She filled two stem glasses, corked the bottle, put it away, then carried the glasses across the room. She moved rhythmically, sensually, swinging her hips and her shoulders. Her head was high, her step was light, yet decisive. Even though Flournoy realized that these visual pleasures weren’t consciously offered to him, he nevertheless welcomed this shared moment, a much needed balm after a long, demanding day.
But when he accepted the glass, and looked for the first time directly into her eyes, he saw the urgency, saw her deep apprehension.
Something had gone wrong.
Perhaps badly wrong.
He watched her sit in a Regency armchair. She drank some of the wine, and placed the glass on the coffee table. Then she leaned back, crossed her legs, gripped both arms of the chair and began to speak:
“While you and my father were out this afternoon, a police lieutenant named Hastings got up here, in the hallway.”
Watching her over the rim of his glass, speculating on the possible connection between a police lieutenant and whatever was disturbing her, Flournoy decided not to respond. Soon, it would all come clear.
“He’s from Homicide. And he’s investigating the murder of a prostitute. It happened last night, just a couple of blocks from here.” As she paused, Flournoy could see the muscles of her throat tighten. He watched her draw a deep, meaningful breath, saw her eyes sharpen, focused on him. As she always did, Gloria delivered the decisive stroke softly, sibilantly:
“He wanted to talk to Elton.”
Flournoy was satisfied with his response, delivered in a voice that was as calm as Gloria’s:
“About the murder, you mean.”
She nodded—once. “That’s right. About the murder.”
“And did he talk with Elton?”
“No. But he’s coming back. Tonight. At nine-thirty, he said.”
“Christ.” Abruptly he drained his glass, then reflexively looked at his watch. The time was twenty minutes to eight. There was no point in asking her why she hadn’t told him when he’d first returned to the hotel—why, in fact, she hadn’t called him in the limo. “Christ!”
“It looks like this is the fourth time it’s happened,” she said. “Milwaukee—Dallas—Pittsburgh—” Still focused sharply on his face, her eyes held steady. Remorselessly steady.
“There was never anything definitive. Nothing to incriminate Elton.”
“There is now, apparently.”
“What d’you mean?” Asking the question, he could clearly hear the tremor of dread in his voice. Could she hear it, too?
“I mean,” she answered, “that the police seem to have evidence against him.”
“Are you sure? Did they tell you about it, this evidence?”
She shook her head. “No. But they wouldn’t. They wouldn’t tell us what they know. Not till they talk to Elton.”
Grimly, Flournoy stared down at his empty glass. Would she offer him a refill, for God’s sake? With everything suddenly in jeopardy, with the whole house of cards teetering, wasn’t she going to refill his glass?
“Any ideas?” she asked.
“First,” he said, “we’ve got to call Harlan, tell him what’s happened, find out where we stand legally. Harlan’s got to come up here. He can be here in three hours. Meanwhile, we keep Elton away from them, from the police. We—” He broke off, drew a ragged breath. Was he revealing a momentary indecision, faltering in front of Austin’s daughter? Before he realized that he was going to say it, he heard himself complaining: “You should’ve gotten in touch, Gloria. Sooner. You should’ve gotten on the mobile phone. If they show up here in an hour and a half, with a warrant, do you realize what could happen? Have you any idea?”
Ignoring the complaint, she said, “We’ve got to think beyond now, today. This has been coming on for a long time, trouble like this. We’ve been ignoring it, putting our heads in the sand.”
“The first thing to do is keep Elton away from the police. Maybe we should put him on a plane to Los Angeles. Now. Right now. Right this minute. We’ve got to get him in a car. Not a limo, but a car. We’ve got to get him to the airport. There’re flights leaving every half hour for Los Angeles. Until midnight, there’re flights leaving every half hour.” As he said it, he could feel certainty returning, his habitual assurance, projecting clear, calm command. Yes, his lapse had only been momentary, a mere aberration. To drive home his demand, he nodded decisively. “Yes, that’ll be the best. I’ll tell Mitchell, tell him to arrange it. He can assign two men, to make sure Elton gets on the airplane. And Mitchell can arrange to have him met in Los Angeles, taken to Harlan, immediately.” Reviewing the plan, he lapsed into silence. Then, vehemently, he nodded, repeating: “Yes, that’s best, the best plan. So we won’t have to get Harlan up here, after all. We’ll ship Elton to Harlan, let Harlan work it out. Then we can—” Once more he broke off, this time pointing to the empty glass. “Have you got some bourbon—bourbon and water?”
Silently, Gloria rose, took the empty glass to the bar, made the drink, placed it in front of him, resumed her seat. In her eyes, he saw the stillness of quiet contempt.
“What about Dad?” she said. “What do we tell him? What excuse’ll we give him, for Elton not being there on Sunday, onstage?”
He drank half the highball, then said, “First we’ve got to decide between ourselves, you and I, what we think is best. Then we’ll tell Austin what we think, what we recommend. As always.”
For a moment she made no reply, gave no sign that she’d heard. Instead, she sat motionless, her wine forgotten, silently staring at him. Then, speaking in a slow, measured voice, she said, “What about telling Dad the truth? Just the simple truth?”
“Gloria, we can’t do that now. Tomorrow Austin’s got one of the most important meetings of his life. You know that. And then there’s Sunday. And this city, too. It’s—”
“There’s always the next Sunday, Herbert. You know that. And I know it, too. That’s what this is all about, really—a lifetime of Sundays.” She still spoke slowly, with infinite reluctance. Then: “We arrived here Monday afternoon. Last night—Tuesday—Elton went out for a while, alone. He was gone from nine forty-five till about ten-thirty. I checked with our people, Mitchell’s men. That’s what they told me. Today, a detective arrives. He tells me a whore was murdered, when Elton was out. And he always—”
“We’re not sure that—”
“We are sure, Herbert,” she interrupted fiercely. “You and I, we’re sure. We know what happened. We know. And we know this same thing happened in Milwaukee, and Pittsburgh, and Dallas. Except that the police didn’t come then. But it was in the papers, on the radio, whatever. It happened, for God’s sake. It happened three times, at least. We get into town, and a prostitute is murdered—strangled. And Elton’s out when they’re strangled. He’s always unaccounted for when they’re killed. And he’s always—”
“But that’s not proof,” he protested. “That’s—”
She raised a furious hand, commanding his instant silence. Her eyes were fierce, her voice was harsh, half choked with a rush of sudden anger. “I’m not talking about proof, Herbert: I’m talking about the truth. I’m talking about what happened—and what will happen. And I’m also talking about the whores that’ve been dying in Los Angeles the last year. I’m talking about the whores who’ve been strangled while Elton’s been—”
“Gloria, this is speculation, don’t you see that? There’s nothing to connect Elton to any of this. It could be a—a stagehand, a cameraman, that’s killing these women. Don’t you—”
“Elton is crazy, Herbert. He’s a fucking maniac—a very quiet, very cagey lunatic.” Momentarily, she broke off. Then, measuring the words with icy precision, she said: “He’s crazy, and my mother’s a drunk. Every Sunday, you and I get Elton’s attention, and get my mother dried out. We get them dressed, and give them the hymn number, and we prop them up in front of the camera—them, and me, and my kids. We cast our eyes up to heaven, and we s
ing. It hasn’t changed since I was a little girl. Elton was just starting to sing—and my mother was just starting to drink. And I was starting to see how—how grotesque it was, what happened. I—” Suddenly she broke off, blinked, shook her head, reached for her wine glass. She drained the glass. In silence, eyes gravely downcast, she replaced the empty glass on the marble table. When she spoke again, her voice was husky:
“I don’t know why I bother. I don’t know why I don’t just take my kids and move somewhere. Anywhere.”
“For one thing,” Flournoy said, “he’s your father. He loves you.”
She laughed. Harshly. Bitterly. “Except for an hour on Sunday, he hardly knows I exist. He’s a megalomaniac, Herbert. Don’t you understand that? He believes that crap he preaches. He thinks God talks to him, tells him what to say.”
“Forget about love, then,” Flournoy said quietly. “What about money? What about your Mercedes, Gloria, and your house in Coldwater Canyon? That’s part of it, too—the things that money can buy.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. Now, heavily ironic, she smiled wearily. “I’ve never really liked you, Herbert. But I’ll say this—you’ve got a gift for analysis, for getting to the heart of the matter. It’s not always flattering. But it’s usually accurate.”
“What about Elton, Gloria? You say this detective is coming back at nine-thirty. We can’t let them talk. I’ve got to call Harlan, find out where we stand. I think they need a warrant to interrogate someone.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. You’re thinking about a search warrant. But I think the police can interrogate anyone if they have probable cause. I don’t think they can get in his room without his permission, unless they have a warrant. But if they catch him on the street, or downstairs in the lobby—” She let it go ominously unfinished.
“Either way, we need time. I’ll talk to Mitchell. He can take Elton to another hotel. Are there policemen downstairs, in the lobby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus—” Flournoy shook his head. “There’re reporters downstairs. If there’re policemen in the lobby, too, and the reporters find out about it, and start asking questions—” Grimly, he shook his head, then abruptly rose. “I’ve got to call Harlan, then get together with Mitchell. I’ll get back to you.” Quickly he strode to the door. Still seated, Gloria did not reply, did not look at Flournoy as he left.
13
“I DON’T AGREE. WE’VE got a better chance if we keep him here, in the hotel. If we try to take him away, and they catch us …” Mitchell spread his broad, knob-knuckled hands, shook his big, grizzled head.
Talking softly, urgently, the two men stood at one end of the eleventh-floor corridor. Flournoy was in shirtsleeves, his tie loosened. Behind rimless glasses, his eyes were aggressively sharp-focused. As always, Mitchell wore a blue suit, serviceable black shoes, a white shirt, a plain tie. His broad, peasant’s face was impassive. If Flournoy looked the part of a harried behind-the-scenes political kingmaker, Mitchell looked like a KGB man.
“Listen, Lloyd, I’ve just talked with Harlan. I’m acting on his advice. He’s a corporation counsel, for God’s sake. We pay him to take care of things like this. And he says we’ve got to get Elton out and hide him. Now. Right now.”
“Have you talked to Austin?”
“No. I haven’t had a chance. That’s because—” Flournoy lowered his voice, stepped closer. “That’s because I just got all this from Gloria, about the detective being here. Not more than a half hour ago.”
“We can’t take Elton away without telling Austin.” Mitchell spoke slowly, heavily, with impassive conviction. His small eyes remained fixed on Flournoy’s face.
“Listen, Lloyd—” Visibly, Flournoy was restraining himself. “You’re Austin’s security chief. You’re responsible for him, for his peace of mind, as well as his physical well-being. You’re probably closer to Austin than anyone, granted. And he trusts you, too, also granted. But I’m telling you that—”
“I won’t take Elton anywhere. Not unless Austin tells me.”
Flournoy’s voice dropped to a furious hiss. “Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? Don’t you understand that these people might arrest Elton for murder? Can you imagine the consequences?” A short, outraged pause. Then the vehement demand: “Well, can you?”
Unmoved, Mitchell answered, “You’ve been trying to keep things from Austin for a long time. That was a mistake. But this’ll only make matters worse, taking Elton away. And I’m not getting involved. Not unless Austin wants me to get involved.”
“Do you want to tell Austin what’s happened?”
Mitchell’s shoulders raised, signifying both indifference and assent. “Gloria should do it. But if she won’t, and you won’t, then I’ll do it.”
“But it—it’s nine o’clock, for God’s sake. They’ll be here in a half hour. How the hell can we—”
“It should’ve been done a long time ago. You’re trying to protect Austin because of the service Sunday. And the meeting tomorrow. But that only makes everything worse, putting things off. You make excuses. Austin does, too. He doesn’t see what he doesn’t want to see. And now he’s in trouble.”
“We’re in trouble. All of us.”
“Elton has always been—” Mitchell broke off, ponderously searching for the word. “He’s always been strange.”
“Strange?” Bitterly, Flournoy looked at his watch. “That’s putting it mildly.”
“I’ll do my best to keep the police from questioning him,” Mitchell said. “If he stays in his room, we should be all right, at least for tonight. But then we’ll tell him, tell Austin. I won’t keep this from him. It’ll only be worse for Austin in the long run if we don’t tell him.”
Silently, desperately incredulous, Flournoy searched the big man’s face. Finally he said, “You’re loyal, Lloyd. I’ll say that.”
Making no reply, Mitchell turned away.
14
“DO WE HAVE A PLAN?” Hastings asked as they walked toward the entrance of the St. Francis.
“Of course we have a plan,” Friedman said. “We’re going to keep the lowest possible profile while we get the goods on Elton Holloway.”
“If this gets into the papers before Dwyer knows what we’re doing …” Ominously, Hastings let it go unfinished.
“That’s why we’re keeping a low profile,” Friedman answered airily. “Just keep saying no comment if a reporter shows up. That’s the plan.”
Shaking his head, Hastings pushed through the revolving door into the lobby, followed by Friedman. Sitting close to the doors, Canelli rose to his feet, smiling expectantly. But Friedman pointedly looked away, ignoring the younger man as he and Hastings joined the stream of animated, well-dressed men and women entering the hotel through the Powell Street entrance.
“So now what?” Hastings asked.
Friedman pointed to the elevators. “For openers, we’ll use their elevator code, get off at the eleventh floor. That’ll throw them off balance. Then we’ll proceed to capitalize on our advantage, as the situation permits.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ll do the talking,” Friedman said. “You look determined.”
“Hmmm.”
“We’re policemen,” Friedman said, showing his shield to the two security men. “We want to see Elton Holloway. He’s expecting us.” As he spoke, he saw one of the guards take a small surveillance radio from his pocket as the second man moved to block Friedman’s way.
“You’ll have to talk to Mr. Mitchell,” the second guard said. “Lloyd Mitchell. He’s chief of security.”
“Fine.” Agreeably, Friedman pocketed his shield case, looked expectantly down the long, quiet corridor. “Where is he?” As he asked the question, he saw a door open, midway along the corridor. A big, solidly built man appeared. The big man’s thick, graying hair and seamed face put his age at about sixty. As he came closer, Friedman took his automatic policeman’s inventory: big, muscular
shoulders, a square-cut head set low on a wrestler’s neck, stevedore’s hands carried away from the body, fingers half clenched. The face was a serf’s. Beneath heavy brows, the small eyes were watchful. This was a quiet man, an uncompromising man—a dangerous man.
With Hastings beside him, Friedman faced the big man in the blue suit. “Mr. Mitchell?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m Lieutenant Peter Friedman. This is Lieutenant Frank Hastings. We’re co-commanders of the homicide detail, in San Francisco.”
Looking at the two men briefly in turn, Mitchell impassively nodded.
“Are your people licensed for security work, Mr. Mitchell?”
“Yes, sir. We have licenses from Los Angeles and the State of California. I have the licenses in my room.”
“How many of your men carry firearms?”
“I do. And two others.” Mitchell gestured to one of the two security men who stood shoulder to shoulder, at parade rest, attentively watching. “Mr. Wagner has a permit, too.”
Wagner nodded. Like Mitchell’s, his face was expressionless.
“Can I ask you what kind of weapons you carry?” Friedman asked, his eyes on Mitchell.
“We carry Smith & Wesson .357 magnums, with four-inch barrels. All three of us.”
Approvingly, Friedman nodded. “Good choice.” Then, signifying that the preliminaries were concluded, he let a moment of silence pass, let his police smile slowly fade before he said, “As you probably know, Mr. Mitchell, we’re here to talk to Elton Holloway.”
The large, centurion’s head with its close-cropped graying hair gravely inclined. “You were here earlier.” The dark, opaque eyes turned to Hastings. “You talked to Miss Holloway. She explained things to you, told you how it is here.”
The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 8