Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Do you—” He hesitated. “Do you feel like talking about it—about what happened to James?”

  Briefly appraising, she glanced at him, plainly deciding what to tell him—and what not to tell. “You met James—what—once?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’d you think of him?”

  He’d thought she might ask the question. He’d given his answer. considerable thought: “From what I saw of him, I didn’t think he was the kind of a man who would be good for you, or for Maxine, either. I thought he was probably a fascinating man to know. People on a powertrip are usually fascinating, I’ve discovered. But I don’t think they make very good husbands.”

  Acknowledging the truth of what he’d said, her smile was bitter. “You’re smart, David. You really are. I always forget how smart you are, how sensitive to people.”

  He made no reply, and they drove for a time in silence. Occasionally they glanced at each other, keeping companionable contact. He sensed that she’d consciously given him an opening, an invitation to ask the questions she yearned to answer. But he must be cautious. And he must be kind. He must begin slowly, carefully: “You said on the phone that you’d made a mistake. I didn’t understand what you meant.”

  She looked at him for a long, searching moment, then returned her gaze to the road ahead as she guided the Mercedes skillfully through the freeway traffic. They were drawing closer to the city now; the lights of San Francisco outlined the dark hills rising before them like carelessly scattered jewels. Watching her, he sensed that, yes, she would tell him her secret. Confirming it, she began speaking in a low, exhausted monotone, as if she were in the cubicle of a confessional:

  “This is the second time I’ve made this trip, down to the airport. Last night I came to pick up my mother. And all the way down, driving to meet her plane, it seemed that I could tell her what really happened Friday. Or, anyhow, what I think really happened. But then—” Momentarily she broke off, deeply sighing. “But then, as soon as we started talking, I realized that I couldn’t do it, couldn’t tell her. It was a real—” She searched for the word. “It was a real defeat. Because I realized that, if I couldn’t tell her, then I couldn’t tell anyone. Because I don’t have any real friends, you see. I’ve only lived in San Francisco for three years, and it takes longer than that to make a friend. I know that, now. I meet people for lunch, or meet them for tennis, or drink with them at parties. But that’s all there is to it. I’m thirty-six, and the truth is, I don’t have any real friends. My father is dead. And John Allingham, my favorite stepfather, he’s dead, too. I could’ve told him.” As if to explain, or apologize, she looked at David, saying, “He died before you and I got married. You never met him.”

  Silently, he nodded.

  “And so that left my mother. And when I realized, driving along this same freeway last night, that if I couldn’t tell, then—” As her voice suddenly thickened, she broke off, shaking her head and wiping her eyes with stiff fingers. It was a harsh gesture. Not pretty, not ladylike. Not at all like Katherine.

  “You can tell me, Katherine.”

  She glanced at him again: a long, searching look. Then, quietly, she asked, “When do you go into rehearsal on the TV series?”

  “In six weeks. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Another silence settled between them before he said, “Tell me what happened, Katherine. You’ll feel better for it.”

  Her manner suggested that his words hadn’t registered. As if she were continuing some previous conversation, imperfectly remembered, her manner was tentative as she began to speak:

  “Even before we got married, I knew James was—kinky. He was always—you know—suggesting fun and games, in bed. And some of it I went along with, there’s no use saying I didn’t. He was—like you just said—he was an exciting man. He had an—energy. You said that, too. Men like him, power-hungry men, there’s something fascinating about them, for a woman. And, besides that—” She looked at him briefly, infinitely apologetic. “Besides that, he was rich. If I’m honest with myself, honest with you, I’ve got to admit that the money made a difference. A big difference, actually.”

  He smiled. “Considering that we were always broke, that’s not so surprising.”

  She smiled in acknowledgment, then continued speaking in the same tentative voice: “After we got married, though, that’s when he started to change. He was forty when we got married. He’d been married before. Maybe he felt his sexuality slipping away, I don’t know. But whatever it was, he started getting kinky. First it was just the—you know—the variation, the positions. But then he got into other things—games, props, things like that. And once he started, he couldn’t stop. It was like he was gathering momentum, like he couldn’t help himself, even if he’d wanted to do it. He was insatiable. The more of everything he got, the more he had to have. And the incredible thing was that the same thing was happening in his business. He’d started to get some real power. And the more power he got, the more he had to have. And, God, it worked. People—politicians—started consulting him before they made decisions, not afterwards. He started manipulating them. And they let him do it, that’s what’ so unbelievable. He became more arrogant, too. And, always, the tempo got faster.”

  “It sounds like he would’ve wound himself up until something finally broke, like a spring.”

  She nodded. “That’s right. That’s the way I used to feel, that it was just a matter of time.”

  “Did he do drugs?”

  “Never drugs, except for snorting coke a few times, to see what it was like. But he started drinking more, this last year. He didn’t drink every day. He was too smart for that. But when he’d start on his sex fantasies, he’d drink. A lot.”

  “Was he drunk Friday?”

  “I’m sure he’d been drinking. He always did.”

  “What happened Friday night, Katherine?” As he asked the question, he saw the City Limits sign flash by. Their time together in the privacy of the car could be running out. “You still haven’t told me.”

  “We’d gone out—separately. As usual. He almost always went to the singles bars. I went to dinner at a—friend’s. His name is Jeff Wade.” As if to apologize, she looked at him quickly, then looked away. “When I got home, James’ car was in the garage. And, for some reason, I sensed that something was wrong, even before I—I found him. He was lying at the foot of the stairway. And he was—” She swallowed, lifted her chin, finally was able to say, “He was dead. He’d been knifed—slashed. The knife—his knife, that he always kept on his desk—was beside him. And right away, I knew what’d happened. I knew it as clearly as if I’d been there, watching.”

  Aware of his own rising tension, David sat silently, closely watching her face as she went on, speaking in a dull, dogged monotone:

  “He’d come home, and gone upstairs, and gotten into his pajamas. Then he went down to the study. Amy Miller was there, waiting for him. She’s sixteen, and she’s got a fantastic body. She lets—let—James play around with her. It’s one of his little sex games that he concocted. And they used a knife, the two of them. James had a thing about knives. He’s got five of them, ceremonial knives, around the house. He—he wanted me to do it with him, play the knife game.”

  “What kind of a game do you mean?”

  “It’s part of playing with the limits, that’s as close as I can come. It’s like, you know, snuff films. For these people, people like James, kinky sex, sadomasochism, things like that, they’re never enough. There’s got to be more—always. And the more they get, the more they need.”

  “So this girl, Amy, she killed him.”

  “She probably didn’t mean to do it. I don’t think that. I just think it went too far.”

  “Did Amy Miller admit this to you?”

  “No, she didn’t. She was gone when I came home. But I know what they did, she and James. And I know what happened. I know. You—you can’t understand what James was like, the kinds of things
he did, this last year. And part of the kicks he got was telling me what he did, exactly what he did, with other women. I guess it’s part of the thrill, once you go over a certain line. It’s the talking that gets them off, people like James. Sometimes the talking seems more important to them than the actual sex.”

  “Why didn’t you leave him, for God’s sake?”

  “I would’ve. I intended to. But, God, I suddenly began to feel like such a failure. Like I’d screwed up my life completely—my life, and Maxine’s life, too. And seeing my mother, that made the feeling all the worse. Because I’m repeating her pattern, don’t you see? All this time, I thought I was so different from her. But I’m not. I’m no different at all. That’s what I realized last night, how similar my life is to hers, and how much I hate it. I—I feel ashamed. I can’t remember feeling like that, ever before.”

  “You’ve never given yourself a chance, Katherine. Don’t you see that? You and Richard, you were probably too young to get married. You just slid into it, I think—went from being the beautiful young couple on campus to being the beautiful young married couple without realizing that there’s more to it than that. More work, more sweat. And Richard was an instant success, too, in his business. Which probably didn’t help.”

  Slowly, somberly, she nodded. Then, smiling sadly as she looked at him, she said, “You’ve figured out about Richard and me, David, What about you and me? Why’d we get married?”

  Responding to the sad smile, he spoke quietly: “I think we were scared. You were thirty, and I was thirty-five. You were tired of the game, and so was I. Neither of our lives was going anywhere, and we were getting desperate. Hollywood has that effect, you know. If you’re feeling desperate, and you see so many desperate people around you, it’s like looking into a mirror. Constantly. So we decided to get married.” With his eyes straight ahead, he let a long moment of silence pass before he said softly, “It might’ve worked, too. If we’d tried just a little harder.”

  He heard her laugh: a harsh, resigned sound. “You tried, David. You tried. Don’t you know that? God—” She shook her head. “You’re such a pushover. I always used to wonder how you survived, down in Hollywood. You never blame anyone else for whatever happens. You always—” She broke off, shook her head again, then said, “Sure, it might’ve worked. You’re a kind, decent, loving man. I’ve never known a better person than you. But you never made any money. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see what happened? I got sick of not having any money, it’s just as simple as that, David. So I started seeing James, while we were still married. I never slept with him. Never. It was—even then—it was a head trip with him, I suppose. We’d talk about making love, just talk. But I went along with him. Because he had what I wanted. Don’t you see that, for God’s sake? He had—”

  “Katherine, this isn’t the time to—”

  Harshly, she interrupted him, insisting on her confession: “He had money. And that’s what I wanted. It was the same when I married Richard, really. He had connections, good family connections. I knew he’d make a lot of money, and he did. And I married James because he had a lot of money. Which is exactly what my mother did, the last two times she got married. And, God, how I hated her for it. I was six years old when she divorced my father. He never made any money, either. He was a salesman, a small-time salesman. All his life, he was going to make a big score, always going to get a piece of the business. But it never happened. Nobody took him seriously enough, I guess. Or maybe he wasn’t tough enough, like you. I guess he was pretty soft, really. But, God, I loved him, especially when I was little. I always remember that—” Suddenly her voice caught. In the fitful light from oncoming headlights, her eyes were shining. Now, noisily, she snuffled.

  “There’s some Kleenex in the glove compartment. Get me one, will you?”

  Silently, he handed her the tissue, waited until she blew her nose, then said, “You said on the phone that you made a mistake. You still haven’t told me what you meant.”

  She tucked the Kleenex in an outside pocket of her handbag, sniffed once, experimentally, lifted her chin, then said, “I lied to them. To the police.”

  “How? Why?”

  “I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe it was because I knew what happened. I knew what he’d done to Amy. Because he’d done the same things to me, you see. I knew what he’d done, and I knew what she’d done. And I knew that, if I told the police the truth, told them what happened, they’d arrest her. And I—I just couldn’t see that happen. Even though I hated what she did, I couldn’t let that happen. In one part of my mind, I was thinking of the shame I’d feel if she was arrested, and the story came out. So, almost without thinking about it, I decided I’d make it look like someone else did it—a burglar. I got a sack from the kitchen, and I went into the study, and I took some things: some mementos, and a checkbook, and his pistol, and James’ collection of antique gold watches, which was very valuable. I found the sheath for the dagger, too, beside the desk. It’s jeweled, you see. And then I went into the hallway, and I got the dagger, and I put that in the bag, too. Then I went out into the back alley, and walked a block or so, and dumped the sack where I knew it’d be found. I went back to the house, and called the police. When they came, I told them I’d seen a black man, escaping. A stranger. I thought that would end it, that they’d look for him, but wouldn’t find him. But they picked someone up, and put him in a lineup, and asked me to make an identification. And apparently I picked the one they suspected. So now he—he’s in jail.”

  “You’ve got to tell them, Katherine. You’ve got to tell the police exactly what you just told me. There won’t be any problems, if you do that. I promise you, there won’t be any problems.”

  “I know—” She turned the car into Broderick. They were only a few blocks from her house. Soon it would all begin again for her: the terror, the deception, the infinite regret.

  Eight

  CARL MILLER ROSE ABRUPTLY to his feet. He reached for the remote-control unit and silenced the TV sound, leaving James Stewart and Doris Day walking hand-in-hand through a teeming Arab bazaar, soundlessly moving their lips. Sitting on the other end of the sofa, his wife raised peevish eyes. “Now what?” Her voice, too, was peevish.

  “I going upstairs and talk to her.”

  “All right.” Ethel Miller took up her own control unit, brought up the volume, returned her gaze to the screen.

  “Amy—” Miller knocked a second time. “Can I come in?”

  A muffled “Okay” came from inside the bedroom. Pushing open the door, Miller saw his daughter lying on her unmade bed. She was leaning against the flower-printed headboard, a textbook propped on her stomach. She’d taken out her contacts and was wearing the glasses that only her family ever saw. Her blouse was stretched taut; the curved flesh of her breasts was visible between the button gaps.

  Closing the door, Miller took discarded clothes from a chair and tossed them on the foot of the bed. Handling the small bundle of clothing, he was conscious of his reaction to the forbidden feel of her silken undergarments.

  “Who was it that came here before the football game?” he asked. “Was it that detective? Hastings?”

  With her eyes still lowered to the textbook, she made no response. Watching her unfocused eyes, Miller decided to let their silence lengthen. Newly graduated from law school, waiting to take the bar exam, he’d worked as an investigator in the D.A.’s office. He’d soon learned that silence could be an interrogator’s most effective aid. Silence, abetted by guilt.

  Finally she turned down the corner of a page, closed the book, laid it flat on her stomach. She was tightly grasping the book with both hands, as if it offered some substance she desperately needed. The pressure of the book widened the gaps between the buttons, revealed more of her breasts. Behind the thick lenses of the glasses, her eyes were closed.

  Implacably, Miller continued to wait. Now he saw her eyes come open. With obvious effort, she met his gaze directly.

  “Th
at’s right,” she said. “It was him. Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “Did you—” He hesitated. “Did you tell him what he wanted to know?”

  “I told him about Friday. That’s what he wanted to know.”

  “I thought we talked about this, Amy. I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to talk to the police alone, without me.”

  In the silence that followed, he thought she would refuse to answer, refuse to respond. Then, in a low, reluctant voice, she said, “It was like I couldn’t stop, once I started. I just started talking, and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Amy—” He drew the chair closer to her bed, glanced back at the closed door, lowered his voice. “Amy, I don’t understand this. I told you what you had to do, and I told you why. We talked about it. Christ, this isn’t some childhood prank that we’re involved in. Don’t you realize that?”

  With her eyes lowered, she made no response. But, still, her small, desperate hands held tightly to the textbook.

  “Will you promise me not to talk to the police without my being present? You’re sixteen. You’re perfectly within your rights, refusing to talk without a parent present—or a lawyer. I thought you understood that.” With the final sentence, he was aware that his voice had risen to a note of exasperated parental indignation. It was a mistake, he realized. A tactical error.

  Still she made no response.

  “Amy, for God’s sake, say something. You can’t just lie there. This isn’t going to go away, just because you ignore it. And this isn’t something that Daddy can fix. Not unless you help.”

  “What d’you want me to do?” In her voice, he could hear echoes of the past. If he’d spoken indignantly, brusquely, she was speaking plaintively, petulantly. As a child speaks, aggrieved by parental injustice.

  “To begin with, I want you to tell me what you told Hastings.”

  “I told him—” Her momentary pause suggested an evasiveness, confirmed by her furtive sidelong glance. “I told him what I told you, last night.”