Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What’re you talking about? What reports?”

  “Well, there’s Canelli, who just called. He’s checking out Cutter’s story. Right?”

  Hastings nodded. “Right.”

  “Everything he discovered,” Friedman said, “seems to corroborate Cutter’s story. The girl, Cathy Hutchins, says that, yes, they were indeed in bed, screwing, until eleven-thirty or so. And, yes, Walter Gross says that his party broke up a little after one o’clock, at which time he and his live-in lover went to bed. Whereupon, a half-hour later or so, their dog treed Cutter, who was then arrested. So—” Friedman spread his hands. “So the facts seem to be telling us that, yes, Cutter is just your standard disaffected ghetto black who’d probably rather be working than robbing. The physical evidence sure as hell doesn’t make the case against Cutter, either. True, the knife found with the loot Cutter is supposed to’ve ditched is probably the murder weapon. The blood type is right, anyhow. But we’ve still got to tie that knife to Cutter. And we’ve got to put Cutter at the scene of the crime. And that little trick seems to be getting more difficult by the hour.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “I was coming to fingerprints. First, though, allow me to conduct a little quiz.” Like a smug, overweight schoolmaster, Friedman paused expectantly. “Are you ready?”

  Pointedly, Hastings looked at his watch. “Ann’s father is coming in town tonight. Unexpectedly. I’ve got to—”

  “This will just take a minute. First question: In what kind of a container was the Haney gun and the loot found?”

  Irritably, Hastings sighed. From long experience he’d learned that objections only meant more delay. Friedman was determined to play quizmaster.

  “It was in a brown paper grocery bag, from Petrini’s.”

  Genially offering mock encouragement, Friedman nodded. “Very good. Now, number two question: What did Cutter have on him when he was arrested in Walter Gross’ house?”

  “He had burglar tools, and a canvas bag slipped down inside his pants. The usual. Or, at least, so he said. I didn’t arrest him.”

  “Right again. He had a canvas bag, empty, plus a few rudimentary burglar tools and a switchblade knife. He didn’t have, for instance, any rubber gloves. Which brings us to the preliminary lab report. Which states that they didn’t even find any partial prints that might be Cutter’s on any of the loot, or on the knife, never mind any prints with enough points to make them admissible. All that despite the fact that a lot of the loot was smooth metal. Do you find that interesting?”

  “But what about Catherine Haney’s identification?”

  Still playing quizmaster, Friedman airily ignored the question. “Whatever else we may or may not know, one thing is for sure. If Cutter robbed the Haney house, he did it before he got caught trying to rob Walter Gross. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay—Now, let’s assume that he robbed the Haney house, and Haney caught him at it, and Cutter panicked and killed Haney. Let’s even assume that, for some reason, Cutter chose to run away from Katherine Haney, instead of slitting her throat, too, therefore eliminating a hard-core witness. We all know that crooks don’t act rationally under pressure. But, assuming all that, I wish you’d please tell me why, if Cutter went to all the trouble of outfitting himself with a canvas bag, which he put down inside his pants in the approved manner—why, then, for God’s sake, did he take the time to find a grocery sack, and use that to tote the loot? And I’d also like to know why, if he went to the trouble of providing himself with rubber gloves, he didn’t use them at the Gross house, when he broke in. And, finally, I’d like to know why he ditched the loot and the knife, after going to all the trouble of stealing them, and presumably taking them over the garden wall with him, when he was escaping the scene.”

  “You answered your own question. He wasn’t acting rationally. Also, he knew he’d committed murder. He knew that the knife and the loot would tie him to the murder. His first instinct was to take the stuff. But when he thought about it later, he realized he had to protect himself, get rid of the stuff.”

  “Okay—” Friedman lowered his feet to the floor, heavily sighing. “Let’s say that’s what happened. He was scared. Deathly scared. I can buy that. But what I can’t buy is the proposition that, after he committed murder, and after he was panicked enough to get rid of the stuff, he was still cool enough to spend an hour, more or less, casing the Gross place before he tried his second burglary of the evening. I mean, it doesn’t make sense. If he was scared enough to ditch the loot, why wouldn’t he go home and lock the door and crawl under the bed? Or maybe try to provide himself with an alibi for the time Haney was murdered. Why would he take the risk of robbing again, exposing him to arrest?”

  “That’s all speculation, though, Pete. What about Katherine Haney’s identification? That lineup wasn’t rigged. And you know it.”

  Friedman snorted. “She had a one-in-five shot, with nothing to lose. She picked the guy with the most bruises on his face. I’d do the same, in her place. And so would you.”

  Ruefully, Hastings smiled. “I’ll tell you what, Pete. I’m going to let you be the one to march up to the Haney house and ring the bell and put Katherine Haney under arrest for the murder of her millionaire husband.”

  “It’s Saturday evening, and we’re still working,” Friedman answered. “I’m in no mood for jokes.”

  “You’re never in the mood for anyone else’s jokes.”

  Owlishly, as if he were considering a point that had never before occurred to him, Friedman let a thoughtful beat pass before he said, “That’s what Clara says, too.”

  “So what d’you think we should do?”

  “What we should do,” Friedman answered promptly, “is check Katherine Haney out—thoroughly. Incidentally, how’d her boyfriend strike you?”

  “Like a con man, I guess. A good-looking con man. Lots of muscles, but not many principles, probably.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Jeffrey Wade.”

  Friedman made a note of the name. “I’ll get Canelli to go to work on him. I’m also going to get a team to canvass the Haneys’ neighbors. I think we should talk to Amy Miller again, too. In other words, we’ve got to start making a few waves. The way this thing is now, it’s just not adding up. If we aren’t careful, we could find ourselves looking very, very silly on the six o’clock news.”

  “Are you going to work tonight?”

  “For a while, I am. We’ve got no plans for tonight. Clara’s got a bad cold, and already she’s told me that she’s going to bed without cooking dinner. Besides, this case is beginning to interest me.”

  “I can see that.”

  “What about you? Working?”

  Hastings shook his head. “I can’t. Ann’s father is getting in at seven-thirty, over in Oakland. I’ve got to pick him up.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s talk tomorrow morning. About ten o’clock, say. I’ll call you at home.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “How’re you doing, you and Ann? Has either of you gotten up nerve enough to propose?”

  “The short answer to that one is ‘No.’” As he spoke, Hastings moved forward in his chair. Ignoring the signal, Friedman pronounced:

  “You’re making a mistake, you know. Certain things can’t be ducked. Words have got to be spoken.”

  “Listen, Pete, I’ve got to leave in a half-hour. And I’ve still got to—”

  “You realize, of course, that every time I start to help you put a little order in your life, you suddenly remember an appointment.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Not really, considering that you’re basically an introvert. How long have I known you? Ten, twelve years?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And how long have you and Ann known each other? Two years?”

  “Listen, Pete, can’t we—”

  “The point I’m making,” Friedman said,
“is that you’ve got no idea how you’ve changed, since you’ve known Ann. So that’s my function, you see—to give you a little perspective on yourself, before it’s too late.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean—‘too late’?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that you’re past forty. I, on the other hand, am past fifty. So, with the perspective of age, I can tell you that, yes, there comes a time when the juices start to get sluggish. Or, to put it another way, sex no longer seems so important. That’s not saying sex isn’t good, after fifty. Sometimes it’s great. But it’s not the—the engine it once was. Which means that, sooner or later, you’ve got to start listening to your head, instead of your body. And when that time comes, it’s best to be settled down with one woman, provided she’s a good woman. Which is to say, it’s best to be married. But your problem, see, is that you aren’t willing to make emotional commitments. You back into things, go with the flow, as the kids say. For instance, you wouldn’t even be living together, the two of you, if some spaced-out loonie hadn’t put you in the hospital, and you needed some place to recuperate. Am I right?”

  “Is that a question? Because if it is, I—”

  Friedman raised an imperious hand. “What I’m saying, you see, is that you should count your blessings. Ann likes you, and so do her kids. Not only that, but Ann has a good job and a great flat in the best part of town. Everything’s perfect. Never mind that, on your own, the two of you would probably still be living apart, paying double rent and—”

  “There’s more than double rent involved. There’s—”

  “Of course there’s more than rent involved. But I’m telling you that the hardest part is done. It’s behind you. So you’ve got to—”

  “Listen, Pete, I’ve already told you I’ve got to go over to Oakland, to pick up Ann’s father. And I’ve got to—”

  “Do you know her father?”

  “I’ve met him. Once.”

  “Does he like you?”

  “I guess so. We didn’t discuss it.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hastings said, “I do. He’s quite a character. He’s a self-made millionaire, a multimillionaire, in fact. He started out as an artist. Then he tried sculpture. He made abstract statues. Big statues, out of fiberglass and metal. But it didn’t work out, apparently—he wasn’t very successful. And his wife, he says, decided to leave him for a rich stockbroker. Whereupon Clyde—his name is Clyde Briscoe—invented some kind of a slow-acting catalyst for curing the kind of fiberglass they use to make boats. It made him rich—rich, and feisty.”

  “Does he know you and Ann are living together?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Hastings shrugged. “He doesn’t comment. That’s not his style.”

  “There, you see?”

  Hastings frowned. “See what?”

  “Never mind—” Friedman waved an airy dismissal. “Go to the airport. On the way, give it all some thought. Use some imagination, let the future speak to you. That’s what my father used to tell me to do. And it works, too. Believe it.”

  Nineteen

  “HELLO, FRANK. HOW’VE YOU been?” Briskly, Clyde Briscoe extended a muscular hand, offering a quick, no-nonsense handshake. He was a small, wiry man in his vigorous middle sixties. His body was slim, but his face was improbably round and ruddy, with rosy cheeks, lively eyes and a fringe of impeccably trimmed gray beard. Except for a pair of stylish silver-and-Lucite glasses, the face recalled one of Disney’s seven dwarfs. He was dressed in a khaki field jacket, twill trousers, a turtleneck sweater and low-cut flying boots.

  “Just a second,” Briscoe said. “I’ve got to bed down the bird.” Beneath an illuminated PILOTS REGISTER HERE sign, he began filling out a large white card while he cryptically discussed tie-down fees and fuel requirements with an animated blond woman who wore a blue blazer with Elaine stitched above the left breast. Concluding his arrangements, Briscoe smiled into the woman’s clear gray eyes, cast an appreciative glance at the well-filled blue blazer, thanked her politely and turned away. Declining Hastings’ offer of assistance, he slung a canvas Val-Pac over his shoulder and picked up a small nylon flight bag.

  Once they were in Hastings’ car, freeway bound for San Francisco, Briscoe turned in his seat to face Hastings. “Well,” he said, “how’re you and Ann doing? How’s it going, living together?” It was a businesslike question, asked in a businesslike voice.

  With his eyes on the road ahead, Hastings let a beat pass before he said, “It’s working out. We get along. We like each other. A lot.”

  “What about the boys? Billy and Dan? Do the three of you get along?”

  “Yes,” Hastings answered. “Yes, we do.”

  Briscoe sat silently for a moment, studying the man at the wheel. They’d met only once before, many months ago, when Briscoe had stopped overnight in San Francisco. On short notice, he’d called Ann from Santa Fe, inviting her for dinner. She could either bring the boys or come alone, her choice. She’d hesitated, then told him that she’d like to bring Frank Hastings, a “friend.” Immediately, Briscoe had agreed. The last time he’d heard that particular note in Ann’s voice, she’d wanted him to meet Victor Haywood, the supercilious, sadistic society psychiatrist she’d later married. From the first moment they’d met, he’d disliked Haywood, distrusted him. Ever since, he’d regretted not having shared his misgivings with his daughter. It was a mistake he didn’t intend to repeat.

  But after a long, leisurely dinner at the Stanford Court, he still hadn’t been able to quite decide about Hastings. Quickly, efficiently, he’d conducted the mandatory father-suitor interrogation. Quietly, candidly, concisely, beginning at the beginning, Hastings had filled in the required blanks: He’d been raised in San Francisco, growing up in a modest Sunset District row house, one of thousands that proliferated over the years across the vast sand dunes west of the city. His father had been a small-time real estate operator. When Frank had been a high school freshman, his father had left town with his “girl Friday,” piling their suitcases in the back of a secondhand Packard. Two years later, the father and his girl Friday had died in the Packard, hit head-on by a cattle truck in west Texas. A finance company had been trying to repossess the car when the couple died.

  Big for his age and quick on his feet, Frank had played football in high school, and had gotten a football scholarship to Stanford. Even though he’d starred in the backfield at Stanford, Frank had been ill-at-ease among the sons and daughters of the affluent, and he’d kept mostly to himself for four years. After graduation he’d signed with the Detroit Lions. But two knee injuries in his first year as a pro had ended his career. During that same year, Hastings met and married an heiress, the daughter of a prominent Detroit manufacturer of auto radiators. Beyond that, except to say he was divorced, with two teen-age children living in Detroit, Hastings had volunteered nothing more about his marriage. He’d dismissed his reluctant return to San Francisco, and his decision to go to the police academy, with only a few cryptic words.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions, Frank?”

  In profile, Briscoe saw a smile twitch at the corner of the other man’s generously shaped mouth. “You’ve already asked a couple.”

  Briscoe decided against a reply, and a moment later was rewarded:

  “Go ahead,” Hastings said. “Ask.”

  Briscoe took a moment to organize his thoughts before he said, “I’ve only spent a few hours with you and Ann, not enough time to really know you. But what I saw, I liked. You seem to be a thoughtful man. You’re probably kind, too, and fair-minded. I had the strong impression that you and Ann care for each other. I also had the impression that you understand each other. That’s probably because, in lots of ways, you’re very similar, it seems to me. Which, in my view, can be a mixed blessing. That’s to say, I think you’re both very cautious people, emotionally speaking. You’re not about to expose yourself, not about to risk ge
tting hurt, if you can help it. That’s probably partly because of the genes, for want of a better word. Because it seems to me that both of you are inclined to accept pain, rather than dish it out. Of course, that’s considered an admirable trait. Jesus seemed to think so, anyhow. But I’ve always thought that the introverts of the world—the practicing Christians—usually have more than their share of ulcers.”

  “You’re probably right,” Hastings answered. Then, smiling, he added, “Christ certainly was a worrier, when you think about it.”

  Pleased, Briscoe nodded emphatically. “My feeling exactly. Anyhow, that’s all by way of introduction. Which is one way of admitting that, yes, I’m long-winded, I guess. But I figure that, what the hell, I’m smarter than most, and I talk better, too. And I enjoy talking, always have, even when I was a kid. So why should I waste time listening to someone who can’t think as well as I can—and can’t talk as well, either. That doesn’t include you, incidentally. When you talk, I listen. I listen to Ann, too. I always have.” Pensively, he paused. Then, softly, he said, “Ann’s my only child, you know. Right from the start, I’ve always loved her.”

  In the silence that followed, Hastings turned to look at Briscoe. As if he were momentarily embarrassed, Briscoe dropped his eyes, blinked. Then, as briskly as before, he said, “After we had dinner, you and Ann and I, I naturally called her, to pump her about you. She said that, even though your ex-wife is an heiress, and is now married to a rich socialite, you still send child support. Which, of course, is only right. I applaud you. And Ann also said that your daughter’s starting college, and your son will be going to college shortly. Which, on a lieutenant’s salary, could be a problem, I imagine.”

  “You’re right. It’s a problem.”

  “Ann has a similar problem, as you know. In a few years, Dan and Billy will both be in college, too. Ann gets alimony and child support from that asshole Victor Haywood, as you doubtless also know. And she teaches the fourth grade, which doesn’t pay much. In other words, she’s an alimony junkie, like millions of other women in this goddam stupid affluent society we’ve constructed for ourselves. If she remarries, she loses alimony. Which means that, realistically, the two of you probably couldn’t afford to get married. Am I right?”