“Who else was involved?” I asked quietly. “There were three of you, at least. Maybe more. We know that. Who were they?”
The china blue eyes finally focused on me, eyes that were so empty and expressionless that they seemed almost innocent.
“Last night, you said you had a witness,” he replied carefully. “What’d you mean by that, anyhow?”
“I meant exactly what I said.”
“Someone turned me. Is that what you meant?”
“That’s right, Hoadley.”
“It was Carole, wasn’t it?”
I smiled at him—signifying that, yes, it was Carole. Then I said, “No comment.” Still slightly smiling.
“It was, though,” he insisted. “She said she was going to stick it to me, because I was moving out. And that’s what she did. She framed me.”
“How could she frame you?” I pointed to his hand. “Did she put the gun in your hand, and pull the trigger? Did she bribe us to come up with a positive paraffin test?”
“That don’t make me a murderer, just because maybe I shot a gun. It could’ve been target practice, you know.” As he said it, his cupid’s mouth stirred in a small, smug smile. He was pleased with his quip.
“Don’t forget your fingerprint, Hoadley.”
He looked at me calmly for a moment, then slowly, deliberately shook his head. “There wasn’t any fingerprint. Not on the bullets.”
“You didn’t even check, then, to see if the gun was loaded?”
The smug little smile was my only answer. Looking into the bland blue eyes, I realized that my single success last night—his slip of the tongue—had resulted from the sedatives he’d taken, not from my skill at interrogation. Clearheaded now, no longer in pain from the dog bites, he’d decided that he was safer with Sally dead than he’d been when she was alive.
He was probably right.
The paraffin test was circumstantial. The “fingerprint” had been a hoax. And Carole Platt’s testimony was probably worthless.
My only remaining edge was last night’s fight, and his attempt to escape.
I glanced over my shoulder at the door, then hitched my chair closer to the bed. Looking him straight in the eyes, I spoke in a quiet, businesslike voice.
“We may or may not have a standoff on the Carlton murder, Hoadley. You did it, all right. I know it, and you know I know it. I might not be able to prove it, though. Both of us know that, too. But, sure as hell, I can prove that, last night, you attacked two police officers with a gun. The charge will be assault with intent to commit murder. There’ll be three witnesses, to prove it—me, my partner and McNie, the owner of the Doberman. And I promise you, Hoadley—” I hesitated for a long, ominous moment. “I promise you,” I repeated solemnly, “that when they lock you up for that they’ll throw away the key.”
The smile faltered, then finally failed. But the eyes remained steady, defying me. He’d take his chances.
Or would he?
“It doesn’t seem to bother you, taking a fall.” As I said it, I watched him closely. Had he picked up on the invitation in my voice—the suggestion that he could still make a deal?
His bandaged shoulder rose and then fell as he shrugged. “Nobody wants to take a fall.” He spoke tentatively, probing. Yes, he’d picked up on it.
I decided to let him begin the bargaining, and in the silence that followed, each of us tried to measure the other’s intentions carefully. It was a delicate, decisive moment. Finally he said, “Last night, you said you wanted Sally. You said you’d give me a break, if I gave her to you. But now she’s dead. So—” Again he shrugged. “So I can’t very well give her to you. So where’s my edge?”
“Things have changed since last night,” I said. “Last night, we thought it was just you and Sally. Now we know that there was someone else—someone more important, probably. That’s who we want.”
“But what if I can’t help you? What if what I’ve got doesn’t add up to anything. Then what?”
“All you’ve got to do is try. I don’t expect you to give me a name. I don’t think you’ve got a name to give me. But you can tell me what you know. It might just be one piece, but someone else might have another piece.”
He snorted. “You must think I’m pretty stupid. You get me to confess to murder. You got a confession. All I’ve got is a promise.”
“I’m not asking you to confess to murder, Hoadley. I’m just asking you to cooperate. Tell me how it came down. If you’re telling the truth, you’ll help yourself. Otherwise—” I spread my hands. “Otherwise, you’re screwed. You’re screwed good. You lie to me, and I’ll do everything I can—pull every string—to put you away until you’re sixty years old. And I’ll do it, too. I promise you.”
I watched the improbably innocent eyes narrow as he thought about it. Then, as clearly as if I’d been able to eavesdrop on his thoughts, I saw him devising a plan to save himself. He’d do what they all did: mix a little truth with a few lies, and hope for the best.
First—elaborately resigned—he sighed, shaking his head. “I guess I got to trust you,” he said. “I guess I got no choice.”
Except for a slight inclination of my head, I didn’t respond. I was waiting for the show to begin.
“What happened, see, was that I got pretty deep into some guys, and they told me that I didn’t have much time left before they’d start breaking things like fingers and knees. And, Christ, I was desperate. See, there wasn’t nobody I could go to for help. I was all tapped out. I couldn’t even do a robbery. Sally, she told me a long time ago that if I ever robbed anyone, or did any breaking and entering, or anything, I was through with her. I mean, all I had to do was get questioned, and I was through. Because, see, Sally is—was—always inside the law. Always.”
I nodded. “All right. So how did it go?”
“Well, I needed money, like I said. And I couldn’t go to Sally, I knew, because I already owed her about seven thousand. I mean, I was working it down. It started out being about ten thousand, and I had it down to seven. But, still, I owed her. And she’d already told me, no more loans. Which is the reason, see, that I got into trouble, gambling. I mean, I thought, what the hell, the only chance I had to get back even was if I doubled some bets, you know. And—” This time, his piously regretful sigh was genuine. “And, for a while, it worked, too. I was almost even. But then, Christ, it all turned sour. Before I knew what happened, it seemed like, I owed some guys about twelve thousand. So then I start hearing about finger-breaking, and all that.
“So, just about the time I was thinking that I’d have to leave town, Sally told me that she wanted me to drive her over to Berkeley, where she’s thinking about opening a couple of parlors, if she can get the backing. That was about ten days ago. And on the way back from Berkeley, she says she knows I’m having trouble. She says she’ll be sorry to lose me, but she knows I’ll have to leave town. And then she starts in about how tough it’s going to be on me, giving up the deal I got with her and starting in again—and all that’s supposing that some guys don’t find out where I run to, and maybe do worse than break a couple of fingers, once they find me, for a lesson to anyone else who might think of splitting. That’s how they do it, you know. They got to keep their reputation solid, or they’re screwed.”
“All right.” I nodded impatiently. “I know how it goes.”
“Yeah. Well, anyhow, as soon as she started talking about my troubles and everything, I knew she had something in mind. So, pretty soon, she comes up with it. She says that she’ll pay off my markers, and forget about what I owe her and give me ten thousand dollars in cash, if I wanted to take a little risk. Which, I knew, wasn’t no little risk. But, anyhow, I said go ahead. So we kept driving around while she gave me the rundown. We drove all the way down to Half Moon Bay and back, while she laid it out.
“She said that a friend of hers wanted this singer offed. And she said that the friend had it all set up—with a plan, and a gun, and everything, all laid out.
“Well—” He looked at me with his round, mock-guileless eyes. “Well, I don’t mind admitting to you that I was tempted. I mean, she was talking about twenty-nine thousand dollars. I’d have a chance to start clean again, with a ten-thousand-dollar stake. It was tempting, all right. I don’t deny it.” Piously, he nodded over the fraudulent admission. “I even took the gun home, while I thought about it. Who knows—” He shrugged. “I might’ve even took one of the bullets out, though I don’t remember doing it. But then, Jesus, it suddenly hit me. I mean, Jesus, murder—that’s too heavy, no matter how much money she was talking. So finally I gave the goddamn gun back, and told her to forget it. I told her that, what the hell, if I had to leave town, that’s what I’d do. So—” He paused, catching his breath. Then, as if he’d thought of some new twist to his story, he brightened almost imperceptibly. “So about that time, see, Carole starts to get pissed off. I mean, my chances of disappearing wouldn’t be very good, with her hanging around my neck. So I told her to leave. Alone.” He looked at me, transparently trying to calculate my reaction. “So I guess you know how it goes from there, Lieutenant.” As he said it, he sighed. It was a counterfeit sigh of contentment, signifying that he felt better for having told me the truth.
Except that only the first part of his “confession” was true. According to the conventions—according to the rules of the game—he wasn’t expected to confess to murder. I wanted Sally, and he’d given her to me. Or, at least, he’d told me all he knew. The rest was up to me.
“Let’s get back to Sally’s friend,” I said finally.
“Yeah. Sure.” He settled himself more comfortably on his pillow. “What’d you want to know?”
“First, was it a man, or a woman?”
He let a long, laborious beat pass before he shook his head, smiling at me with his cherubic mouth. “Christ, now that’s funny. I don’t think she said. I mean, I just figured—you know—that it was a man. But—” He shrugged. “But I don’t think she said.”
“How many times did she mention this friend?”
“Oh—two, three times, maybe. No more.”
“She said the friend had a plan. Did that mean that he had everything figured out, down to the last detail?”
He nodded. “That’s the way it seemed to me, yeah. Everything was cool, she said. When the time came, I’d get instructions.”
“You say that you assumed that her friend was a man. What else did you assume about him?”
“Honest, Lieutenant,” he said earnestly, “I can’t tell you a thing about him. All I know is, she was doing it for him, she said. It was his show. He was the main man. She was just—you know—handling the details for him.”
“Did you believe her?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think she was doing him a favor?”
His expression cleared as he shook his head. “No. Sally never did nobody a favor in her life, unless she got something out of it.”
“What’d you think she was getting out of this?”
“Money,” he answered promptly. “For Sally, that’s all there was. Just money.”
“But she had plenty of money.”
Once more, he shook his head. “Wrong, Lieutenant. Sally never had enough money. She was just like the rest of us. She always wanted more. Lots more.”
Seventeen
AS SOON AS I walked into the squad room, Canelli got to his feet and came toward me. He was slowly, sadly shaking his head.
“Jeeze, Lieutenant, I’m sure sorry about last night. If I’d only’ve known she was headed for the Hilton—” He let it go dolefully unfinished.
“It’s not your fault, Canelli. Forget it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s nice of you to say it, Lieutenant. But I know she was just about all we had. And I just want you to know, I feel terrible about how she got killed, and everything.” Today, Canelli was in a morose mood. It always happened, when he lost sleep. Friedman’s reaction to fatigue was usually black humor. When I got tired, I got irritable. Canelli suffered.
“You did what you should’ve done, Canelli. You stayed at your post. For all you knew, she could’ve been trying to fake you out. I’d’ve done the same thing, in your place. And, what’s more, I’d’ve ordered you to do exactly what you did, if you’d asked me. So don’t waste time and energy stewing about it. All right?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant. All right. How’re you feeling, anyhow? How’s your ribs?”
I touched the bandages that bound me from my waist to my upper chest. “I just had them taped. They’ll be all right.”
“That’s good. I’m glad to hear it. That Hoadley, he’s tough. I feel like I went ten rounds with Ali. He’s mean, too.”
“When he’s washed up, with his hair combed, he looks like a choirboy.”
“No fooling?” Disbelievingly, Canelli blinked. Then, thinking about it, he said, “Sometimes those choirboys can fool you, though. Right?”
“Right. What’s been happening, down here? Any developments?”
“Aw—Jeeze.” Ruefully, he snapped his fingers, annoyed with himself. “Jeeze, I forgot to tell you. Lieutenant Friedman wants to see you, right away. He’s got someone with him.”
“Thanks.”
Gesturing me to a chair, Friedman said, “Do you know Ed Lewis, Frank? Napa County sheriffs office.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I put out my hand. “I’m Frank Hastings.”
“It’s a pleasure,” he said. “I’ve been hearing good things about you, lately.” His voice was low-pitched and pleasant, softened by a slow, easy drawl. He was a big, muscular man, and his hand felt as if it had been carved from an oak slab. His grip was firm but gentle—noncompetitive. His grin was wide and cheerful—also noncompetitive.
“Thanks,” I answered, returning his smile.
As the three of us sat down, Friedman said, “Actually, it’s Captain Lewis.” Friedman smiled owlishly at me. “We’re outranked, Frank.”
Lewis studied Friedman for a moment before he said, “You know, Pete, I’ve wondered about that.” As he spoke, he turned to me, saying, “I’ve known Pete for years. I knew him when he first made lieutenant. I don’t even think you were in Homicide then, Frank.”
In reply, I nodded silent confirmation. Friedman had been a homicide lieutenant while I was still in uniform, on patrol.
“I knew Captain Kreiger, too,” Lewis continued, turning back to Friedman. “And I’ve got to say, I’ve wondered what the score is here. I don’t mean to pry, but—” He paused for an apologetic moment, then decided to say simply, “But I’ve wondered why they didn’t make you captain, Pete. Everyone knows you’re one of the brainiest homicide men in the country.”
At the compliment, Friedman gravely inclined his head. Then, airily waving a pudgy hand, he said, “You’ve already put your finger on it, Ed. I’m brainy—too brainy for my own good. Which is to say that I don’t bother to deny that I’m brainy. I don’t know how matters are arranged in Napa County, but in San Francisco, if you’re going to make captain, you’ve got to be liked by your superior officers. And no one likes a smart-ass, which is the way I’m viewed.” He paused, ironically watching Lewis’s obvious discomfort.
“Another problem,” Friedman said, “is that I don’t play the game.”
“The game?”
“Yeah. The scratch-my-back game. See, my back never seems to itch.”
Amused now, Lewis smiled broadly. “You’ve still got your private little war going with the brass, then. Is that what I hear you saying?”
“I guess that’s what I’m saying, Ed. And I’m also saying that I don’t give a damn whether I ever make captain. Frank and I have been comanaging Homicide for more than a year, now. It’s a good arrangement, too. It works. Frank handles the hot pursuits and the shootouts, which means that I don’t have to stay in shape. He also handles the subsequent TV appearances, which means that I don’t have to worry whether my shirt’s clean.” Friedman spread his han
ds wide over his cluttered desk. “It’s perfect. It suits me. As for Frank, to the untrained eye he looks like a captain should look. Sometimes he even acts like a captain, under duress. But when you know him better, you’ll realize that he’s too stubborn and too short-tempered to cut it for very long with the brass. Which is to say that, really, he’s too virtuous.”
“Listen—” I leaned forward in my chair. “I appreciate the analysis, but I thought you wanted to see me. It was something important, I thought.”
“You were right.” Friedman waved genially to Lewis. “Give him the run-down, Ed. From the top.”
Lewis turned to face me, saying, “It’s about Bernard Carlton’s death. Do you know about it?”
“He died in a plane crash,” I said.
Lewis nodded. “Right. Just a little more than three weeks ago. He kept his airplane at Ralston Field. Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
“It’s between Vallejo and Sonoma, on Route 121, in Napa County. It’s not much of an airport—just one macadam runway, about twenty-five hundred feet long. But, for some reason, a lot of very affluent people keep their airplanes at Ralston. Like Bernard Carlton.”
I looked at Friedman, then looked at Lewis, hard. “Was there something irregular about the accident?” I asked. “Is that it?”
“That’s it exactly,” he answered. “Until day before yesterday—Friday—everyone, including me, assumed that it was just another light plane accident. But then the FAA called—the Federal Aviation Administration. They investigate every crash, to try and determine cause. And it turns out that Carlton’s airplane was deliberately sabotaged.”
“How?”
Instead of answering, Ralston gestured to Friedman, who spoke briefly to the receptionist. A moment later, a tall, thin man entered the office. He was dressed in Western-style clothing, including high-heeled boots.
“This is Bill Anthony,” Lewis said, waving the tall man to a chair. “He’s the owner and operator of Ralston Field. The reason he’s dressed like a cowboy, he owns a couple of the best cutting horses in Northern California, and he’s on his way to a gymkhana, over in Concord. So he doesn’t have much time.” Once more, Lewis gestured to the newcomer. “Give them the run-down, Bill. Just like you told it to me. Including the background. Everything.”
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 14