“Once a week, probably.”
“How far in advance do they usually call you?”
“A couple of days, usually. This time, I remember, they called Wednesday. It was after dinner that they called. Just after dinner.” She still spoke slowly, cautiously. Her young, expressive body had tightened, as if she were bracing herself for abuse.
“Who called you?”
“Ka—” She caught herself. “Mrs. Haney called.”
“You were going to call her Katherine. Are you on close terms with her?”
“Lieutenant—” Miller’s voice was sharp. “Let’s not prolong this needlessly.”
Without looking at the father, without replying, Hastings spoke again to the girl: “Mrs. Haney called you Wednesday. What’d she say when she called?”
“She said she wanted me to come over at six on Friday. Last night. As usual.”
“You say ‘as usual.’ Does that mean that they usually go out on Friday nights?”
She nodded. “I think they go out almost every Friday night. And other times, too. They go out a lot, I know that. They’ve got a couple of other sitters, too. Not just me.” As she spoke, Hastings saw her making a conscious effort to relax, to force some of the visible tension from her body. But her eyes remained wary, watchful. Already, the interrogation was falling into a pattern. Something that had happened last night, something she’d done, or said, was worrying her. Whatever it was, whenever he probed too close, she became uneasy, evasive. And the uneasiness showed, plainly. Like most teen-agers, she hadn’t yet learned to lie convincingly.
“So you got there about six, last night?”
She nodded. “Right.”
“How’d you get to their house?”
“I walked. It’s only three blocks.”
“Did you walk home?”
Instantly, her body tensed. Clasped across her crotch, her hands tightened, her knuckles whitened. “I—ah—yeah.” She cleared her throat, lifted her chin. “Yes.”
“Do you usually walk home?”
With an obvious effort, she forced her body back against the cushions of the chair. “Sometimes I do, sometimes they take me home. Whichever one comes first. If depends whether they put their car in the garage or not, before they come inside.”
As Hastings nodded, he withdrew his notebook, opened it, placed it on the coffee table. He moved slowly, with calculated deliberation. Eyes fixed steadily on the girl, he took his ball-point pen from an inside pocket, clicked down the point.
“Did you spend much time with Maxine during the evening?”
“Not much. She watched TV upstairs. I did homework for a while. Then I watched TV.”
“In what part of the house did you watch TV?”
“In—” She hesitated momentarily. “In the study—Mr. Haney’s study. That’s the only TV that’s downstairs, except for a little one in the kitchen.”
“Do you know when Maxine went to sleep?”
“Maybe about eleven o’clock. I heard her go to the bathroom about then. And then I heard her TV go off.”
“She didn’t say good night to you.”
Amy Miller’s mouth upcurved in a tight smile. “No.”
“You’re smiling. Why?”
“Because Maxine and I don’t talk much, usually.”
“What kind of a girl is Maxine, would you say?”
“Oh—” She touched her upper lip with the tip of a small pink tongue. Once more she’d forced herself to relax. “She’s okay, I guess. Maybe a little—you know—weird. But not really. She just—” Amy shrugged, momentarily frowning as she searched for the word. “She’s just a little quiet, maybe. You know—” Obviously having reached the limit of her descriptive power, she shrugged again. Now she looked toward her father, who was watching her attentively.
“Did Mrs. Haney give you a phone number where she could be reached?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember the number?”
“Not really. Except that it’s the one she usually leaves, I remember that. It starts with six—six, eight, one.”
“All right. Good.” Encouragingly, he nodded to the girl. As he did, he sensed that her father, alerted a moment ago to his daughter’s possible discomfort, was slightly relaxing.
“Did either Mr. or Mrs. Haney call you, last night?”
“At their place, you mean?”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“No. There were a couple of calls, but not from them.”
For the first time, he smiled at her. “Good. We’re almost done, Amy. I know this isn’t pleasant for you. So if you’ll just tell me what happened between the time Mr. Haney came home and the time you left for home, I’ll leave you in peace.” Still smiling, he turned briefly toward the father. Would Carl Miller see the falseness in the smile, realize it was nothing more than a transparent effort to put Amy at her ease?
Turning back to the girl, Hastings was instantly aware that her tension had returned. Whatever was worrying her, whatever she’d done, it must have happened after Haney returned home. Hastings saw her eyes turn involuntarily to her father, as if for help.
To forestall another interruption from the father, Hastings pitched his voice to a casual, diffident note as he asked, “What time did Mr. Haney get home, would you say?”
“About—” Once more the pink tongue circled the sensuously shaped mouth. “About eleven-thirty, I guess it was. Maybe a little earlier, but not much.”
“Did you charge them through eleven-thirty?”
“I—” She shrugged again. “I didn’t charge them, exactly. He—Mr. Haney—he just, you know, he just paid me. He—he asked me what time I came, and I said six. So then he gave me a twenty-dollar bill. That’s what he always did—just took some money out of his pocket, and paid me.”
“Twenty dollars—a little more than three dollars an hour. Is that what you usually charge?”
“Yeah. About that, I guess. Like I said, with Mr. Haney, we never figured it out to the penny. He’s not—” She broke off. Her voice dropped to an awestruck note, her eyes fell away as she corrected herself: “He wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about pennies.”
“So he came home a little before eleven-thirty,” Hastings said. “What time did you leave the Haney house?”
“It was about—about midnight, I guess. Maybe a little later. Maybe twelve-thirty. I—” Suddenly her voice broke. As if she’d been struck a sudden blow, she sprang to her feet. Instantly, her father stepped to her side, his arm protectively around her shoulder. But she pulled roughly away, standing rigidly apart, fists clenched at her sides, eyes streaming, staring at nothing.
“Jesus,” she sobbed. “It’s just—I can’t—”
“Lieutenant—” Carl Miller’s voice was ominous as he shouldered between them. “That’s enough. You’ve got your information, got what you came for. That’s enough, now.”
Also rising, Hastings picked up the notebook and pen. As the girl turned away from them, body convulsing, sobbing, hands hiding her face, Hastings spoke quietly to the father: “That’s what I wanted—the time frame. That’s all I need, for now. I’m sorry.”
“Then go.” Miller jerked his chin toward the hallway. “Go.”
Sixteen
WEARING TRACK SHORTS, JEFFREY Wade lay on the narrow bench, bare feet on the floor, arms straining to press a hundred fifty pounds for the fourth and final time. As his arms straightened above his head, he saw the bulge of his biceps flattening as his triceps took the load. His pectorals and abdominal muscles were peaked, past prime effort, failing. Now it was up to the trapezius—the trapezius, and the deltoids and pure, grim, teeth-clenched determination. Two inches remained. Only two inches. Was it possible? Could he do it? With only a few hours sleep, with his body still restoring itself, flushing out the wine they’d drunk last night, could he do it? His breath was tight in his lungs. One inch—a half inch—lock. Explosively, triumphantly, he exhaled. He’d only had the Nautilus f
or three months. But already he’d—
The door buzzer sounded.
Breathing deeply, he lowered the bar, secured it, sat up on the bench as he looked at the clock beside the bed. The time was 3:10 P.M. If Katherine was right, the caller was probably a policeman.
He’d read that during the second world war the Gestapo stripped their prisoners naked before they interrogated them. The purpose, of course, was to gain a psychological advantage.
“Just a second.” He dropped the shorts, tossed them on the floor of the closet, slipped into faded blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. In front of the mirror he checked his razor-cut hair, frowned, worked for a moment with a styling brush. Finally, after turning to the side for an approving glance at his torso and biceps, he walked into the living room, closing the bedroom door behind him.
Yes, it was a policeman: a six-foot-tall policeman, well built, good features, thick brown hair, watchful brown eyes, stern mouth. He was holding a gold badge pinned to a worn leather billfold. He was casually dressed in a corduroy sports jacket and open-neck shirt. It was a poorly chosen jacket-and-shirt combination, but the big man wore his clothes confidently.
“Mr. Wade? Jeffrey Wade?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. Have you got a few minutes?”
“Yes. Sure.” He stepped back from the door, watching the other man walk into the living room. The detective moved easily, with the muscular confidence of an athlete. Noncommittally, his eyes circled the apartment.
“Sit down, Lieutenant—” Wade gestured to a low-slung Danish chair that faced the desk. The sliding glass doors opening on the deck offered a low, over-the-rooftops view of the waterfront to the east, dominated by a pastel-green gas tank and three towering shipyard cranes. “Can I get you some coffee? A beer? Wine?”
“No, thanks.” Hastings crossed one leg over the other. “How do you like living on Potrero Hill?”
Sitting in a matching Danish chair, Wade shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m in real estate, have been for ten years. All that time, the word was that Potrero Hill would be the next Telegraph Hill. So far, it hasn’t happened. I doubt that it ever will, now.”
“There’s parking here, anyhow.”
Diffidently, Wade shrugged. “True. The parking’s great. But the view’s only so-so.”
“Do you own the building?”
“Yes.”
“How many apartments are there?”
“Four. This is the biggest.”
Nodding, Hastings let a moment pass, obviously signifying that the preliminaries were over. Remembering what Katherine had said, Wade decided to speak first.
“You’ve come about the murder, about James Haney.”
“That’s right. Is it in the papers already?” It was an offhand-sounding question. Too offhand.
“I don’t know.” Wade kept his eyes steadily on the other man. “Katherine called me this morning.”
“Do you remember what time she called?” Hastings spoke casually, as if he already knew about the call, and was only crosschecking.
“It was early. Eight o’clock, probably.”
“Do you remember what she said?”
“She said that James had been killed. Murdered, by a burglar.”
“How’d she sound? Was she on the ragged edge, would you say?”
“Not really. She sounded—well—” He frowned, searching for the words. “She sounded like she was in control. As always.”
“Did she say why she was calling?”
“Well, she was—you know—upset, naturally. She was touching base. Like everyone does, when something like this happens.”
“That’s all she wanted? Sympathy?”
“I offered to help her. Naturally. She said she’d tell me, if I could do anything for her.”
“You and Mrs. Haney are—” Hastings let a beat pass. “You’re friends, she says.”
Wade decided to smile: a slow, knowing smile, one man to another. “She told you that, did she? I wondered.”
Not returning the smile, Hastings said, “She was here last night. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how the evening went.”
“What d’you mean, ‘how it went’?” He debated trying another smile, but decided the timing was wrong.
“I mean, what happened—who did what, when?”
“Well—” He hesitated, frowning. What, exactly, was this quiet-spoken policeman asking? What was he after? Really after? “Well, we were eating in—having dinner with friends, here. Katherine came a little after seven, and Theo and John—the dinner guests—came about seven-thirty, probably. They left a little after eleven. Theo was coming down with a cold, and wanted to leave early. Katherine—” He hesitated again, vainly searching the other man’s eyes for a cue. “Katherine stayed for another hour, maybe an hour and a half. Then she went home.”
“So she probably left between twelve and twelve-thirty. Is that what you’re saying?”
Wade nodded. “Right.” He watched the detective’s face as Hastings stared thoughtfully at the toe of his badly polished brown loafer. How much, Wade wondered, did a police lieutenant make? Was Hastings good at his job? Did he enjoy the work? Or had he wandered into police work when nothing else had worked out, like most people wandered into civil service? Had this calm, well-spoken man ever drawn his gun and killed anyone? Had he—?
“You see a lot of each other,” Hastings said. “According to Mrs. Haney.”
Now, in this moment and the moments to come, it was necessary to keep alert. Answering the questions, he must keep his eyes steady, keep his voice level. He must make his answers convincing—all without knowing what Katherine had already said, what the detective had tricked her into saying.
“We see each other about once a week.”
“On Friday nights, usually?”
“Usually. Yes.”
Hastings was still staring at the brown loafer. He let a long, deliberate moment pass before he raised his eyes. “Mrs. Haney told me that she has an open marriage. She said that Mr. Haney was out on the town last night. He was out looking for sex, she says. She knew he was doing it, hitting the singles bars. I gather that he did it every Friday night, almost.” Expectantly, Hastings paused.
It was better not to answer. Better to see how far the detective would take it.
“Is that your understanding, Mr. Wade? Is that what Katherine Haney told you?”
Slowly, cautiously, he nodded. “She’s told me that, yes.”
“She didn’t mind if her husband played around, then.” A pause. “And he didn’t mind if she played around, either.” Another pause, longer, heavier. “Is that right?”
Obviously, the methodical detective was asking his questions according to a carefully calculated plan.
“I—I think that’s right.”
Another deliberate pause followed. Finally the detective drew a long, decisive breath. Speaking slowly and steadily, he said, “There’s really no way to ask the question except straight out. I’m assuming that you and Mrs. Haney are lovers. Am I right?”
“What’d she say?”
“I’m asking you, Mr. Wade.”
“But I don’t see what difference it makes. I mean, you’re acting like she’s a suspect, or something. At least that’s how it seems, checking up on her.”
“She’s not a suspect. But she is a material witness—a witness in a homicide.”
“How do you mean that, exactly?”
“I mean that she’s already identified the man who could be charged in the crime. She’s the only eyewitness we’ve got, on the scene. So it’s vital, absolutely vital, that we get her story as solid as possible. For instance, she seems to be pretty vague about time—about when she left here, and when she got home. That could be important, who was where, and when. Do you understand?”
“Certainly I understand. But you’ve already asked me that question, and I’ve already answered it. This—”
He gestured with an impatient hand. “This is something else, what you’re asking. This is personal.”
“Mr. Wade—” Hastings moved forward in his chair. His manner became more confidential as he said, “If things go the way they should, we’ll bring the suspect to trial. Mrs. Haney will be our most important witness, obviously. And when that happens—when the D.A. takes the case to trial—the defense lawyer’s going to do everything he can to discredit Mrs. Haney. There’s nothing we can do to prevent that. All we can do is prepare ourselves. We don’t want any unpleasant surprises, when she gets on the witness stand. Do you see? Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
“Yes.” Wade spoke reluctantly, heavily. “Yes, I can see that.”
“And so that’s why I’m asking the question. I’m not trying to—to get my kicks. That’s not it. I’m trying to take out a little insurance, for the D.A.”
In the silence that followed, Wade realized that his gaze had fallen. With an effort, he raised his eyes. Because it was in the eyes, he’d once read, that a policeman could see the first flicker of fear. As steadily as he could, he looked at the man sitting across from him, this policeman with his wrinkled corduroy sports jacket; his unpolished loafers, his closed face, his impassive, accusing eyes.
How much did Hastings know?
How much did he suspect?
To find out, he must answer this question—and wait for the next question, and the next. Because they were both playing the same game, both gambling for the same stakes. The policeman must discover what he knew, while he was trying to discover what Hastings knew. And silence, his own silence, would certainly endanger him.
“We—yes—we—” His gaze, he realized, had fallen again. With great effort, he looked directly at the other man. “We’re making it, Katherine and I. We’ve been making it together for two or three months.”
“What about last night? Did you make it last night?”
“We—” Suddenly his throat closed. “We—yeah—we made it last night.”
As if any other answer would have surprised him, Hastings was blandly consulting his notebook. She’d told him, then. She must have told him. And the detective was simply checking—double-checking.
Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 9