The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Oh—gee.” It was a spontaneous expression of sympathy, somehow evoking a teenage inability to articulate. “I didn’t know, Frank.”

  He shrugged. Now it was his smile, he knew, that was sad, wistfully forced.

  “So your folks were divorced, too,” she said.

  “No. A couple of years after he left, my dad and his Girl Friday were killed in west Texas, in an auto accident. His estate totaled about six hundred dollars—just enough for my mother to get the house painted, I remember.”

  “Divorce …” The single word said it all: the shame, the defeat, the corrosive loss of hope. Then, confessing, she said, “It happened to me, too. Divorce, I mean. When I left nursing school I worked at the Bank of America for a couple of years, and then I went with United. I flew for a couple of years. And then—” She shook her head regretfully. “Then I met a man named Gary Blake. He had a string of restaurants in Los Angeles. He’s a millionaire—a self-made millionaire. That’s the way he always described himself, especially when he was drinking—a self-made millionaire. And he was drinking most of the time.” With her lunch forgotten, she lapsed into a long, lost silence.

  “Your father—your brother—your husband—they all drank,” he offered.

  She nodded. Then, with great effort: “A little while ago—two months ago, I guess—I went to a psychiatrist. That’s where I was this morning. I—I never thought I could do it, go to a psychiatrist. It just seemed like something I’d never do. But I—I’m thirty-six years old, and the truth is that the men I get involved with are just as—as crude as my dad. Just as brutal. So I decided that I needed help. Which I do.”

  “I’m sorry, Meredith. About the men, I mean.”

  In acknowledgment, she nodded. Then, perhaps driven by the same half-blind compulsion he’d felt to confess, to tell everything to someone who shared deep memories of the past, she said, “We were married seven years, Gary and I. He was older than I was, and he—he dominated me. Completely dominated me. So finally I had to get out. I just had to do it.”

  “You say he was brutal. Did he hit you? Abuse you?”

  “He used me, that’s the only way I can describe it. He didn’t hit me with his fist. It was words—just words. Gary was smart. Brilliant, I guess. But he’s a—a destructive person. When he got drunk, sometimes he—he’d threaten me, push me around. It—mostly it was connected with sex.”

  Wearily he nodded. This same story was deeply etched in his policeman’s lexicon. Sex and violence, his stock-in-trade.

  The poets, the songwriters spoke of love.

  But his beat was sex, the dark side of love.

  Was sex the reality, love the illusion?

  “So you got out—” He nodded. “What else could you do? I hope you had a good lawyer.”

  “I don’t think I did have a very good lawyer, as a matter of fact. Either that or Gary got to him. I think that might’ve been what happened.”

  “Then you should’ve gotten another lawyer, Meredith.”

  “I know—” Resigned, she shook her head. “It always happens that way, it seems.”

  Drawing on countless hours spent in interrogation rooms, he let a beat pass, giving her time. Then, gently, he prompted: “So you moved back to San Francisco. You and I—” To encourage her, he smiled. “We came back with our tails between our legs.”

  She tried to return the smile, unsuccessfully. “Yes …”

  “And then what? Did you get married again?” His glance strayed to the expensive clothes and the jewelry. Everything suggested that she dressed to please men—or a man.

  “No.” She spoke softly, with infinite regret. “No. I—I came back here, and I—I started doing what I’ve done all my life, passing up the nice guys to go with the wrong ones. It—it’s never changed.” As she spoke, she looked at him quickly, speculatively. Still playing his interrogator’s role, he could easily read the look. She was deciding how much more she should tell him—how much she could tell him, safely.

  Safely? Was that the word?

  What was he reading in her face? Fear?

  Fear of what? Of whom?

  … to go with the wrong ones, she’d said. Plural. Was it possible—conceivable—that she was a call girl? Was it guilt that he saw, rather than fear?

  He must say something, make some response. “Safety in numbers? Is that the plan?” Hearing himself say it, he realized how fatuous he must sound, how silly.

  Shaking her head, she tried to smile. “No, that isn’t the plan. Maybe it should be the plan, but it isn’t.”

  “One man, then …”

  Now, still deeply regretful, she nodded. “One man.”

  “The wrong man.”

  “Definitely the wrong man.”

  Once she’d said it, there was nothing left for him to say. She’d said it all, laid it all out for him. She was locked into a bad habit she couldn’t break. Enter the psychiatrist.

  “I’m sorry to hear it, Meredith. I mean it.”

  Silently she nodded. He watched her push her plate away, the food hardly touched. She remained motionless for a moment, eyes downcast, hands helpless in her lap. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, Frank. I—I’m always pretty shaky after I’ve finished with the shrink. I shouldn’t’ve come to lunch. I knew I shouldn’t.”

  “Are you breaking up with this guy? Is that it?”

  She shook her head regretfully. “No, that’s not it. I—I wish I could. But I can’t.”

  “One of those can’t-live-with-him, can’t-live-without-him things? It happens to everyone, sooner or later.”

  As if she were puzzled, she raised her eyes to his, frowning. “No—no. That’s not it either. I mean I—I can’t stand to—to have him touch me anymore. But I—I can’t get out of it. He—he won’t let me go.”

  “He’s jealous, you mean.”

  “No, not jealous. There—there isn’t anyone else. And he knows it.”

  He frowned. “He’s possessive, then.”

  “Possessive—” As if she were experimenting with the word, she spoke hesitantly, tentatively. Then, bitterly, she repeated, “Possessive. Yes …”

  “This is really bothering you.”

  She nodded mutely.

  Watching her as she struggled for control of the emotions that tore at the perfection of her face, he let a moment of silence pass before he said quietly, “This guy scares you. You’re afraid of him.”

  Helplessly—mutely—she nodded.

  He let another beat pass. Then: “You could leave.”

  “Run away, you mean.”

  “Sometimes that’s the only answer, Meredith.”

  “But San Francisco is the only place that means anything to me, Frank. It—it’s home. Don’t you feel that way? The old neighborhood—sometimes I think that’s all I’ve ever had.”

  An instant’s flash of memory returned. He’d just come back to San Francisco. All his possessions had been checked through on his airline ticket from Detroit: four suitcases and a cardboard box tied with clothesline. He’d stayed at a hotel for the first few nights, while he’d looked for an apartment. One of the addresses had been just three blocks from his childhood home—the home he’d had to sell after his mother died, to pay off the second mortgage. Dreading something he couldn’t understand, he’d driven past the house on Thirty-ninth Avenue. Then he’d made a U-turn, returned, stopped in front of the house. And then, inexplicably, he’d begun to cry: deep, wracking sobs. He hadn’t cried when his father died, hadn’t cried at his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t cried when he’d left his children in Detroit, only a few days before. But that night he’d cried.

  “It means something to me, too, Meredith,” he said softly. “It means a lot. More all the time.”

  Digging in her purse, she found a tissue. She wiped her eyes, snuffled, blew her nose. Her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t’ve come. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s a bad habit, Meredith.” Gravely smiling, he held her eyes. �
��For you, it’s a bad habit.”

  She tried to return the smile, finally succeeded. “You’re a nice man, Frank. You’re considerate. You’re tough, I imagine. But you’re kind, too. My brother, I remember, used to idolize you. I can’t remember him feeling like that about anyone else.”

  Unable to think of a reply, he nodded.

  “I can remember seeing you play football, in high school. I was only ten, but I saw you once. And I can remember the girls on the block. They used to follow you around.”

  Trying to lighten the mood, he said, “They still do, Meredith. They follow me constantly.”

  Her smile wistfully widened. Then, hesitantly, she ventured, “Do you—have someone?”

  Aware that his reply would only deepen her sadness, he said, “Her name is Ann Haywood. She’s a schoolteacher. She’s got two sons, teenagers. We’ve been living together for a little more than a year, all four of us.” He hesitated, then decided to say “She looks a little like you, in fact. Blue eyes, same kind of hair, same shape to the face. I’d like you to meet her. Come to dinner.”

  “Yes …” It was really a confession that she’d never do it, never come to dinner. They both knew it.

  He let the silence between them lengthen before he said, “If this guy bothers you—” He took a card from his pocket, slid it across the table. “Keep that. Give me a call, if he gives you any trouble. You’d be surprised what a cop knocking on the door can accomplish.”

  She took the card, thanked him, looked at the card, slid it into her purse. She would probably never call, just as she would probably never come to dinner. She was frightened. Badly frightened, maybe. But she probably wouldn’t call. She was the classic victim type, helplessly awaiting her fate. He’d encountered countless women like Meredith Powell—some of them lying in a pool of blood.

  “So you won’t leave town.” Saying it, he put a note of finality in his voice. Finality, and approval, too. She was right: she’d spent enough time running away.

  “I guess …” She broke off. Then: “I guess I’ve been less unhappy here than anywhere else. It—it’s a wonderful city.”

  Silently, still watching her, he made no reply. There was something more, he realized—something she wanted to tell him. Something important.

  “And there’s my doctor, too. I—I can’t leave him. At least not now.”

  “Your psychiatrist, you mean.”

  She nodded gravely. “He—he’s made me see things I could never look at before, things I never thought I’d ever tell anyone.” As she spoke, she looked him fully in the face. The mute message was clear. She wanted to tell him—needed to tell him—what she’d told her psychiatrist. He had only to ask. She desperately wanted him to ask.

  “What kind of things are you talking about, Meredith?”

  She had returned to her previous position, head bowed, hands listless in her lap. Then, purposefully lifting her chin, speaking with great precision, she said, “It’s my father. He—” She broke off, blinked, began slowly shaking her head, signifying an inner defeat of the spirit. Clearly, her confession hung in delicate, desperate balance. But then, in a deliberate rush, she said, “He abused me. I was eleven the first time it happened. And it made me feel so—so guilty, so terribly worthless, so ashamed, that—”

  A sudden short, cruel sob choked off the rest of it.

  “Jesus, Meredith. I—” Swallowing hard, he reached out to touch her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry.”

  1:10 P.M. Without being seen, Charles had been able to observe them through the restaurant’s plate-glass window. They were sitting at a small table next to the far wall. Each time he’d looked, he’d seen them deep in conversation, their faces solemn, totally engaged. This was no chance encounter, no casual meeting.

  It had been a week since the Dancer agency had discovered she was seeing the psychiatrist. Of course the hackneyed, sordid, patient-and-shrink sex scenario had been suspected: the doctor’s appointment screening an hour of love.

  But now this: another man, another scenario.

  So the game would begin again. He was the pursuer, the avenger. His will would prevail. In the animal kingdom, what passed for God? It was the strongest, the deadliest. Therefore, among animals, to kill was to prevail, a natural law. The deadliest was the godliest.

  Only in death, then, could the truth be found. Animals killed daily—or died. But man, the highest animal form, had lost touch with death, therefore lost touch with God. It was simple logic.

  To kill—to watch the eyes go blank as the muscles ceased to twitch—only that conscious act could complete the cycle.

  But first, the cycle must begin.

  First cycle, first sequence.

  Patience—cold, deadly patience—was the key. In the veld, the lion moved inch by inch, a shadow across the grass.

  So days might pass before she must pay. Days or weeks—or only hours, if events fell into focus.

  His problem this Tuesday was a reprise of the first problem, two weeks ago: see but don’t be seen, the invisible stalker. Therefore, when he’d seen them served their lunch, a guarantee that they would be immobilized for an hour, at least, he’d returned to his car—his rental car. He’d parked the car on Sutter Street, across from the exit leading up from the parking garage beneath the 450 Sutter Building. If they left the restaurant and returned to 450 Sutter, he would follow them. Standing on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the cold, fog-laden wind blowing down Bush Street from the ocean, he saw the waitress refilling their coffee cups. The table had already been cleared. Soon their check would come. Then they’d leave the restaurant.

  And then …

  Vividly he could imagine their sordid progression: flesh straining against corrupted flesh in some half-darkened hotel room, guttural background cries of humans in heat.

  From his vantage point, he could clearly see the man. In his early forties, without doubt. A big, muscular man, six feet, two hundred pounds. A man who moved economically, confidently. Brown hair, thick, touched at the temples with gray. Regular features: a muscular face, like the body. Calm, calculating eyes. A deliberate man, by his actions, therefore slow to anger. The clothes were Macy’s: brown herringbone jacket, dark-brown trousers. Beige shirt, brown striped tie, a banal study in brown. The shirt, though, was button-down oxford cloth, a spurious Ivy League touch, probably a pretension. Yet the big man wore his clothes easily. Some men did, some men didn’t.

  As he watched, he saw the man reach across the table to touch the woman’s hand. Her face was stricken. His face reflected her pain.

  Friends?

  Lovers?

  In minutes, he might know.

  1:35 P.M. The starter whirred but the engine didn’t start. Quickly Charles depressed the accelerator pedal, released it, turned the key again. This time, faltering, the engine caught. Now he must—

  Her silver Mercedes appeared: first the hood angling upward, then the car, coming up the parking ramp, with Meredith behind the wheel.

  Just the woman, not the man.

  Of course, the man’s car would be next. In separate cars, they would drive to whatever lair they’d chosen.

  Yes, the man was following, driving a small orange station wagon, Japanese made, no longer new.

  Quickly Charles put the rented Buick in gear, pulled into the outbound Sutter Street traffic. A white pickup and a black limousine separated him from the Mercedes and the orange station wagon. But the truck and the limo could be a plus. When trailing a suspect, he’d once read, it was good technique to stay back with one or two cars between, protective coloration.

  Together, the five of them, they moved toward the next intersection. But slowly. Very, very slowly.

  Would the red light catch him? If it happened, he must stop. Downtown, with so much traffic, the police were everywhere.

  He accelerated, crowded the limo, went through the intersection on the yellow light. Ahead, with the Mercedes in the right lane, approaching Taylor Street, the station
wagon was moving to the left lane. They were side by side now, the Mercedes and the station wagon, both of them stopped at the intersection. He chose the left lane, with one car between him and the station wagon. Traffic was moving again, led through the Taylor Street intersection by the Mercedes and the station wagon. Jones Street was next. Midway in the block, the man in the station wagon was signaling for a left turn. But the Mercedes, still in the right lane, would be unable to turn left.

  Without hesitation, Charles signaled for the left turn. He knew, after all, where to find Meredith Powell.

  Heading south on Jones, the man drove steadily in light traffic. A left turn on Golden Gate, a right turn on Sixth Street, and they were across Market Street, once again heading south. This was skid row. Windows were boarded up, sidewalks were littered, derelicts in doorways huddled against the February winds. Beyond Folsom, the station wagon moved into the right lane. Now they were passing through the city’s south-of-Market commercial district: wholesalers, printers, warehouses, a few lunch counters and short-order restaurants. Ahead, the station wagon’s red taillight began blinking, signaling a right turn. With one car between them, Charles guided the Buick into the right lane, signaled for a turn. As he came to the intersection the traffic light turned yellow; the car ahead was slowing to a stop. With a truck to his left, he was blocked. The station wagon had already made his turn and was traveling west on Harrison, a one-way, six-lane arterial that carried traffic from the Bay Bridge to the southern freeway system. In moments the station wagon would disappear, while he waited helplessly for the light to turn green.

  But, instead of accelerating into the traffic stream, the station wagon was slowing, now signaling for a left turn. The driver was waiting for traffic to clear to his left before he moved into the outside lane. Beyond the orange station wagon, the gray concrete bulk of the Hall of Justice merged with the darker gray of the lowering, rain-laden sky. Clear of traffic now, the station wagon turned into a driveway, quickly disappearing.