this morning. We’re checking out his story right now. We
’re also checking to see whether his fingerprints were on the stolen property, and the dagger. So, right now, we’re in the process of seeing how strong the case actually is against Cutter. Do you see?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “If Cutter’s story doesn’t check out, and if we get physical evidence against him, then the D.A. will probably ask for an indictment for murder. But if that shouldn’t happen, we’ll have to—”

  “Excuse me, but what do you mean by ‘physical evidence’?”

  “Fingerprints—on the knife, and inside your house. Fibers from his clothing found inside your house. Fibers from your house, found on him, on his clothing. He apparently climbed the wall behind your house. Bits of brick will be embedded in his clothing, if he did that.”

  She nodded. “I see. Sorry.”

  “If that shouldn’t happen,” he went on, “if we don’t get the evidence we need against him, and if he doesn’t confess, then we’ve got to start looking for other suspects. And the sooner the better. Do you see?” He turned to look at her. His brown eyes were serious. Yes, he was getting down to business. Police business.

  He returned his eyes to the road as he said, “So what I’ve got to do now is start checking out your husband’s movements last night—your husband’s movements, and everyone connected with him, everyone who had knowledge of the crime.”

  “Does that include my movements, too?”

  She saw him gravely nod. “Yes, it does, Mrs. Haney.” He looked at her again. Then he lifted one hand from the steering wheel to point ahead. “This is one of my favorite views. Can we stop for a few minutes? I want to make some notes. It won’t take long.”

  About to say that she was anxious to get back to Maxine, she decided instead to agree. Moments later, he swung the car to the curb. They were on Broadway and Broderick, where the terrain dropped so sharply down toward the bay that, for two blocks, Broderick became pedestrian steps, not a city street. This had always been one of her favorite spots, too, and for a moment they sat in silence, looking out over the Palace of Fine Arts toward the magnificent curve of the Golden Gate Bridge that connected the city with the green hills of Marin County. During the drive from the Hall of Justice, she’d been acutely aware of the police radio. The dispatcher was a woman: a metallic, laconic, disembodied voice, communicating across the void in police department officialese. The gibberish was totally unintelligible, but nevertheless intimidating, evoking the law’s vast, chilling impersonality. Now, relieved, she saw him switch off the radio. He put his notebook on the seat between them, and took a long moment to study it. Finally he said: