Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” I said. “But—” I gestured to the ticket stub. “But there were sixty-five thousand of those things sold. And they all look alike.” I spoke softly, apologetically.

  “Yeah,” she answered, drawing a last long, hopeless sigh. “Yeah, I know that.”

  “Well?”

  “Well—” For one final moment she hesitated. Then, with infinite effort, she raised her eyes from the ticket stub. She’d come face to face with her moment of no return. Just as there were girls who sold it and girls who didn’t, there were those who snitched and those who didn’t.

  “Was she shot with a revolver?” she asked. “A Smith and Wesson, caliber .357?”

  I reached in my pocket, withdrew the fifty-dollar bills, and tucked them into the brown envelope. I folded the envelope twice and silently passed it across the red Formica table.

  As her hand closed around the envelope, she said, “I wouldn’t be doing this, if it wasn’t for the reward, you know. I mean—” She bit her trembling lip. “I mean, it had to be a lot of money, to make me do it. You know?”

  “Yes,” I answered quietly. “I know.”

  Twelve

  MY MEETING WITH CAROLE lasted until four P.M. By seven o’clock, back at the Hall, I’d learned a lot about Bruce Hoadley. He was thirty-three years old, a native of San Francisco. His mother had died when he was twelve. His father was unknown. He’d been made a ward of the court and had lived in three different foster homes until he was arrested at age sixteen, for car theft. Since it was his first offence, sentence was suspended. Two years later, he’d fallen for possession of stolen goods and had drawn ten years, of which he served eighteen months at Camarillo. At age twenty-five, he was arrested for pandering, but the case never came to trial because of insufficient evidence. Translation: the girl was too scared to testify.

  Since his arrest for pandering, Hoadley hadn’t had any more trouble with the law. The reason, according to Captain Jepson, head of the Tenderloin Detail, was Hoadley’s association with a woman named Sally Grant. For years, Sally had run a string of high-priced call girls. Now, at age forty-six, Sally operated four of the biggest, most lucrative massage parlors anywhere west of New York City. Each of her parlors ran a quarter page ad in the Yellow Pages. One parlor featured exotic Oriental girls. Another featured Swedish girls. “Hot co-eds” was a third specialty, and the fourth ad simply read, “Beautiful girls, none over thirty.” Hotel calls were a specialty, and all major credit cards were accepted.

  At first Hoadley provided the muscle for Sally’s call-girl operation. Later, he’d managed one of the massage parlors. But Hoadley apparently lacked the finesse necessary to deal with the high-rolling tourists that Sally wanted for her clientele. So Hoadley had returned to the work he did best: providing Sally’s muscle. If a customer got too abusive or too demanding, Hoadley took care of the problem. If one of the girls got out of line, Hoadley handled it. If a payoff became necessary, Hoadley carried the money and set up the meeting. If competition threatened, Hoadley started a fire, or broke a window, or beat up one of the competitors. Over the years, Sally Grant had learned that she could trust Hoadley. In return, again according to Jepson, she paid him an estimated twenty thousand dollars a year straight salary.

  I asked Jepson to commit all his available manpower in an effort to find Hoadley. At first Jepson objected. His squad was running over budget, he said, and he’d recently spent an entire half day in the auditor’s office—followed, a week later, by a visit from an independent efficiency expert, hired by the Board of Supervisors. I let Chief Dwyer decide. A half hour later, Jepson’s squad was turning the Tenderloin inside out. By eight o’clock Saturday night, no leads had developed. At eight-thirty, I decided to go home.

  By nine o’clock, with my shoes off and my revolver and cuffs in my top dresser drawer, I was sitting on my sofa, staring at the phone. All day, I’d tried to find the time to phone Ann—or so I’d told myself. The truth was, though, that I’d used a tight schedule as an excuse for not making the call.

  Now I was alone—just me, and the phone, and the memory of how we’d parted, last night. I’d run out of excuses.

  But then I remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything since I’d taken the plastic-wrapped sandwich and the Styrofoam container of coffee to my desk, more than eight hours ago. So I went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and made a sandwich of peanut butter and two thick slices of French bread. With the sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other I went into the living room, found an old movie on TV and settled down to watch Rock Hudson fight the Battle of the Bulge.

  By the time I’d finished eating, my watch read nine-thirty. In another half hour, it would be too late to call.

  I sighed, got to my feet, switched off the TV and walked to the phone. For a moment I stood irresolutely, wondering whether I should check with Friedman, who was still at the Hall. If they found Hoadley, Friedman might not remember to have the suspect paraffin tested. Should I remind him?

  The answer, of course, was no. Friedman would remember.

  So, reluctantly, I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hello?” It was Dan, Ann’s oldest son. He’d just turned seventeen. It was because of Dan that I’d first met her almost a year ago. Dan had been a witness to murder—and briefly a suspect. Over the years, I’d told hundreds of parents that one of their children was in trouble. I’d seen countless reactions, from breast-beating lamentations to homicidal rage to utter indifference. But I’d never seen anyone react with more natural dignity than Ann.

  “It’s Frank,” I said. “Is your mother there?”

  “Yeah. Just a minute, Frank. Hey, will I see you tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Hey—is it about Rebecca Carlton? Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Hey—great. I knew you’d be on it, Frank. Just a little while ago I was telling Sandy that I’d bet money on it.”

  “Who’s Sandy?”

  “She’s—you know—a girl.”

  “Oh. Well, good luck, you and Sandy.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Let me talk to your mother, will you?”

  “I guess you can’t say whether you know who killed her, can you, Frank?”

  “No. Not now.” I hesitated, then added, “Even if I knew, I couldn’t say.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Well, here’s Mom. ’Night.”

  “Goodnight.”

  A moment later I heard a click when Ann came on the line, and another click when Dan got off. She was taking the call in her bedroom.

  “I was going to call you when I got home last night,” I said. “But then this Rebecca Carlton thing came up.”

  “Yes, I heard Dan talking.” There was a polite pause before she said, “How are you doing? On the case, I mean?”

  “There’s nothing definite yet. We might have a break, though. I should know something in an hour or so. With luck.”

  “I hope it works out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Another silence followed, this one at my end. Finally I said, “I—ah—felt terrible when I got home last night.”

  “I know,” she answered quietly. “I did, too.”

  “Have you talked to your father today?”

  “He called about noon, from the airport.”

  “I—ah—didn’t mean to be hard on him last night.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t mean to be hard on you, either.”

  “I know that, too.” She spoke quietly, tonelessly, without either warmth or hostility. She could have been talking to a stranger. For a long moment we endured a helpless, hopeless silence. Then, struggling alone, I said:

  “I—ah—don’t think I can go with you and the boys, tomorrow. It’s this case—Rebecca Carlton. It’s making headlines all over the country. When that happens, we get a lot of heat.”

  “It’s all righ
t.”

  “I wanted to go. You know that, don’t you?” I searched for something more to say, but the right words weren’t there. So, finally, I said, “I wanted to be with all three of you tomorrow.” This time, I sensed that the silence offered more hope. But, still, the right words wouldn’t come—for either of us.

  “If I can manage it,” I ventured, “if there’s any way—maybe I can come by tomorrow night. We can talk.”

  She hesitated briefly, then said, “All right. But not too late. I’m breaking in a student teacher on Monday. It’ll be a tough day. And the boys and I probably won’t be back from dinner tomorrow until nine o’clock, at least.”

  “I’ll call you at nine-thirty. Whether or not I can come by, I’ll at least call.”

  “All right.”

  “If you’re not there, I’ll keep trying.”

  “Yes.” Another silence began. Then she said, “Good luck. With the case, I mean.” Once more she spoke formally, from a distance.

  “With the case?” Asking the question, I tried to tease her, hopefully to end the conversation on a light, intimate note.

  But she didn’t—or couldn’t—respond with anything but a formal-sounding: “You know what I mean.”

  To myself, I sighed. Answering: “I know what you mean. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Frank.”

  “Goodnight, Ann.”

  The phone had hardly touched the cradle when it rang. Almost gratefully—knowing it must be the Hall—I picked up the receiver. Tonight, work would be welcome.

  “It’s Pete, Frank. We’ve got Hoadley staked out.”

  “Where?”

  “At Sally Grant’s place, on Russian Hill.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “2445 Leavenworth. Near Greenwich.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Canelli’s on the front, and Culligan’s at the rear. They’ve each got two G.W. men, for backup. You want me to come?” The tentative note in his voice made it plain that he’d rather go home to bed.

  “No, go home. When we get him down to the Hall, if it’s not too late, I’ll call you.”

  “Right. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Thirteen

  2445 LEAVENWORTH WAS A Spanish-style town house that had probably cost twenty-five thousand dollars to build in the forties, and was probably worth two hundred thousand now. The house was built on a corner lot with a view from the front of the San Francisco skyline and a view from the rear of the Golden Gate Bridge. The house was two-storied, with stucco walls, hand-hewn shutters and trim, a red tile roof and a portico-style entryway leading to a massive front door, intricately carved. The property was surrounded on all four sides by a six-foot adobe wall, painted white and topped with red tiles. Tall, spiky palm trees grew in the front garden. A wood-planked, iron-studded front gate was set into the wall.

  As I opened the door of Canelli’s cruiser and slipped into the passenger’s seat, Canelli pointed to the house. “It looks like vice still pays pretty good, Lieutenant,” he said cheerfully.

  “It always has, Canelli. Are you sure he’s in there?”

  “Pretty sure. See, Sally Grant’s in Las Vegas for the weekend, and Hoadley’s staying in her house. She’s got about four poodles. So whenever she’s out of town, Hoadley’s got to take care of them. She’s crazy about poodles, it turns out.”

  “Where’d you get your information?”

  “There’s a girl named Kathy, who runs one of Sally’s massage parlors. And after Captain Jepson talked to her for a couple of minutes, and explained all the ways he could make life miserable for her, she suddenly got very cooperative.” Admiringly, Canelli shook his head. “That Captain Jepson, he’s got the Tenderloin working for him like a well-oiled machine. I mean, he plays it like a player piano, or something. Anything he wants, he gets. Instantly.”

  “Are you sure Hoadley’s in there, though?” I asked.

  “We don’t have a picture of him,” Canelli said, “so I can’t be absolutely positive. But the description in his file fits whoever I saw through an upstairs window. That was about ten minutes ago. Now he’s downstairs, I think. He’s about thirty, around two hundred pounds. He’s a big, broad-shouldered guy with curly blond hair and a knife scar across one cheek.”

  “Did you see the scar?”

  “Yessir.” He showed me a pair of binoculars. “I got a pretty good look at him. A lucky look, you might say.”

  “Then we’ve probably got a make.” I picked up the walkie-talkie, lying on the seat beside Canelli. “Is Culligan tuned in?”

  “Yessir.”

  I pressed the transmit button. “This is Lieutenant Hastings. What’s it look like back there?”

  “Tight as a drum, Lieutenant,” Culligan answered. “We’re in the back alley. There’s one gate, that’s all. And the wall goes all the way around the house, six feet high. It couldn’t be better.”

  “Can you see the wall on either side?”

  “Yessir. We’re spread out.”

  “Have you got a shotgun?”

  “I left it in the car. You want me to get it? The car’s right here.”

  I considered, then decided to say, “Use your own judgment.”

  “We’re pretty exposed, Lieutenant. That’s why I left it in the car. We’ve already had people snooping around.”

  “Are you the only one with a radio back there?”

  “Yessir.”

  “All right, stand by.” I turned to Canelli. “Where’re your two men?”

  “One’s there—” He pointed to a blue Plymouth sedan. “And one’s over there, behind that tall privet hedge.”

  “Have they both got radios?”

  “Yessir.”

  I glanced at the dial of my own radio, then pressed the transmit button and said, “Is everyone on channel eight? Sound off.”

  The three positions came in, loud and clear.

  “All right, here we go.”

  Canelli and I got out of the car, quickly crossed the street, and tried the front gate. It was secured by an electrically controlled lock, as I’d suspected. Handing the radio to Canelli, I slipped a spring steel probe from my pocket and worked at the gate.

  “Some of them ring an alarm when they’re tripped,” Canelli whispered.

  “I know that,” I snapped. “Just keep your eye on the door, will you?”

  “Yessir.” From his tone of voice, I knew Canelli’s feelings were hurt. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m short on sleep.”

  “It’s okay, Lieutenant.” Plainly, the apology pleased him.

  Swearing under my breath, I stepped back from the gate. “This isn’t going to work.” As I spoke, I eyed the wall, six feet high. In the dim glow from a nearby streetlight, I saw a row of spikes set between the tiles at the top of the wall. Although the heavily planked gate was only five feet high, it, too, was spiked along the top. Gingerly, I tested one of the spikes. It was needle sharp.

  “This place is a goddamn fortress,” I said, at the same time taking the radio. “Culligan, we’re stopped, in the front. How about the back gate? Can you jimmy it?”

  “I might be able to jimmy it,” he answered doubtfully. “But everything back here’s wired. And it looks like one of those real fancy alarm systems, with backups for the backups.”

  “Crap.” As I said it, I heard Canelli say, “Uh-oh,” and felt him touch my arm. Following his pointing finger, I saw the figure of a tall man approaching. He was walking a dog—a big, dangerous-looking Doberman. With about thirty feet separating us, the man tugged at a long leather leash, pulling the dog to a stop. The man and the dog were motionless now, impassively watching us. Without doubt, they thought we were burglars.

  “Talk to him,” I ordered. “Get rid of him.”

  Slipping his shield case from his pocket, Canelli cautiously approached the pair, still standing at alert. Deep in his throat, the dog was growling. To myself, I smiled. At times like this, rank had its pleasures.


  As Canelli drew closer, the growling grew deeper, more ominous. At the end of the leash, the Doberman was straining to get at Canelli. Stopping well short of the dog, Canelli held up his shield case.

  Suddenly the dog snarled. Teeth bared, it lunged for Canelli.

  “God—damn.” Canelli leaped back. “Hold him,” he hissed.

  Five furious strides took me to Canelli’s side, facing the tall stranger. “If you don’t get out of here right now,” I grated, “I’m going to arrest you for disobeying the lawful order of an officer acting in the performance of his duty. You’ll spend the night in jail, I promise you. And your goddamn dog’ll be in the S.P.C.A.”

  “What the hell’s it all about, anyhow?” the man blustered.

  I raised the radio. “Are you going? Or do I call for the goddamn wagon?” As I said it, the dog lunged again, this time at me.

  Standing behind me now, Canelli scolded: “You’d better do it. He’s a lieutenant. And he means it.” But his voice rose to a high, uncertain note, ineffectually indignant.

  “Oh, Jesus. Cops and robbers. Big deal.” The man jerked at the leash. “Come on, Crusher.”

  Still facing us, the dog moved back one menacing, leash-straining step—then another. Even in the dim light, I could see his fangs dripping saliva.

  “Hurry up,” I said. “Move it.”

  And, as the man finally succeeded in hauling the Doberman away, Canelli loudly echoed: “Yeah—move it.”

  “Not so loud,” I said angrily, turning back to face the house. As I stood staring irresolutely at the gate, I saw a small speaker set into the gate’s hand-hewn frame. A button was placed just below the speaker.

  “The only way we’re going to get in,” I muttered, “is to ring the goddamn bell. Either that, or order an assault team.”

  Canelli nodded discouraged agreement. “Looks like you’re right, Lieutenant.”

  I pressed the radio’s transmit button, and told Culligan that we were going to do it by the book. When Culligan acknowledged, I pushed the bell button.

  Almost immediately, a man’s voice said, “Yeah? Who’s there?”