The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “In the lobby.”

  “Right. On my way.”

  “What we’ve got here,” Friedman said, “is a problem in diplomacy.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say it,” Hastings answered. “I was afraid you were going to arrest both of them—Elton for murder, and Holloway as an accessory.”

  “God …” Wishfully thinking, Friedman shook his head. “Wouldn’t that be something? Just think about it …” Seated beside Hastings on a velvet sofa, staring reflectively at the main bank of the hotel’s elevators, Friedman avidly touched his upper lip with a small pink tongue tip.

  “I’ve never seen you like this, Pete. You’re—” Hastings broke off, searching for the word. “You’re excited. Actually excited. What is it with you and Holloway?”

  Friedman shifted his stare to the other man’s face. “It may have escaped your notice,” Friedman said stiffly, “but I have certain deep convictions. And one of those convictions is that people like Holloway are evil. They’re …” He frowned, also searching. “They’re blasphemers.”

  “Well,” Hastings replied, “if you’re doing to arrest Elton Holloway for the murder of Amy MacFarland, you’re going to have to get on it. Today’s Wednesday. The service is Sunday, at the Cow Palace. By Monday, they’ll be back in Angeles. All of them.”

  “The first thing we’ve got to do, obviously, is talk to Elton. Where is he, do you know?”

  “As far as I know, he’s upstairs. The Holloway people have the whole eleventh floor. Elton’s been in and out three times since we started surveillance.”

  “Has anyone talked to him yet? Friedman asked.

  “No. I didn’t want to spook him.”

  “Are these the elevators they use?”

  “Mostly, I think. There’re other exits, though. They’re covered. We’ve got seven men here.”

  Thoughtfully, Friedman nodded. With the first rush of enthusiasm gone, the time for calculation had come. “What we’ve got to do,” he said, “is develop some physical evidence. How thorough were the lab guys at the scene?”

  Hastings shrugged. “As far as I knew—and they knew—we were just talking about another hooker who was trying to earn a little extra money doing the snuff thing. So they just hit the high spots, with the fingerprints. They didn’t do any sweepings, nothing like that.”

  “Well,” Friedman said, “I sent them back. They’re over there right now, giving it the full-court press. Meanwhile, we’ve got to figure out how to get a set of Elton’s fingerprints.”

  “We could always ask him.”

  “Has Holloway got his own security?”

  “You bet he has,” Hastings answered. “Lots of it. They’ve got the whole eleventh floor sealed off. Tight.”

  “So if we’re going to interrogate Elton in his room,” Friedman mused, “we’re going to need warrants.”

  “No question.”

  “Has anyone tried to strike up a conversation with him? You know—follow him to a bar, buy him a drink, like that?”

  Impatiently, Hastings sighed. “I’ve already told you that I wanted to talk to you before we made any contact with him.”

  “I wonder,” Friedman said thoughtfully, “whether we should touch base with the chief on this.”

  “If we do that, we might as well call a news conference.”

  “If we arrest Elton Holloway, it’ll be the same as calling a news conference. A nationwide news conference.”

  “Well,” Hastings said, “you decide. You want to touch base with Dwyer, I’ll go along. Whatever you say.”

  Sitting pear-shaped on the high-styled sofa, Friedman’s broad, swarthy face settled again into its accustomed inscrutability. Heavily lidded brown eyes staring impassively into the middle distance, Friedman let a long, thoughtful silence pass. Then: “Are there other possibilities for physical evidence? Besides fingerprints?”

  “There’s the weapon—a piece of rope, probably. There’re marks on her throat.”

  Friedman grunted. “Is that all?”

  Also grunting, Hastings said, “Unless he dropped a handkerchief with his initials, that’s all.”

  “Then we’ve got to talk to him. There’s no other way. We’ve got to see how he reacts, see whether we have a chance of getting warrants. Is he upstairs, you say?”

  “As far as I know, he’s upstairs. Holloway and his wife left a couple of hours ago—in separate limos. The wife came back about an hour ago. She’s upstairs. Everywhere she goes, she has a woman with her. And Holloway, of course, has people with him all the time. It’s like they’re royalty.”

  “Why don’t you go up alone?” Friedman said. “Tell Elton that—you know—we’re checking out a mugging, or something, that he might’ve witnessed. Meanwhile, I’ll see if he’s ever been fingerprinted, get the request in the computer, anyhow. Then I’ll tell Canelli to set it up so we can follow him to a restaurant or a bar, whatever, see if we can get a glass that he handled.”

  “You should call Walter Draper, in Washington. The FBI could have his prints in their computer.”

  “Right.” Friedman said it reluctantly. For as long as Hastings could remember, Friedman had been at odds with the FBI.

  “What about a search warrant? Do you think there’s a chance?”

  Friedman shook his head. “With what we’ve got now—a pimp’s identification—considering who’s involved, I don’t think we’ve got a prayer.”

  “You’re probably right.” Hastings got to his feet. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. See you here, afterward?”

  “Right.”

  10

  AS HASTINGS PULLED OPEN the stairwell door, he slipped his shield case from his pocket. Yes, there he was: a big, thick-necked, blank-eyed man dressed in a blue blazer, rising from a small settee and moving to block Hastings’s further progress down the corridor. In his left ear, the security man wore a tiny surveillance earphone.

  “Help you?”

  As Hastings showed his shield, he was aware that he was smiling: a flat, fake salesman’s smile. Signifying what? Selling what? Why did he feel uncomfortable, as nervous as a rookie detective on his first case? The answer, of course, was the opulence that surrounded him: the crystal chandeliers, the richly flocked wallpaper, the small, delicately carved chairs and tables lining the corridor walls, the thick carpet underfoot, the arched ceiling above. Police business wasn’t transacted here, in a hallway like this. It was in places like the Bayside Hotel that a policeman belonged. Not here.

  “Yes, I—ah—I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. I’d like to speak to Elton Holloway.”

  The man in the blue blazer didn’t smile in return; his expression remained stolidly unchanged. “Have you talked to Mr. Mitchell?” It was a polite question, firmly asked.

  “Mr. Mitchell?”

  “Lloyd Mitchell. Mr. Holloway’s chief of security.”

  “Is he here?” Expectantly, Hastings looked down the corridor.

  “No, sir. He’s with Mr. Holloway. They’re due back in—” The security man pushed back a gleaming white cuff, consulted a sparkling gold wristwatch. “—in about an hour and a half.”

  “Sorry,” Hastings said, moving a half step forward. “I can’t wait that long. If you’ll just tell me what room Elton Holloway’s in, I’ll ask him a few questions, and be on my way. It’s about a street crime, last night, just a few blocks away. We’re looking for witnesses.”

  The other man didn’t move, didn’t retreat, even a quarter step. And, beyond him, Hastings saw another security man coming toward them—an older, more determined security man, also dressed in a blue blazer, white shirt, gray flannel trousers, carefully polished black shoes. Idly, Hastings wondered whether men like these had permits to carry guns.

  “Yes, what is it?” the second man asked. It was a harsh, impatient question. In reply, Hastings showed the shield, repeated the story. As he finished, he heard a nearby door open and close behind him. In unison, both security men looked beyond Hastings, tracking the sound. Watchi
ng their expressions change, Hastings realized that someone important had appeared. Turning, he saw a young woman and two small children. All three were dressed in sweaters and jeans. The woman was in her early thirties: slim, full-breasted, long-legged. Her chestnut hair was worn loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were calm, the set of her body was bold, the tilt of her chin was assertive. Her features were good, neither beautiful nor displeasing. Her expression was inquiring as she looked at the two security men—and frankly appraising, woman to man, as she looked at Hastings. When she saw the gold shield, she frowned.

  As if an offstage director had called for a freeze in the action, no one moved or spoke. Then the woman said simply, “Yes?”

  Even though the single word was spoken softly, it nevertheless established her dominance over the two security men. Remembering Friedman’s rundown of the Holloway family, Hastings realized that the woman must be Holloway’s daughter. The children, a girl and a boy, were doubtless the grandchildren. As the older of the two security men explained the situation, the two children held to their mother’s hands while they stared at the gold shield. On impulse, Hastings tilted the shield to a better angle for the children, and smiled down at them. Neither returned his smile.

  While the security man talked, the woman kept her eyes on his face. When he finished, she stood silently for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally, as if she’d come to a decision, she turned to face Hastings squarely.

  “I’m Gloria Holloway,” she said, still speaking with quiet, measured authority. “Elton’s sister. Maybe I can help you.” She bent down, disengaged her hands, spoke to the children: “You go to Grandma’s room. I’ll be there in a few minutes, after I’ve talked to this gentleman. Ask Grandma if she wants to go with us to Fisherman’s Wharf. Tell her we’re going to ride the cable car, so she should wear slacks.”

  The girl turned obediently away, but the boy stood his ground, staring up at Hastings. As he returned the stare, Hastings knew what the boy would ask:

  “Can I see your gun?”

  Smiling, Hastings shook his head. “Not now. Maybe sometime later, but not now. What’s your name?”

  “James. What’s yours?”

  “Frank. Frank Hastings. How old are you?”

  “Almost eight.”

  “Do you sing with your grandfather on Sundays?”

  Gravely, the boy nodded. It was a businesslike nod, as if he’d abruptly lost his innocence. “Did you ever see me? We’re on TV every Sunday.” The question, too, was businesslike.

  “I—ah—”

  “James, you go see Grandma.” Gloria Holloway turned the child down the hallway after his sister, sending him on his way with a firm, friendly pat on the butt.

  “Saved,” Hastings said, smiling at her. “Thanks.”

  Not returning the smile, she gestured to a nearby door, at the same time nodding dismissal to the two security men. The older of the two hesitated, plainly doubtful that the woman had made the right decision. Ignoring the man’s misgivings, she opened her door, preceded Hastings into a lavishly decorated sitting room. As Hastings followed, his eyes dropped appreciatively to the woman’s buttocks, provocatively moving beneath her tight blue jeans. How would Austin Holloway’s daughter react if she were pinched? What would she be like in bed? Would she take the initiative, as she was doing now?

  She sat at one end of a sofa, and invited him with a gesture to sit at the other end. As he twisted on the sofa to face her, he realized that he had no idea how to begin. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for this, questioning the sister of a serial murder suspect, both of them children of a man who owned communications satellites and dined with presidents.

  As if she’d discovered his discomfort, he thought he could see amusement in her eyes as she made no effort to speak, but simply waited for him to begin:

  “This is quite an operation you’ve got here,” he ventured. Then, recognizing the false start, he said, “I mean, it’s obviously a big deal, putting on your—” He broke off. What was it, that they put on, every Sunday? A performance? A revival meeting? A religious service?

  The amusement in her eyes had deepened. Sitting in her expensive suite, she was faintly smiling, watching him with tolerant patience. Her eyes, he noticed, were a deep violet. Her mouth was expressive—inviting. With her back slightly arched, her breasts were generously offered for his appraisal. Her legs were crossed, revealing taut thighs beneath the faded denim of her designer jeans. She sat with one arm resting along the top of the sofa, the fingers within inches of his shoulder. Completely at ease, she was waiting for him to muddle through: “I don’t really have to take any of your time. I mean, you were obviously going out with your children. So if you’ll just put me in touch with your brother—Elton—I won’t bother you anymore.”

  “It’s no bother. Elton …” She hesitated. “He’s very shy. You wouldn’t know it to hear him sing, but he’s actually very reluctant to meet people—strangers, anyhow.”

  “Still, I’ve got to talk to him.” He broke off, dropped his voice, deliberately hardened his gaze. “It’s a police matter. So one way or the other, I’ve got to talk with him.”

  Her gaze, too, hardened. Her voice, too, dropped as she said, “What do you mean, exactly, when you say ‘one way or the other’? That sounds like a threat.”

  “It’s not a threat. I’m simply telling you that I’ve got to talk to him. I hope he’ll agree to see me. If not, then—” Meaningfully, he shrugged.

  “Then what?” she asked softly. “What would happen if he didn’t agree?”

  “If he won’t talk to me—now—then I’d come back later, with another man. We’d demand that he talk to us—here. If he refused, then we’d take him downtown for questioning.”

  “This is serious.” As she spoke, she let her eyes wander thoughtfully away, finally fixing on a large plate glass window that offered a spectacular view of San Francisco Bay. She sat motionless, staring at her expensive view. Then, softly, she said, “Donald—the security man—said you wanted to question Elton about something he might’ve seen last night.” Another moment of calculating silence passed. Then, deliberately, the violet eyes returned to meet his squarely.

  “What was it that he was supposed to have seen?”

  “I’m investigating a crime that was committed about ten o’clock last night, just a few blocks from here. We think your brother has some information that could help us.”

  “What kind of information, exactly?”

  Hastings drew a deep breath. “I’d rather discuss that with Elton, Miss—Ms.—Holloway.”

  The woman, too, drew a deep, measured breath. This was the decisive moment, the make-or-break point that, sooner or later, every interrogation pivoted on. The maneuvering, the tactical half truths, the outright lies, were behind them. Now they were playing for keeps, everything pushed into the pot.

  “I gather,” she said, “that you aren’t a particular fan of my father’s—of TV evangelism.”

  “Until now,” Hastings answered, “I never thought much about it.”

  “Well,” she said, “it’s pretty much a business, if you want to know the truth. Big business. You’re obviously an intelligent man. If you haven’t already figured out what Austin Holloway is all about, you certainly will before you’re finished. And the truth is, men like my father are like rock stars. They have a unique talent. My father would call it a God-given talent. And he’s right, of course—depending on how you define God.” She spoke in a flat, uninflected voice. The message: they weren’t discussing God. This was business. Serious business.

  “But the point is,” she said, “people like my father—and Mick Jagger, and Elvis Presley, and all the rest of them—they’re people who, when they’re on stage, make enormous sums of money. My father generates more money—more capital flow—than a lot of major businesses that employ thousands of people. Which means that people like my father need managers. They need people to manage the money they generate. And they need peop
le to manage them personally. They need to be protected, people like my father. Because if he should go into a depression, let’s say—if he botched the job on Sundays, in front of the cameras—then the money would begin drying up. Do you see?”

  Hastings nodded. “Of course.”

  “Okay—” Now she leaned forward. Her eyes had sharpened. On the back of the sofa, her fingers were tightening. The curve of her torso was drawing taut. Gloria Holloway was about to dictate terms:

  “Now, in this organization—call it Austin Holloway, Incorporated—there’re two people who manage things. There’s Herbert Flournoy, who makes most of the business decisions. And then—” Another pause, for emphasis. “And then there’s me. What Herbert doesn’t take care of, I do.”

  “Flournoy manages the business end and you manage your father.”

  Ruefully, she smiled. “I wouldn’t say anyone manages my father. Just the opposite, in fact. But I act as a buffer, keep him insulated from petty annoyances. Like this situation, for instance.” Now the smile widened disarmingly, focused more personally on him. “It would distract my father if he knew that the police were questioning Elton. And we simply can’t afford to have Austin Holloway distracted. It’s as simple as that.”

  “You’re also protecting Elton. You’re the guardian of the gates. Is that it?”

  “That’s it,” she answered evenly. The two words, spoken so softly, nevertheless conveyed an aura of utter confidence that could only derive, Hastings knew, from the certainty that vast power awaited simply the touch of a forefinger on a phone console. Then, plainly to soften the stark impact of the same two words, she offered: “Besides, Elton is …” She searched for the phrase. “He’s fragile. Emotionally fragile.”

  As he looked at her, Hastings let a long, calculated silence lengthen before he said quietly, “I’ve got to talk to your brother, Miss Holloway. There’s no other way. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is.”

  “But why? Because he happened to see someone getting mugged? Is that it?”