“Yessir,” he answered doubtfully. “But you better wish me luck. He’s a pretty cool customer.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
As we walked slowly down the narrow corridor to Interrogation Room A Friedman shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Honest to God, I just can’t believe that Justin’s the real goods.”
“You said it yourself, just yesterday—the police are using more clairvoyants all the time. It’s progress.”
“I’m not questioning that. In fact, years ago, there was a crime reporter named Stephen Drake right here in San Francisco. He worked for The Sentinel, and he got to be a real hotshot clairvoyant, once he got the hang of interpreting his own visions, or emanations, or whatever you call them. I used him myself, several times. He wasn’t a hundred percent, like I said, because his images often came in a little out of focus. But sometimes he came in right on the money. And other times he came close enough to point us in the right direction.”
“If that’s the case—if you believe in ESP—then what’s your problem with Justin Wade?”
“My problem with Justin Wade,” he answered promptly, “is that his average seems to be a hundred percent.”
“That’s a problem?”
“To me, that’s a problem. Besides, Justin makes me nervous. I don’t like the way he acts, and I don’t like the way he thinks. I figure he’s an opportunist. And he’s probably a liar. And, furthermore, he’s a little off his rocker.”
At the doorway to Room A, I turned to face him. “Why do you say he’s a liar?”
“I’m not sure. I just think he lies.”
“You may be right. But why worry about it? We aren’t taking anything he says on faith. We’ve got the keys. In a little while, with luck, we’ll have the gun that killed Sally. If we can tie that gun to Ron Massey along with the keys, we’ve got a case that any D.A. in the country would take to the grand jury. He had the motive, and the opportunity, and the means to kill Rebecca—and Sally Grant, too, probably.” I paused for emphasis, looking at him hard as I said, “What more do you want, for God’s sake?”
“How about a confession?” Friedman said, gesturing to the door of Room A. “With a confession, I’ll be happy.”
“Likewise.” I turned the knob and pushed open the door.
Twenty-one
AS I STOOD LEANING against the wall of the interrogation room, eying the suspect as he sat across from Friedman at a small metal table, I remembered Canelli saying that Massey had insisted on changing clothes for his trip downtown. I could believe it. Massey was impeccable in a blue blazer, white turtleneck sweater, gray flannels and Gucci loafers. With his hair carefully combed, gently stroking his small silken mustache, he could have been sitting under a striped umbrella at a Hillsborough garden party.
Shifting his sizable hams on the small, uncomfortable metal chair, Friedman was affecting a puzzled frown as he said, “I’m sorry, Massey, but I can’t seem to get this straight. You say that, last night, you got home about ten P.M. from a meeting with David Behr, during which you discussed funeral arrangements and, ah, related promotional matters. And then you—”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘promotional matters,’ Lieutenant.” Massey spoke in a cold, contemptuous voice, eying Friedman with calmly calculated distaste.
“I understood that you’re planning a ‘tribute’ in the Cow Palace,” Friedman countered smoothly. “Isn’t that correct?”
Massey nodded. “That’s correct. But I’d hardly call it a promotional matter.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Friedman waved away his own choice of words. “Well, no matter. The point is that you got home about ten o’clock. You went directly to bed, after emptying your pockets on the dresser, according to your habit. Is that right?”
Again the suspect nodded. Watching the measured inclination of his head, I wondered whether we’d ever be successful in breaking down Massey’s icy composure. A half hour into the interrogation, Massey was still in perfect control of himself.
“And then you went right to sleep,” Friedman said, “and you woke up about eight o’clock this morning.”
“Yes.”
“That’s ten hours’ sleep,” Friedman observed.
Massey sighed: an exasperated, long-suffering exhalation. “If you’ll remember, Lieutenant, I didn’t get much sleep the night before.”
“Of course,” Friedman said. “Neither did we, as a matter of fact. But, anyhow, you got up about eight this morning, and made yourself breakfast—in your bathrobe. Is that right?”
“That’s right. It’s my custom, on Sunday mornings.”
“Are you a creature of habit?” Friedman asked idly.
“Yes,” he answered coolly, “I suppose I am.”
“I suppose you read the Sunday paper while you’re eating your breakfast?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Front to back.”
Friedman nodded amiably, then said, “After breakfast, you showered and then got dressed. And it was then that you noticed your keys were missing. Is that right?” As he spoke, he reached into the side pocket of his jacket.
“That’s right.”
“Now, before I go on,” Friedman said, “I want to establish that you needed these keys to drive your car home last night, and to get into your house.” Friedman took the keys from his pocket and placed them on the table between them.
“Of course I needed them,” Massey snapped, without looking at the keys. “I’ve already told you that.”
“I know you have,” Friedman said. “But, in this business, we’ve got to get things absolutely straight.”
In response, Massey shrugged, and glanced at his watch.
“I’d also like to get it straight that you’re positive you put the keys on your dresser.”
“I’m almost positive,” Massey answered. “I’ve already told you that putting them on the dresser, along with my wallet and silver, et cetera, is a habit. Which means that I do it unconsciously, not consciously.”
“But if we assume that you did it,” Friedman said, “then we’ve got to assume that the keys would still have been on the dresser this morning.”
Massey didn’t reply.
“But the fact is, they were gone,” Friedman said quietly. “You missed them when you got dressed. Or so you say.”
“I’ve already—”
“Yes, yes—” Friedman raised a hand. “I know. You’ve already told me that. But what I’m trying to establish is that, obviously, you had the keys when you entered the house at ten o’clock. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve been able to get inside. And assuming that you stayed in the house all night, then those keys had to have been in the house when you got up this morning. They might not’ve been on the dresser. But, logically, they had to’ve been inside the house. Is that correct?”
“No,” Massey answered, “that’s not correct. I could’ve left them in the front door, when I opened it. As a matter of fact, I do that, every once in a while, especially if I’m preoccupied, as I certainly was last night. Which is what probably happened, if it’s true that the keys were found at the place where this Grant woman was murdered. Someone must’ve taken the keys, and put them where you would find them.”
“Why would they do that?” I asked.
Turning sharply to face me, he said, “Simple. They’d do it to incriminate me. Or to send you off on a false scent. Which seems to be exactly what’s happened.”
I shook my head. “It didn’t happen that way, Massey. The keys weren’t deliberately planted.”
“Why not?”
“First, the keys weren’t put where we would find them. They were thrown away, along with the gun.”
“And second,” Friedman said, “there was a detective watching your house.” He let a beat pass, allowing the suspect to think about what he’d said. Then: “He’d’ve seen someone on your doorstep.”
Now it was Massey’s turn to hesitate, as he looked from Friedman to me, then back to Friedman
. Except for the muted whirring of a ventilation fan, the windowless, airless interrogation room was silent. As I returned Massey’s stare, I thought I could see a shadow of fear flicker deep in his clear gray eyes. When he raised his hand to smooth down his foppish mustache, his fingers moved uncertainly. Finally he turned to face Friedman. “If those keys were found at the Crescent,” he said, “then someone broke into my house and took them from my dresser, and planted them there. That’s the only way it could’ve happened. He could’ve gotten in the back way, without being seen by your man.” The gray eyes narrowed as they moved once more between Friedman and me. His thin voice was ragged now, no longer arrogantly clipped.
Did he know that he’d given us the break we needed? Was that why he seemed suddenly uneasy, suddenly unsure of himself? I exchanged a quick glance with Friedman. Yes, he’d heard it, too.
Still leaning against the wall, arms folded, I said, “When I talked to Inspector Canelli, he said that you told him you didn’t know Sally Grant was dead. You didn’t know about the murder until we told you about it. Is that right?”
He first shrugged, then nodded. “Yes,” he said warily. “Yes, that’s right.” Once more, his thin fingers strayed to his mustache—perhaps to conceal an uncertain twitching of his mouth.
“The story wasn’t in the paper,” I said, “and it wasn’t on TV. It was on the radio, though, beginning at about nine o’clock this morning.” I paused, then asked quietly, “But, still, you’re sure you didn’t hear about the murder before Canelli rang your doorbell. Is that right?”
Impatiently, he nodded. “Yes, that’s right. How many times do I have to tell you?” He spoke peevishly, blinking angrily as he looked at me. His waspish composure was deserting him.
“Well, then,” I said, “how did you know that she’d been murdered at the Crescent?”
“I—” He blinked again, and then lowered his eyes. With his hand once more covering his mouth, he said, “I don’t remember saying that.”
“But you did say it, Massey,” Friedman put in softly. “You most certainly did say it.”
Eyes still averted, he shook his head in a slow, stubborn arc. “It—it’s something I must’ve heard those detectives say. Canelli, and the other one. Or maybe I might’ve put on a radio, and heard about it, and then forgotten that I’d heard it.”
Quickly exchanging a glance, Friedman and I mutely agreed to remain silent. This was the time for us to watch—and wait.
Finally Massey raised his eyes to meet Friedman’s inscrutable stare. “This—this isn’t fair. I—I’m still upset, by Rebecca’s death. And you—you’re confusing me. You’re badgering me.”
“We aren’t badgering you,” I said. “We’re just trying to find out how your keys got to the murder scene.”
“And we’re also trying to find out how you knew she was murdered at the Crescent,” Friedman said. “You really can’t blame us, you know. After all, you had a lot to gain by Rebecca’s death—a lot of tax-free insurance dollars. In fact, right from the start, Massey, we figured you were a prime suspect. And, as matters turned out, it looks like we were right.”
“We think you stole Rebecca’s gun from her trailer,” I said, “possibly to incriminate Sam Wright. Then we think you gave the gun to Sally Grant, along with instructions to hire a trigger man. Then, when Hoadley—the trigger man—got caught, and blew the whistle on Sally, we think she panicked. We think Sally called you last night about one A.M., and told you to meet her at the Crescent. And then—”
“Jesus Christ—” Massey leaped to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. His eyes were distraught, his voice a high, thin shriek: “It’s all lies. All lies.” He stood with his legs braced wide, futilely beating the air with impotent fists. Watching him, I remembered Behr’s contemptuous evaluation of Ron Massey: a tall, handsome toady. Without his male-model’s counterfeit cool, Massey was a cipher.
As Friedman rose to his feet, he said, “Did you know Sally Grant, Massey? Did you ever talk to her? Ever come in contact with her during the last two months?”
“Christ, no. I mean—” Desperately, he shook his head. “I mean, I heard of her. Almost everyone’s heard of her. But I’ve never talked to her.” Shaking his head, he let it go unfinished. Now he looked down at the overturned chair. He righted it, and sat down again heavily, elbows on the table, head in his hands. “This is insane,” he muttered. “This is crazy. Completely crazy. You—you’ve got the wrong man. Don’t you see that? Maybe your facts are right. I guess they are right. But you—Christ—you’ve got the wrong man.” He spoke indistinctly, in a voice that trembled.
“Who’s the right man, then?” I asked. “Who did it, Massey?”
Slowly, hopelessly, he shook his head, still cradled in his hands. “I want a lawyer,” he muttered. “I’ve got to have a lawyer. You’ve got to let me have a lawyer.”
Catching my eye, Friedman moved his head to the interrogation room’s steel door. “Excuse us a minute, will you?” he said to Massey.
Still with his head bowed, the suspect didn’t reply—didn’t respond. I signaled for the guard to open the door, and walked down the hallway with Friedman. As I walked, I glanced at my watch. The time was ten minutes after eight. In a little more than an hour, Ann would be expecting my call.
“What’d you think?” Friedman said, bending over the drinking fountain.
“I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “What’d you think?”
“I think,” Friedman said, “that if we had the gun that killed Sally Grant, and if we had it tied to him, we’d have enough to take him into custody. As it is, though, I think the most we can get is a search warrant. What’d you think?”
“I think,” I answered, “that you’re probably right. But I also think that—”
“Lieutenant Friedman.” It was the hallway guard, calling from his station at the end of the corridor. He held a telephone outstretched toward us. “It’s for you.”
“Thanks.”
I watched Friedman walk down the corridor, take the phone from the patrolman and speak briefly into the receiver. While he listened, his thick eyebrows rose slightly. His full lips drew together, pursing thoughtfully. His dark eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he stared down at the floor beside the guard’s small desk. It was as much surprise as Friedman ever allowed himself to reveal.
Finally, after speaking a last time into the receiver, Friedman gave the phone to the patrolman, thanked him and came back down the hallway toward me. Despite an obvious effort to conceal it, surprise showed plainly in his eyes.
“That was Shelby,” he said, “in the lab.” As he said it, his gaze fixed itself absently on a point just below the “V” of my open-necked shirt.
“Well?” I demanded. “Are you going to tell me about it? Or should I guess?”
“He says that he’s got a fingerprint make from Sally Grant’s car.”
I decided to fold my arms and stare at him until he told me the rest of it.
“It’s Justin Wade’s print,” Friedman said finally. “It’s only two partials—not enough for admission as evidence. But Shelby says he’s positive it’s a make. And Shelby is a very, very conscientious man. He’s also very enterprising.”
“Where’d he find the print?”
“It was on the inside of her car’s door handle,” Friedman said. “That’s why I said that Shelby’s enterprising. Apparently the handle had been wiped—the outside of it, but not the inside. When Shelby dusted the handle, he didn’t see any prints, naturally. But, on the off chance, he used a dental mirror to look at the inside of the handle. And there they were—two good, clear partials.”
“Justin—” I shook my head. “It’s hard to believe he’s the one.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I answered, “in lots of ways, when you think about it, he’s exactly right for the part. Which usually means it’s someone else.”
“You do remember, though, that he denied ever meeting Sally Grant.�
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I nodded.
“Which means that he lied to us, according to the lab.”
I nodded again, and for a moment we stood silently, thoughtfully staring at each other. Finally Friedman said, “If he’s the one, then at least it explains one thing.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It explains those goddamn visions. They were just devices to throw us off the goddamn track—and throw suspicion on someone else.”
“And they worked, too.”
“Not on me, they didn’t work,” Friedman said. “I was always suspicious.”
“Sure you were.”
Twenty-two
AHEAD I SAW A shopping center parking lot, almost deserted at nine o’clock on a Sunday evening.
“Pull in there,” I ordered. As Canelli swung the cruiser abruptly into the driveway—striking the curb with the right rear wheel—I reached for the microphone.
“Units two and three, on tach three, this is unit one. Let’s disperse in this parking lot while we go over procedures. Don’t bunch up, and stay in the cars.”
As we drew to a stop beside a deserted Photomat stand, I turned to watch the two unmarked cars enter the lot and find inconspicuous parking places. When they were parked, with their lights off, I reached again for the microphone.
“Let’s switch to the walkie-talkies, channel five.” I picked up my own walkie-talkie, tuned to channel five, pressed the transmit button and said, “Culligan, you’re number two. You’re in command of backup. Clear?”
“That’s clear,” Culligan answered laconically.
“Marsten, you’re number three.”
“Right.” Even though his voice came through rough and scratchy, Marsten’s displeasure was plain. Culligan and Marsten didn’t get along.
“All right, here’s the situation. There are thirty or forty people in the Aztecca house, maybe more. Supposedly, they’re all devoted to Justin Wade. Which means that, if we aren’t careful, we could get in over our heads. So we’re going to take it slow and easy. Canelli and I will drive up to the house, and go inside. We’re going to run a con—tell Justin that we’d like him to come down to the Hall, so we can verify one of his so-called visions. If it works like it should, we’ll get him outside and in the car with no problems. If something goes wrong, we’ll call on channel five. Clear?”
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 19