Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What we’ve got here,” Friedman said, “is a contradiction. We’ve got Mrs. Haney saying one thing, and we’ve got Mr. Kelley saying something else. Mr. Kelley—and the alarm tapes, too.”

  “She was pretty vague about it, though, when I talked to her,” Canelli said. “But she said she thought she got home about one o’clock. Not two or two-thirty.”

  “She also said she saw the murderer,” Friedman said. “Which would’ve meant that the murderer must’ve hung around the premises for at least twenty minutes after the murder was committed, assuming that the murder was committed between midnight and two A.M. Twenty minutes minimum. Two hours and twenty minutes, maximum.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Hastings mused.

  “But why would she lie?” Canelli’s voice was plaintive, as if he’d been personally aggrieved.

  Maybe she didn’t lie, Hastings said. Maybe there’s an explanation. Don’t forget, Wade says she left his place between twelve and twelve-thirty. So if she’s lying, then Wade is lying, too.”

  “I think,” Friedman said, “that you’d better talk to Wade again. Wade, and Mrs. Haney. And Amy Miller, too. I think we need to know when Mrs. Haney really came home. I also think we need to know why Amy Miller went out in the garden, and why she didn’t reset the alarm, when she came back inside.”

  Two

  “HELLO, AMY.” AT THE front door of the Miller house, Hastings offered his badge for her inspection. It was a tentative gesture, meant to reassure, not intimidate. “Lieutenant Hastings. There’re a few more questions I’d like to clear up.” He took a half-step forward. “Can I come in?”

  “My parents aren’t—” He saw her suddenly swallow. She glanced back into the house, as if to look for help. “They aren’t here.”

  “I won’t be long. It’s all right.” He smiled, ventured another half-step. Hesitantly, she finally gave way, opening the large, ornately carved door for him. Walking into the living room, she sat in the same chair she’d taken yesterday. She wore faded blue jeans and, today, a bulky-knit sweater that only hinted at the perfection of her young torso.

  “You’ve caught the one that did it,” she said. “A burglar, they said on TV.” She spoke slowly, gravely. She was watching him carefully.

  “We’ve got someone in custody,” Hastings answered. “But, to be honest, we need a lot more evidence before we can bring him to trial. That’s why I’m here.”

  “But—” She frowned. “I told you everything that happened. I told you yesterday.”

  “There’re some new developments, Amy. I need you to go over them with me.”

  “Developments?” As she’d done yesterday, she touched the tip of a small pink tongue to her upper lip. Almost imperceptibly, her body was tightening. “What developments?”

  “There’s the burglar alarm, for one thing—the Haneys’ burglar alarm.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you know how it works?”

  She nodded. “Sure. They just got a new system. I know all about it.”

  “Good—” To reassure her, he smiled, nodded. “That’s fine. I understand it’s very complicated. I saw the control panel, in the kitchen.” He widened the calculated smile. “It looks like it came out of Star Wars.”

  Watching him steadily, she made no reply. He let the smile fade, dropped his voice to a more impersonal note: “Tell me about the alarm system,” he said. “Tell me how it works, what you did with it, Friday night.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that the burglar alarm company has a tape of what happened with the system Friday night.” He let a beat pass, then said, “There’re a few things that puzzle us. Maybe you can help us straighten it all out.”

  “What kinds of things are you talking about?”

  “Well, for instance, the tape shows that about eleven-thirty the garage door went up, and then down. So we assume that Mr. Haney got home at eleven-thirty. And you confirm it. That’s important, your confirmation. Electronics are great, but we need verification. Human verification. Do you see?”

  “Sure, that makes sense.” She was speaking easily now, casually sure of herself, typically the breezy teen-ager.

  “We also know that the sensor on the service door from the garage was disarmed a minute or so after the garage door closed. Meaning, obviously, that Mr. Haney came into the house from the garage. Right?”

  She nodded. “I guess so. Yeah.”

  “But when he got inside, he didn’t rearm the circuit that guards the door. Do you know why he didn’t do that?”

  “Well—” She hesitated a moment. Then, plainly reluctant, she said, “Well, he was pretty drunk, that night. I didn’t say anything yesterday, when we were talking. But he was really bombed Friday.”

  “So you think maybe he just forgot to rearm the sensor. Is that it?”

  She shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “There’s no other reason that you can think of.”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Now, tell me what else happened, as far as the burglar alarm system is concerned.”

  She frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, for instance, Mrs. Haney left the house about six-thirty. Did she go out through the garage, or did she leave by the front door?”

  “The front door. Her car was already outside.”

  “Did you arm the sensor on the front door when she left?”

  “Yeah. There’s a switch, above the door—a little switch. It’s hidden. You have to know where it is to set it. Then I set the whole system on the master panel. That’s in the kitchen.”

  “Does every door have a separate switch, like the switch on the front door?”

  “Right. They’re all the same. But the garage doors, they have different switches.”

  “All right. So Mrs. Haney left at six-thirty, as you said. What happened next? What did you do to the alarm system after that?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. I didn’t—” Her eyes flickered. Then: “I only went outside, in the garden.”

  “Why?”

  “It was—” Perceptibly, the lines of her body were drawing taut. Her eyes fell away. Now, consciously, she sat straighter, self-defensively stiffer. “There was a cat fight outside. In the alley.”

  Hastings waited until she ventured to meet his gaze before he said, “A cat fight?” It was a deliberately dubious question.

  Rigidly, she nodded. “That’s right. A cat fight. I thought Cricket might be out. That’s the Haneys’ cat.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh—nine or ten. Something like that.”

  “Did you use the French doors from the study, when you went out into the garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you disarm those doors, before you went out?”

  “Sure. Otherwise the alarm would’ve gone off, downtown.”

  “Was it Cricket, in the fight?”

  She shook her head. “No. She was inside all the time.”

  “Did you reset the alarm for the French doors, when you went back inside?”

  “I—” As realization dawned, her eyes opened wider. “I can’t remember. Is—” She broke off, immobilized for a moment, staring at him. “Is that what you think, that whoever did it came in through the study?”

  “It’s a possibility. We think he could’ve come in over the garden wall, and escaped the same way, over the wall.”

  “But that’s not—I mean, you can’t blame me, for just not resetting the alarm. It’s not my fault, what happened.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Amy. We’re just trying to double-check what we found on the tape, as I told you. That’s what police work is really all about, checking and double-checking. Moving pieces around until they finally fit.”

  “Yeah—” She spoke tentatively, apprehensively. Once more, her body was tightening. As she’d done yesterday, she glanced over her shoulder, as if to look for help.

  Hastings al
lowed another long silence to fall between them again while he watched her struggle to make eye-contact. When she finally succeeded, he spoke softly, intimately:

  “It wasn’t a cat fight. Was it?”

  Slowly, rigidly, as if she couldn’t help herself, she was shaking her head. “No. It—it was Teddy.”

  Hastings took his notebook from one pocket, his ball-point pen from another pocket. “Teddy?”

  Holding her head unnaturally high, swallowing painfully, she spoke in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “Ted Parker. He’s—he used to be my boyfriend.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Over on Sacramento Street.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Does he live with his parents?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. His father’s name is Richard.”

  “All right—” Hastings noted the name, then said, “Tell me about Teddy. Tell me what you did, the two of you.”

  “What d’ you mean, ‘what we did’?” It was a watchful, wary question. Suspiciously, her eyes narrowed.

  Realizing that he must not press her too hard, Hastings softened his voice as he said, “I didn’t mean anything, Amy. Nothing. I just want to know what happened. Tell me about it. From the beginning.”

  As he spoke, he saw her body slacken, saw her head lower, as if the muscles of her neck had lost strength. With her eyes cast down, she shook her head. “It—it’s not all that much. I mean, we—we went out together, the two of us, for five or six months. And when I used to baby-sit, he’d come by, on his bike—his motorcycle. He’d always come by in the alley, and gun his engine. He had a special way of gunning it, so I’d know it was him. So then I’d—you know—” Shrugging, she let it go eloquently unfinished.

  “He’d come inside,” Hastings prompted carefully. “Inside the house. Right?”

  “Yeah—” She sighed, then shrugged again. “Right.”

  “Is that what happened Friday night? Did you let him in?”

  “No. See—” Tentatively, she raised her eyes to look at him squarely. “See, Teddy and me, we’re not—you know—going out together anymore. Not for weeks, now. Two weeks, at least. But Teddy, he keeps—you know—coming around, trying to get me to—you know—” She shook her head, bit her lip, blinked.

  “Did you open the gate, to talk to him?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I had the key. Is that what you were wondering, whether I opened the gate?”

  “That’s right,” he answered. “That’s what I was wondering.”

  “Yeah. Well, I got the key. It’s in the drawer, in the study. And I opened the gate. And we talked. But I didn’t let him in. Not even into the garden, except for just a few feet.”

  “How long did you talk?”

  “Just about five minutes. No more.”

  “Was Teddy upset? Angry?”

  She began to shake her head, but the denial became an unwilling affirmative as, reluctantly, she nodded. “Yeah. He was—I guess you’d say he was upset. Anyhow, he was acting weird. Real weird.”

  “Was he on drugs?”

  Casually, as if she’d expected the question, she shrugged, spreading her hands palms up. “Who knows?”

  “So what happened then?”

  “Well, he—he left.”

  “Did you lock the gate, after he left?”

  “Oh, sure. Always.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I went back inside.”

  “Did you put the key back?”

  “Sure. Always.”

  “But you can’t remember whether you reset the switch on the French doors.”

  Mutely, she shook her head. Her face was expressionless now. Her eyes were empty, as if she had nothing more to say—or nothing more to fear. To test her, Hastings decided to sit silently, watching her with his impassive policeman’s stare. She met his gaze readily, with seeming indifference. Finally he decided to say, “There’s something else I need from you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I need your fingerprints. I’ll be sending a man over, to take your fingerprints.”

  “My fingerprints?” As if she couldn’t comprehend the question, she frowned. “Why?”

  “Because we’re trying to place the murderer at the scene of the crime. And fingerprints are the best way to do it. Fingerprints, and other physical evidence. Fibers, for instance. And even certain kinds of dust particles, embedded in clothing.”

  “But why d’you want my fingerprints? Why don’t you just take his fingerprints—the killer’s fingerprints?” Now she spoke peevishly, as insistent as a spoiled child.

  “It’s a process of elimination. We eliminate everyone who would normally have their fingerprints on the scene—you, Mrs. Haney, Maxine. And, of course, the victim. And people like maids, for instance, or cleaning ladies. And what we’re left with are unclassified prints. One of which might belong to the murderer. It’s a long, tedious process. But there isn’t any other way. For instance, it seems pretty obvious that the murderer left by the French door leading from the study to the garden. So, of course, we want to check that door carefully. And your fingerprints are bound to be on it, obviously. But we can’t know which ones are yours unless we take your prints.” He smiled. “See?”

  “But what if he wore gloves? The one you arrested, he could’ve worn gloves.”

  “He could have. But we don’t think he did.”

  “But—” Still peevishly, she frowned, irritably shook her head. Once more the willful child, perplexed, half pouting, was emerging. “But if he did wear gloves, then he’ll go free. That’s what you said.”

  “No, that’s not what I said. Not at all. We’ve got a lot more to work with than fingerprints, Amy. You’d be amazed. For instance, there’s an Oriental carpet in the study. Which means that there’ll be fibers from the carpet on his shoes. It goes on and on. Right now, for instance, we’re running tests on the murder weapon—the knife. We know that it’s got the victim’s blood type on it, but that’s not enough. He was apparently wearing pajamas, when he was killed. So we’ll be looking for fibers of the pajamas, mixed with the blood. And, incidentally, the knife was found with the loot. It was part of the loot, in fact. And that’s another—”

  “Part of the loot? What d’you mean, part of the loot? Do you mean—?” Momentarily she broke off. Then, sitting rigidly in the elegant brocade chair, hands knuckle-white now, she spoke in a low, hushed voice, as if she were compelled to ask a question but dreaded to know the answer: “Do you mean the knife was stolen from—from Mr. Haney?”

  Hastings let a long, deliberate beat pass as he looked at her steadily.

  Mr. Haney, she’d said.

  Did she suspect—know—that the murder weapon had come from the victim’s desk?

  If she knew, how did she know? According to standard procedures, a description of the weapon had been kept from the media. Even the manner of death had been carefully withheld.

  “You know about the knife.” He spoke quietly, as a confidant might speak.

  “Is it—?” The pink tongue-tip circled her lips. “Is it the—the dagger he kept on his—his desk?”

  Slowly, solemnly, he nodded. “The Moroccan dagger. Yes.”

  “But—but—” Suddenly she got up, stood poised before him, as if to run away, escape. “But that—that’s not right. That’s—” She began to shake her head. “That’s wrong.”

  “Wrong? Why?”

  “Because I—I handled that, on Friday. So, if you take my fingerprints, you’ll—” Breaking off, she began to shake her head. Now she was backing away from him. One step. Two steps. With every movement, every gesture, every facial expression, she was revealing a mounting terror.

  A terror of what?

  He’d come to the Miller house intending to double-check a few details, confirm a few tracks on a spool of magnetic tape. But he’d discovered—what?

  Also rising to his feet, Hastings insti
nctively drew closer to her, as if to help her, support her. As a friend, not an enemy.

  “Tell me what happened, Amy. It’s the only way. Believe me.”

  Eyes wide, mouth distended, lips drawn back across clenched teeth, she shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “If they find out, they’ll kill me. He will, especially. He’ll kill me.”

  “Who? Your father?”

  She nodded. Then, once again, she began desperately shaking her head as her eyes fled to the door. Was she involuntarily looking at the only way out? Or was she listening for the front door to open?

  “If you’ll tell me,” he promised, “I’ll see what I can do to help you. It’s the only thing to do. If you cooperate, it’s easier. Always.”

  Bitterly, her eyes hardened, her voice sharpened. “You say that now—until you get what you want.”

  Slowly, silently, he spread his hands. “You’ve got to trust me, Amy. You don’t have a choice. After what you’ve already said, you’ve got to tell me the rest of it, don’t you see that? Otherwise, I’ve got to take you downtown. They’ll drag it out of you, downtown. Believe me.”

  Suddenly, as if her strength had failed, she sank back against the arm of the chair. Her body was slack, her hands were listless on her thighs. As Hastings resumed his seat on the sofa, she began speaking in a low, half-choked voice:

  “It was his idea,” she muttered, staring fixedly down at a point just in front of Hastings’ feet. “It was always his idea, right from the first, right from the first time he drove me home. That was six months ago. Maybe more.”

  Comprehending, Hastings tried to help: “Haney made—advances.”

  Timidly now, she briefly raised her eyes to his. “How’d you know?”

  He shrugged, then said, “It happens, Amy. I know it happens. A lot. And James Haney—” He shook his head. “I know about him. Or, anyhow, I’m learning.”

  “I went along with it, though.” Bitterly, she shook her head. “I knew what he was after. And—” She bit her lip, stifled a harsh, wracking sob. Now she looked again toward the archway leading to the front hallway. “He’ll be home pretty soon. My father. There’s a football game. He’ll be home, to watch it.”