Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Inspector Canelli probably got some of this information, but it’ll save time if you tell me again—” Expectantly, he brought the pen closer to the notebook. “As far as you know, your husband went from his office to a singles bar after work. Is that right?”

  “Yes. But that’s just a guess. A wild guess.”

  “If he had gone to a bar, though, would you have any idea which one?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have any favorites?”

  “I suppose he did. But I never asked him. And he didn’t volunteer.”

  “I understand.” He hesitated momentarily. Then, speaking more formally, he said, “I have to ask you whether you know of anyone—any special friend of his—that he might’ve been with last night.”

  “A woman, you mean.”

  Rather than answer directly, he said, “You told me, yourself, that you and your husband—” He hesitated. “That you went your separate ways. I hate to bring it all up—now. But I don’t have a choice.”

  “It’s a dirty job, and someone’s got to do it. Is that what you’re saying?” As if she were listening to someone else say it, she was aware of the irony in her voice, the barely concealed bitterness.

  He met her eyes squarely, then nodded. “That’s right, Mrs. Haney. It’s a dirty job. I’ve never been involved in a homicide investigation that wasn’t a dirty job.”

  Wearily, she nodded. “I know.” For a moment she let her eyes linger with his. Then she said, “I do know, Lieutenant.”

  Answering her nod, he simply sat silently, waiting for her to answer the question.

  “I don’t have a name for you, Lieutenant. Sorry. I wish I had. Really. More than anything, I’d like to get this settled. I want it behind me.”

  “I understand.” Acceptingly, he nodded. Then: “What time did your husband come home, Mrs. Haney?”

  “I don’t know. He got home before I did. Obviously.”

  “You said you had a baby-sitter last night.” He glanced at his notebook. “Amy Miller.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she live close to you?”

  “About two blocks away. It’s Carl Miller. That’s her father’s name. On Pacific.” She waited for him to write the name, then added, “They’re in the book.”

  “Have you talked to her today?”

  “No.”

  She watched him nod, frowning thoughtfully over his notebook. He was as conscientious as a boy in school. It was an attractive trait in a man whose business, after all, was violence—a man who moved with the particular quiet assurance of someone who understood both his own strength and his own limitations.

  Now he was nodding again, as if he’d resolved something that had puzzled him, and was about to move on to another topic. She saw his eyes come up from the notebook to squarely meet hers. He was drawing a deep breath. The message was clear: Next he wanted her story—the whole story. She realized that, synchronized, she was also drawing a deep, reluctant breath.

  He began cautiously, almost diffidently: “This morning you said you came home about one o’clock. Is that right?”

  “That was a guess. I should’ve said one o’clock or after. I’m not really sure.”

  “Do you wear a watch?”

  “Not always.”

  “Did you wear one last night?”

  “No. I was wearing bracelets, last night.”

  “So you were just guessing, when you said one o’clock.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

  “Could it have been earlier than one o’clock?”

  “I don’t think so. Later, but not earlier.”

  “How much later, would you say?”

  Letting a beat pass, she leaned back against the car door. Facing him, with her back arched, taking a deep breath and lifting her shoulders, her sweater would draw taut across her breasts. Yes, she saw his eyes involuntarily dropping as she said, “Two o’clock, maybe.” She allowed a slight impatience to edge her voice as she said, “I’ve already told you, I simply don’t know what time it was.”

  “You said this morning that you spent considerable time with your daughter, last night. You got her calmed down, waited for her to actually go to sleep, before you called us.”

  “Yes. I had to give her a sleeping pill. Did I tell you that?”

  He nodded. Then: “Could you give me any idea how much time elapsed between the time you got home and the time you went to your daughter?”

  “It wasn’t long. It seemed like forever, but it wasn’t.”

  “Five minutes, would you say?”

  “Maybe less.”

  “And how long would you say you spent with your daughter, before you called us?”

  “Lieutenant, I’ve already told you, I can’t give you an accurate timetable. I just can’t do it.” As she said it, she sharpened the edge to her voice. Deliberately, she hardened her gaze.

  But she saw his gaze hardening, too—heard his voice sharpening: “I’ve got to get something from you, Mrs. Haney. Even if it’s only a guess. We call it a time frame. A time frame is always important to a homicide investigation. And this investigation, especially, seems to have a lot to do with timing—who was where, when.” He let a stern moment pass. During the silence, she could feel herself losing control of her face, of her own expression. She could feel the center of herself failing, sinking. He was winning; she was losing.

  “After you left your daughter,” he said finally, “what’d you do?”

  “I—I called you. The police.”

  “Okay—” As if to encourage her, he was nodding. “Good.” As he spoke, he riffled the pages of his notebook. “You called us at ten minutes after three. Is that right?”

  She waved an impatient hand. “If you say so, yes. I’m sure you have records—tapes, or something.”

  “We do. And that’s the time you called, three-ten. So if we work backward, allowing five minutes for you to enter the house and discover the body, and allowing, say, an hour spent with your daughter, then we come up with about two o’clock, as the time you came home. Right?”

  “Lieutenant, I just can’t—”

  “Let’s assume that you came home around two o’clock. I’m not holding you to anything. I’m just looking for a starting point. Do you see?”

  “I guess so.”

  “All right. Now, let’s make another assumption. Let’s say that the suspect wasn’t in the house for more than a few minutes—ten minutes, say—before you got there. That’s probably pretty close. Burglars don’t spend more than a few minutes inside a house, because they’re worried about burglar alarms—especially the silent alarms that ring at the alarm office. So, if we make that assumption, then we can estimate the time of the murder at a few minutes before two. Which, in fact, is what the coroner says. He estimates the time of death somewhere between midnight and two o’clock.”

  “I see.” Slowly, thoughtfully, she nodded. “Yes. I see.”

  “So,” he was saying, “it all seems to add up, roughly. But I’ve still got to know the actual time you got home. Which means that—” Expressively, he let it go unfinished. Then she saw calculation come into his eyes. He was about to come to the point—the real point, the heart of the matter: “Which means that I’d like to know what you did last night. Exactly what you did.”

  “But—but why? I don’t understand why.”

  Patiently, he explained: “It’s the time frame. If we know where you were last night, if you can tell us who you were with, maybe we can nail down the time you came home.” He broke off, tentatively smiling as he said, “You’re apparently one of those people without a well-developed sense of time. You need help. And I’m here to help.”

  She let the silence lengthen before she asked, “What time is it now?”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s one-thirty.”

  “I should get home. Maxine’ll wake up soon. I want to be there when she wakes up.”

  He made no move to start the engin
e. “I’ve got to know, Mrs. Haney. I’ve got to get a rundown on your movements, last night. And I’ve got to talk to your daughter, too.” He spoke quietly now, sympathetically. “I know it’s difficult for you. But it’s got to be done. One way or the other, it’s got to be done.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Lieutenant? ‘One way or the other.’ What’s that mean?”

  “It means,” he answered steadily, “that the questions have to be asked. The only point in doubt is who does the asking. Me or someone else.”

  “I don’t have a choice. That’s what you’re saying.”

  He didn’t reply. His expression didn’t change; his brown eyes didn’t retreat from the indignation she hoped he could hear in her voice as she asked, “Are you trying to tell me that you—you suspect me? Is that it?”

  “No, Mrs. Haney, that’s not what I’m saying. You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

  She sat silently, making her decision. Should she call a lawyer—her husband’s lawyer?

  “What’s happening now,” he said, speaking slowly and seriously, “is that the D.A.’s trying to build a case against Cutter, seeing whether he thinks there’s enough evidence to go to the grand jury. We’re supplying the D.A. with the facts. That’s what we do, what the police do. So far, the case looks pretty solid, I’d say. Cutter’s record is against him. That’s important. You’ve identified him. That’s important, too. We’re working on the physical evidence right now, as I told you. If the dagger—your husband’s dagger—turns out to be the murder weapon, and if we find Cutter’s fingerprints on the dagger and the stolen property, and if we can put Cutter at the scene of the crime at the right time, we’ll have a strong case. But part of that case will be your testimony. Yours, and your daughter’s. Maxine was actually on the premises when the murder was committed. And you actually saw the suspect. Which means that, eventually, you’ll appear in court. You’ll be a witness—the most important witness for the prosecution. The defense lawyer will be questioning you. He’ll be asking you these questions, the same questions I’m asking you. When that happens, the D.A. will want to know, in advance, what you’re going to say. Lawyers hate surprises, especially in court. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Certainly I can understand that. But I—”

  “Just tell me where you were, what you did last night. Make my job easier, Mrs. Haney. Don’t make it harder.” As he spoke, he smiled. His eyes warmed. It was their most personal moment, shared.

  But, whether or not he was smiling, whether or not he was aware of her as a woman, he wouldn’t quit until he got what he wanted. He was that kind of a man.

  She drew one last long, reluctant breath, then said, “I was with a friend last night. His name is Jeffrey Wade. He lives on Connecticut Street, on Potrero Hill. We had dinner at his house. There was another couple—Theo Steele and John Taylor.” She realized that she was speaking in a dull, plodding monotone, hardly more than a whisper. It was as if she were a prisoner, confessing to a crime she’d never committed, as if she were incapable of summoning strength enough to protest her innocence convincingly.

  “I got to Jeff’s a little after seven. Theo and John came about seven-thirty, I suppose, and we probably ate about eight. They left around eleven-thirty. I—” She dropped her eyes. “I stayed for a little while—I’m not sure how long. An hour, maybe. Maybe less. Then I came home.” Finished, she raised her eyes to meet his. He was still smiling, reassuring her.

  “Potrero Hill—” Thoughtfully, he frowned. “It would take—what—twenty minutes, to drive from Potrero Hill to Pacific Heights?”

  “Probably.”

  “All right, good.” Obviously pleased, he was smiling now. It was another half-shy smile, personal, not professional. “Good,” he repeated. “You’ve given me two names and addresses, Mrs. Haney, and you’ve filled in some of the blanks, too. By the way—”

  He reached for the ignition key, switched on the starter, brought the car’s engine to life. “By the way, do you shop at Petrini’s?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  Adjusting the volume of the police radio and listening to the dispatcher’s litany, Hastings made no reply.

  Fourteen

  AS HASTINGS WALKED UP the flagstone sidewalk he assessed the Miller house. It was Tudor style, two-story, faced with brick and rough-cut decorative timbers. The first-story windows were fashioned of small leaded panes. The door was carved oak. As Hastings lifted the heavy lion-headed brass knocker and let it fall on its striker, he calculated the house’s current market value at more than a million dollars.

  A short, compactly built man answered the door. His face was thick-jawed, heavily browed. The nose was short, the lips were full, the small eyes were truculent. He was almost totally bald. He was dressed casually, in corduroy trousers and a faded flannel shirt. A dark beard stubbled his face. With his fists propped on hips, his bandy-legged stance was pugnacious.

  “Yes?” He frowned, looking Hastings up and down with obvious disapproval. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Miller? Carl Miller?” As Hastings spoke, he took his leather shield case from a hip pocket and flipped the cover down to show the gold lieutenant’s shield.

  “That’s right.” Glancing at the shield, Miller’s eyes narrowed. “Wh—”

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Miller. Homicide.” Out of long habit Hastings paused, watching for the inevitable reaction to the single word “Homicide.” It was often a significant observation, a useful guide.

  Carl Miller’s reaction was half-hostile. His harsh voice was impatient as he said, “Well?”

  “Did you know that James Haney was murdered last night, Mr. Miller?”

  “What?” It was a loud, indignant question. Plainly, Miller resented this Saturday-afternoon intrusion, resented this seemingly gratuitous shock.

  “He was murdered last night between midnight and—”

  “But, Christ,” came the explosive interruption. “Christ, Amy was—” Suddenly the other man’s indignation died as realization dawned. With his small, dark eyes fixed intently on Hastings’ face, Miller swallowed once, then spoke in a low, chastened voice: “You’re telling me that—” Now his expression was awed. He’d instantly comprehended what must have happened, instantly realized that his daughter could have been minutes from mortal danger, only hours before. “You’re telling me he was killed when?” With the last word, his natural assertiveness returned.

  “We think he was killed between midnight and two o’clock this morning.” Still watching the other man carefully, Hastings paused to let the significance of what he’d just said register. Then: “I’d like to talk to your daughter. We think she might be able to help us.”

  As if he were assessing the merits of a business proposition, Miller took a long, deliberate moment to consider the request. It was all the time he needed. He nodded decisively, stepped back from the door, gestured Hastings inside.

  Fifteen

  “HE’S DEAD? MR. HANEY is dead?” Amy Miller’s eyes widened incredulously. “Murdered?” In the few moments it had taken her to comprehend what Hastings had just said, Amy Miller’s precarious teen-age sophistication had deserted her. She was a small, dark-haired girl with a pretty oval face and an exciting body. Her skin-tight blue jeans clung to perfectly proportioned buttocks and thighs; her salmon-colored T-shirt was stretched taut over provocative breasts and a supple, nubile torso. Until a moment ago, her dark eyes had been knowing, challenging. At age sixteen, Hastings calculated, Amy Miller’s virginity had long ago been lost.

  “My God—” Her eyes flew from Hastings to her father’s face, then returned to Hastings. The two men and the girl sat around-a circular marble coffee table, the centerpiece of an expensively furnished living room. “My God—when? How?”

  “He was knifed,” Hastings answered. “His wife found him lying at the foot of the stairs. On the first floor.”

  “He was—” The girl’s voice dropped to a low, clogged whi
sper. “He was knifed, did you say?”

  “That’s right. Slashed across the throat.”

  “Oh, my God—” She raised both hands to her face, covering her nose and mouth. Staring at him above bright red fingernails, her eyes were stricken.

  “Was it robbery?” Carl Miller asked, leaning intently forward.

  “We think so, but we aren’t sure. We’re still investigating.” Pointedly, he turned from the father to face the girl. Already Miller had refused Hastings permission to interrogate his daughter alone. In the process he’d told Hastings that he was a lawyer—a corporate lawyer, he’d added significantly.

  “What I’d like from you, Amy,” Hastings said, “is an account of what you did last night. What you did, and when you did it.”

  As he asked the question, he saw her face close. She was sitting, in a brocaded armchair, with her bare feet tucked under her thighs. Now, as if to change his perception of her, she lowered her feet to the floor, straightened her back, shook out her dark, long hair.

  “What’d you mean, what I did?” It was a cautious, calculated question. Her eyes had narrowed, watching him. She’d mastered the numbed horror of her first reaction to the news of Haney’s death. Now, obviously, she was beginning to think before she spoke.

  “I mean I’d like you to tell me anything that has to do with last night—with the Haneys. Do you baby-sit for them often?”