Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Just tell me what happened, Amy. Just start at the beginning, and tell me what happened. It’s quicker, that way. Quicker, and easier. Believe me.”

  “God—” She shook her head again, blindly, this time. “He made it all seem so easy, so goddam easy. And it was easy, too. That’s the terrible part. But, all the time, I knew I was taking a chance. Except that I wouldn’t let myself think about what could happen. I remember when I was little, and I’d do something wrong. I’d lie in bed, and I’d think that if I thought about how good I was, then no one would know what I’d done wrong.” Again staring down at the floor, she fell silent.

  “So you started fooling around.” He spoke quietly, tentatively.

  “Well—” The bitter smile deepened. Her voice sharpened, harsher now. “Well, that depends on what you mean by fooling around. I mean, we never actually made it—never, you know, had intercourse. That’s where the knife came in, see. That’s how he was so—so clever, so goddam clever. I was thinking, yesterday, that he’d probably done it before, with other girls. I bet he’d done it with lots of girls, before he did it to me.”

  “Amy, I don’t understand what you mean, when you talk about the knife.” He smiled. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Well, that’s what he did, see. That’s how he worked it. Not the first time, though. That time he just—you know—kissed me, and sort of put his hands on me, but just only lightly. And all the time, he was whispering. It was like poetry, I remember, the way he’d whisper. I’d never heard anything like it, the things he said.”

  “That was in the car, you say. That first time.”

  She nodded. “In the car. Right. But then—it was only the next week—I sat for them again. And it was just like Friday night, that time. I mean, I went there about six-thirty, and Mrs. Haney was home, with Maxine. Mr. Haney wasn’t there. He didn’t come home, not until later, after Maxine went to sleep. And I was asleep, too. I’d gone to sleep in the study, on the couch. And the next thing I knew, he was beside me. He was kneeling beside the couch. He was whispering to me, like he’d done before, in the car. He was whispering, and he was kissing me, and he—” She fell silent. With her forefinger, over and over, she was tracing a pattern on the brocaded arm of her chair. Her eyes were fixed on the compulsively moving forefinger. Then, hesitantly, she cleared her throat. “He had his hands on me. You know—” Tentatively, she raised her eyes. Silently, somberly, Hastings nodded. Yes, he knew. She nodded, too. Then, clearing her throat and once more dropping her eyes, she began speaking again.

  “It was—you know—pretty far-out, that first time. I mean I woke up, and there he was, with his hands on me. And it—you know—it felt good, what he was doing. He was gentle, too. Always, he was gentle. So, that first time, I just sort of pretended that I was half asleep. And I let him do whatever he wanted to do, as long as he didn’t—you know—” She raised her eyes, searched his face. It was a shy, timid overture, the ageless entreaty of childhood, searching for approval, for forgiveness.

  “It’s called ‘penetration,’” Hastings answered, his voice as somber as hers. “That’s the legal term.”

  Gravely, she nodded. “I know. I know that’s what they call it.”

  He waited for her to finally take up the story again:

  “So that’s all that happened, that first night. It just lasted for maybe fifteen minutes, or maybe a half-hour. And then I remember that he got up from the couch, and got himself—you know—together. He combed his hair, I remember. Very carefully, in front of the mirror, even though it was dark. And, in a minute or two, it was like nothing had happened. I mean, that’s the way he acted, like nothing happened. So then, when he’d finished getting himself together, he unlocked the study door. And then he took out his wallet, and he gave me a fifty-dollar bill. And he said I could leave, that he’d see me to the door. It was all very cool—very polite.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  “Oh, sure. He was always half bombed, those nights. Always.” She spoke casually now, as if the worst was over.

  “So after that,” Hastings said, “it became a regular thing. Is that it?”

  She nodded. Then, very softly, she said, “It got so I’d look forward to it. I mean—you know—what we did. And—” She sighed. “—and the fifty dollars. I got so I looked forward to that, too. Except for when my grandmother gave me a check for a hundred dollars last Christmas, that’s the most money I ever had at one time.”

  “Did you ever—” Hastings hesitated. Then: “Did the two of you get together any other times, except for when you were baby-sitting?”

  “Oh, no.” It was a prim response. “You mean in a motel, something like that?”

  He nodded.

  “No. Never. We just—we always did the same thing. He’d always want things just the same, always the same. Like, I’d always pretend to be asleep, whenever he came in. That was very important, that I pretended to be asleep. And after that first time, he always had to have his pajamas on. It was a routine, like I said. He couldn’t stand to have anything change. I’d hear him drive into the garage. Then I’d hear him go into the living room, to get a drink. After that, he’d go upstairs, to get into his pajamas. Then he’d come back downstairs. I’d hear him come into the study. Then he’d come over to the couch. I’d feel him looking down at me. I’d hear him breathing, and I’d smell the liquor on his breath. Then I’d hear him lock the door, and put his glass down. And then he’d come back to the couch, and kneel down. And then we—we’d start. It was always the same, like I said. The only thing that changed after that second time, when he got into his pajamas first, was the—the—” She licked her lips, looked at him uneasily as she said, “It was the knife. That’s the only thing that changed, the only thing he added.”

  “The Moroccan dagger, you mean.” As he spoke, he was conscious of his own rising excitement, a sudden visceral rush. Was it possible that this beautifully built girl with her teen-age vulnerabilities and her knowing eyes could have committed murder Friday night?

  DAUGHTER OF PROMINENT ATTORNEY

  STABS AFFLUENT LOVE PARTNER

  For the Chronicle, the story would be made in heaven—the Chronicle, and the local TV news programs. Photographers would clamor around the Haney house, the Miller house. Posh Pacific Heights neighbors would be interviewed. At the Hall of Justice, Chief Dwyer would be in constant conference with his public relations assistant, maximizing his media exposure.

  She was nodding. Acknowledging that, yes, she meant the dagger.

  “He added the dagger,” Hastings said, gently prompting her.

  As she answered, her voice sunk to a low, clotted monotone: “Yeah. It was part of what his—you know—his fantasy was, or something. I mean, like I said, he was always really gentle, you know, really poetic. Half the time, I wouldn’t even know what he was saying, not the words, anyhow. It was just like he was, you know, crooning in my ear. But I know he always had a fantasy about how pure it was. Or—” She frowned. “Not pure, exactly. But he’d always keep saying that he’d never hurt me. He was just, like, opening things up, for me to experience, something like that. I guess it’s because—you know—I’m only sixteen, and maybe he had that in mind. About statutory rape, I mean.

  “So then, one night when he was whispering about how safe I was, how much I could trust him, he reached over to the desk, and got the knife. And he gave it to me, made me take it. He said that the knife was like my weapon, my guarantee that he’d never hurt me. It—it sounds crazy now, I know. Weird. But—” She shrugged. “But it was—you know—exciting, too. Maybe it was like these weird movies, and magazines, and everything, for him. You know, bondage, and sadism, or whatever they call it.”

  “So that’s why your fingerprints were on the knife. Because you handled it, Friday night. With him. Is that it?”

  Eyes downcast, mutely, she nodded.

  “Did you ever actually cut him with the knife? Draw blood?”

  “Oh, no.” Anxiously, sh
e raised her eyes. “No. Never. It wasn’t anything like that.”

  “Tell me what happened Friday night, Amy. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything that happened, and when it happened.”

  “Well, it was just like the—the other times. I mean, nothing was different. Maybe he was drunker than usual, but that’s all. I was in the study, on the couch. I heard the garage door open, and then close. I turned off the TV, and got back on the couch, and pretended to be asleep. So then—” She lifted a listless hand. “Then he came in after a few minutes. And then he—he started in, with his hands.”

  “Had he locked the study door?”

  “Oh, sure. He always locked the door.” It was a matter-of-fact response.

  “Did he give you the knife before he—started?”

  “No. He always waited a little while. It was, you know, a ritual.” As she spoke, she looked at her watch, “It’s two-thirty. I think the football game starts at three. He’ll be home by then.”

  “You say Mr. Haney came home about eleven-thirty.”

  She nodded. “I know, because a movie had just started on TV, after the news.”

  “And you—fooled around for how long?”

  “Maybe an hour. Maybe less. We always, you know, had to think about Mrs. Haney, coming home.”

  “Did that worry him, that Mrs. Haney might come home?”

  “No, it didn’t worry him. But he was, you know, aware of it. I think it was kind of a high for him. Like the knife. You know—” Once more, listlessly, she gestured.

  “Did she ever actually walk in on you?”

  “No. The door was always locked. Like I said.”

  “But was she ever in the house, while the two of you were in the study?”

  “I don’t think so. I think I’d’ve heard the garage door.”

  “She could’ve parked on the street, though, and come in the front door.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose so. But I always figured it was—you know—his problem.”

  “So you stayed until—when? Twelve-thirty?”

  “Just about.”

  “Tell me how you left the house. In detail.”

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

  “From the time you—finished, in the study. Tell me exactly what you did.”

  “Well, he—you know—he paid me, gave me fifty dollars. He always had a fifty-dollar bill in the pocket of his pajamas, that he always wanted me to get out. So then I got myself pulled together. You know—” Her sidelong glance was vaguely coquettish. In reply, Hastings gravely nodded. The time for smiles had passed.

  “So then I—” She shrugged. “I just left.”

  “You left by the front door?”

  “Yes.”

  “You walked home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was someone here when you came home?”

  “My parents were here.”

  “Asleep?”

  She nodded.

  “Did your parents actually speak to you, actually see you when you came home?”

  “No. They were asleep. Like I said. But I knew they were here. My dad was snoring, for one thing.”

  “Do you have any idea what Mr. Haney did after you left the Haney house?”

  Still frowning, she asked, “Did?”

  “Did he go to bed, do you think? Did he go for a walk? Watch TV?”

  “I imagine he went to bed.”

  “Was he in his pajamas when you left him?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Hastings sat silently for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the girl, then glancing at his watch. If she was right, her father would soon be arriving. Was it best to go now, talk to Friedman, decide whether to bring the girl downtown for interrogation? Or should he wait for the father, watch the father’s reactions when he learned that his daughter was, in fact, trading sex for money? Remembering Carl Miller’s bad-mannered arrogance, Hastings was tempted to stay, tempted to give himself the pleasure of witnessing Miller’s inevitable humiliation.

  It was an intriguing idea, but an impractical one. Until he knew more, he should keep the girl fearful of exposure, therefore dependent on him for his silence.

  He rose to his feet, thanked her politely and quickly left the house. As he sat in his car, covertly using a tiny surveillance microphone to call Communications, he saw a dark-green Porsche swing sharply into the Miller driveway. The time was exactly three P.M. Carl Miller had arrived in time for the kickoff.

  Three

  “MAXINE, WILL YOU GET your grandmother some more coffee? I think you’ll have to make another pot.”

  Without responding, without looking at her mother or grandmother, the girl pushed back her chair, rose, left the table. As the door closed and, a moment later, the sound of running water came from the kitchen, Grace Harrington leaned across the small white marble table and spoke in a sotto-whisper: “Maxine is acting very strangely, Katherine. Don’t you think?”

  Holding up a hand for silence, Katherine waited until she heard the sound of music coming from the kitchen radio. Whenever Maxine was working in the kitchen, she always turned on the radio.

  “She’ll be all right,” Katherine answered. “She’s still in shock, from seeing the—the body.”

  “This is Sunday. James was killed Friday night. That’s a long time for someone to be in shock. Especially a child. Children bounce back, you know.”

  Sipping her coffee and looking away, Katherine made no reply. The decorative brass clock on the decorative whitewashed brick of the breakfast room wall read eleven o’clock. Soon thirty-six hours would have elapsed, since the murder.

  Thirty-six hours …

  Years ago, in Los Angeles, she and David had gone to a movie titled Thirty-Six Hours. It had been a psychological thriller. Hornby hour, minute by minute, the camera had followed a psychopath as he stalked a woman through city streets. After the movie, while they’d sipped the mandatory espresso at the mandatory coffeehouse on the Strip, David had told her that it was an “inside” movie, done by a rising young director. They’d only been married for a few months, when they’d seen the movie. Maxine had been five years old, just starting kindergarten. David had been thirty-five; she’d been thirty. David had persuaded himself that, finally, his acting career was about to take off. He’d explained to her—God, how often he’d explained to her—that his face was “setting.” Meaning, in the jargon of the trade, that he would soon be “camera-ready” for leading-man roles. And she’d believed him. For three years, she’d believed him. And supported him too, most of the time.

  Where would she be now, right this moment, if she’d stayed married to David? Not in this small, expensively appointed breakfast room with its glass wall that offered a view of the garden.

  Not sitting rigidly across the table from her mother, whose sharp sidelong glances and probing questions had been steadily, inexorably revealing a growing suspicion.

  Not trying, by word and gesture, to conceal a terror that she could feel growing inside her like some monstrous cancer, some terrible, fatal tumor that only she knew existed.

  But the concealment, the secrecy, would soon become too much to bear. At some point the pain would be revealed, like a negative beneath the surface of developing fluid, slowly coming into focus. The pain—the guilt—would become visible. First they’d see it in her eyes. Then they’d see it in the way she—

  “What about Maxine’s father?” her mother was asking. “Richard. Is he in Europe, did you say?”

  With great effort, she focused on the question. “I told you last night. He works in Europe now.”

  “Because I was thinking,” her mother said, “that you could send her to Richard, for a week or so. The change might be just what she needs.”

  “But there’s school. The school year’s just starting.”

  “Let her take a week or two off school. It won’t hurt her.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she answered shortly.

  Her mother began peevi
shly tapping her sculptured nails on the marble table top. “I always liked Richard. I always thought he’d be successful. He always had drive. A lot of drive.”

  “Meaning that I should have stayed married to him. Is that what you mean?” Deliberately, she let her mother hear the weariness she felt, and the bitterness. Did her mother know what she was saying? Really saying? Did she realize that her entire life was one long, ruthless profit-and-loss calculation?

  She’d been six years old when her parents had gotten divorced. The first time she’d visited her father, he’d taken her to her favorite ice cream parlor, and told her she could order anything she liked. “Pretend I’ve got all the money in the world,” her father had said, suddenly hugging her close as they’d waited in line at the serving counter. “Your mother couldn’t pretend. But maybe you can.”

  Because her attention had been fixed on the listing of ice cream flavors, trying to make them out, she’d only half heard what her father said. But, still with his arm around her shoulders, she felt him trembling. When she looked up into his face, she realized that he was crying. When he saw her eyes fixed on his, he bent down close. She had never forgotten the anguish in his voice as he whispered, “I tried, Katherine. Don’t ever forget it, how hard I tried. Please, don’t ever forget.”

  “Well,” her mother was saying, continuing the conversation, “David was certainly no prize. He’s sweet, I’ll admit it. And, God knows, he’s good-looking. And, personally, I always liked him. I really did. But he’s a—a child, a babe in the woods. He’ll be forty, and still he’ll be waiting for that one big break, that juicy part. And fames—” She shook her head. “From what you say, it must’ve been hard, living with James. I mean, when a husband and a wife start stepping out on each other, openly—” She shrugged again, shook her head again.

  From inside the house Katherine heard the sound of the telephone: a rhythmic, space-age pulsation, another of James’ electronic toys. On the second warbling, the sound ceased. In the kitchen, Maxine was answering. Or perhaps the policewoman, Nancy, was answering, in the study. She’d arrived two hours ago, at nine o’clock. Apologetically, she’d said that she’d been assigned as “inside guard.” She hoped Katherine wouldn’t mind.