A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I am the boss.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.” She handed over several cards. “Hang on to those, will you?”

  “I will. Incidentally, next time you’re on a police job, bring rubber gloves, okay?”

  “Right.” Jauntily she closed her toolbox, hefted it, and strode to the elevator, which still stood open. Her blue jeans were tight enough to capture a pleasing, provocative play of buttocks and thighs. Somehow the spectacle was a wistful one. Ten years ago he might have made a move on her.

  Slowly, carefully, he pushed the door open. Inside, he saw a hallway. He stepped quickly inside, closed the door, shot the bolt. Then, revolver in hand, he went through the apartment, opening every door, even looking under the bed. Satisfied, he holstered the revolver and reentered the short interior hallway. If the flat gave evidence that she’d shared it with a man, he would take a quick look and then leave. In the ghetto, entering without a warrant wasn’t a problem. But the rich, he’d learned, called their lawyers.

  The short hallway led to a large living room that spanned the full width of the building, probably twenty-five feet. A floor-to-ceiling window dominated the far wall.

  Meredith’s living room …

  He stood still in the doorway, trying for a feel of the place. It was an off-white room: off-white walls, off-white woodwork, off-white wool carpeting, wall to wall. The furniture was simple: two long, low, squared-off sofas upholstered in nubby, natural wool, two matching chairs, a large round coffee table with an inch-thick glass top set on a simple crisscrossed brass frame. A basketball-size rock crystal was placed in the center of the table. Magazines were arranged in a studied fan on the table: a fashion magazine and three others, all glossy. Built beside a fireplace that obviously wasn’t used, high walnut shelves dominated the wall opposite the view window. Stereo equipment, an expensive TV, a VCR, and a large collection of records and tapes took up most of the shelves. The books were either hardback popular novels or large, expensive art books. The novels looked as if they might have been read; the art books didn’t. Like most San Francisco real estate, the house was built on a narrow twenty-five-foot lot, attached on two sides. The huge window, facing west, was the only source of light in the living room. The north and south walls, floor to ceiling, were hung with a breathtaking collection of modern paintings, most of them abstract. Primitive wood and stone statues were arranged on a low dais that had been placed in front of the window. A higher dais held a five-foot sculpture: pieces of black-scaled metal, rough-welded into what could have been the abstract of a huge praying mantis.

  Could this be Meredith Powell’s living room? Had the girl from Thirty-ninth Avenue, the daughter of a beer-bellied plumber, chosen this sculpture, these paintings? Where were the odd bits of clutter that revealed so much: the scattered newspapers, the coffee mug, used ashtrays, a half-done crossword puzzle, worn paperbacks, a well-thumbed TV guide? Where was the evidence that she’d really lived here?

  Three rosewood drawers were built into the bookshelves. Gingerly he opened each drawer in turn. One of the drawers was empty, a second contained tape cleaning equipment, the third contained a miscellaneous collection of pencils, paid bills, a few coupons, a wristwatch that didn’t work, a necklace with a broken clasp—and, finally, a TV guide. Perhaps, then, this flat had really been home for Meredith. Perhaps she was one of those people who passed through life without leaving deep footprints.

  Like the living room, the dining room was furnished with sterile, high-styled tables and chairs that seemed calculated to show off the paintings and outsize collages that covered the walls. Two French doors opened on a miniature Japanese garden that had been planted in part of a large airshaft.

  The kitchen was a marvel of upscale cabinetry and high-tech equipment, all of it set off with natural wood cabinets and burnished copper and brass utensils. The kitchen, too, looked out on the airshaft, really a central court. In the sink, a coffee mug, a wineglass, an earthenware dish, and a plate were filled with cloudy water.

  He stepped to the refrigerator, opened one of the two doors. Refrigerators, he’d discovered, could be revealing; he’d once found a severed hand in a meat tray. But there were no surprises in Meredith’s refrigerator: two bottles of white wine, an opened carton of milk, some leftovers, all neatly stored and covered.

  Like the kitchen, the bathroom was high tech. Unlike most homicide victims, Meredith had been neat and clean. He looked in the shower. She’d left her flowered shower cap on the shower head. He looked in the medicine cabinet. One of the shelves held bottles and vials of prescription drugs. The labels meant nothing. But, sum-totaled, the collection seemed about average, suggesting that she’d been in good health. The contents of other bathroom cabinets were also predictable: towels, soaps, perfumes, Tampax, toilet paper, several boxes of Kleenex. When he’d first gotten out of the academy, years ago, he’d felt guilty prying among a victim’s personal effects. That feeling of guilt had slowly dissipated—until now.

  A small mirrored dressing room adjoined the bathroom and revealed nothing of particular interest. A large hall closet contained several coats, a vacuum cleaner and cleaning equipment, suitcases, boxes, a long yellow rain parka, two pairs of expensive boots.

  So it was in the last room, Meredith’s bedroom, that he must find what he needed: names, addresses, check stubs, pictures, diaries, ticket stubs, a safe-deposit key, mementos from childhood—all the bits and pieces that, fitted together, might tell him who murdered Meredith Powell.

  The east wall of the bedroom was glass, overlooking a deck and a garden beyond. There was a king-size bed, two small armchairs, a vanity table and chair, two small bedside bureaus with crystal lamps, two low chests of drawers and a desk. Except for the door, the west wall was one large wardrobe closet, its sliding doors mirrored. All of the furniture appeared to be either genuine antique or expensive reproductions: fine woods intricately carved, some naturally burnished, some painted and glazed. To furnish this one room, Hastings knew, had cost more than most families spent furnishing their entire home.

  Because the overcast sky was darkening, he flipped a switch beside the door that lit an overhead crystal candelabra. When he slid open one door of a wardrobe, a light came on inside. Predictably, there were racks of expensive clothes and shoes. Drawers held blouses, underwear, stockings, handbags, accessories. One of the two high shelves was stacked with fancy boxes. He would remember those boxes, if it became necessary to return. One of them, probably a small box in the back, could be a detective’s treasure trove.

  As he’d done in the living room, Hastings stood still for a moment, absorbing the feel of the room that, more than the others, should tell him something. Had Meredith been happy here? Sad? When she’d made love in this bed, had she cried out in ecstasy? Had the man she feared so much stood right here?

  He surveyed the paintings, which were sorter, more pastel than her other paintings. Still, he was somehow unable to match the art to the woman. He walked to the small glass-topped vanity table. Beneath the glass he saw a cluster of a half-dozen faded snapshots. The light from the chandelier was too dim to make out the faces. He switched on one of the bedside lamps—and felt himself suddenly go hollow at his center. There it was: a picture of Meredith and Kevin, she about ten years old, he about sixteen, both of them squinting into the sun. The picture had been taken in the driveway of their home; he could recognize the house in the background. The picture was clear enough to reveal that, yes, the paint on the garage door was peeling. Another picture showed a smiling Meredith, all grown up, in her stewardess uniform. Legs crossed in a shy, self-conscious cheesecake pose, she was sitting on a low stone wall with palm trees in the background.

  There was a picture of Meredith in a cap and gown, Meredith posing with someone who could have been Willie Nelson—

  —and Meredith, a child, with her mother and father. Except for their clothes, both of them dressed up, her parents were just as he remembered them: th
e timid, mousy mother, the big, bluff father boldly smiling full face into the camera, his fedora pushed jauntily back on his head. One of his hands rested on Meredith’s shoulder.

  Aware that he’d been standing very still, aware of the pull he felt confronting the picture, he let one final beat pass. Then he began systematically going through the drawers of both the vanity and the small writing desk. The two top drawers of the desk yielded what he’d been hoping to find: a collection of check stubs, a bank statement, an address book, a few bills, a leather-bound notebook with a gold Cross pen attached, a key ring with more than a dozen keys, probably spares. Sorting through the keys, he saw a safe-deposit key. He took a plastic evidence bag from an inside pocket, filled the bag with everything but the keys, and went to the flat’s door. Yes, one of the keys fitted. Satisfied, he locked the door and went to the interior stairs.

  4:20 P.M. Hastings pressed the doorbell button for the third time, listened at the door of the second-floor flat, then slipped his card with its handwritten “Call me, please” message between the door and the frame. Later he would send someone back to interrogate the Cowperthwaites. He took the stairs to the first floor. On the second press of the “C. L. Persse” button, the door came quickly open to reveal a teenage boy, tall, slim, blond, clear blue eyes, improbably handsome. Here was the prototypical California golden boy: plainly overprivileged, completely at ease inside his khakis, his scuffed white running shoes, and his pale-blue sweater that was probably cashmere.

  But, overprivileged or not, the youth’s eyes widened as he looked at the gold inspector’s shield held in the palm of Hastings’s hand.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. I need some information.”

  “Ah—” He looked at the badge, swallowed, finally met Hastings’s gaze. “A lieutenant? Really?”

  Hastings nodded. “Really. If you’ve got a few minutes—” He advanced a half step, looking past the subject. “It’s about Meredith Powell, on the third floor. It won’t take long.”

  “Oh. Well. Sure.” Hastily the boy stepped back, gestured. “Sure. Come on in.”

  The flat’s living-room area was identical to Meredith’s, but the feeling of the room was dramatically different. This room was home to a family—people who left tracks, people who made messes. As they sat facing each other across a cluttered coffee table, Hastings put the evidence bag on the floor beneath the table, then took out his notebook and ballpoint pen.

  “What’s your name, please?”

  “It’s Lee. Leland, really. Leland Persse.”

  “Age?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “How long have you lived here, Lee?”

  “It’s been—let’s see. Three years. We moved here when I started the ninth grade.”

  “You and your parents live here.”

  “Right.”

  “This flat must have two bedrooms, then.”

  Persse nodded. “Right. The other two have one bedroom. Our rear bedroom makes a deck for the people upstairs.”

  “Where’re your parents now?”

  “They’re both at work, should be home in maybe an hour.”

  “I smell something cooking.” Hastings smiled.

  Nervously Leland Persse returned the smile, which quickly faded. “I cook dinner most nights. That’s the deal.”

  “What’re you having? I’m just curious.”

  “It’s stew, really. Stew and salad.” The smile returned. “I put some red wine in it, though, and call it ragout.”

  Hastings nodded appreciatively, then allowed his own smile to fade. Time for business.

  “Did—” He caught himself. “Do you know Meredith Powell, on the third floor?”

  “Well—” With the single word, caution clouded the vivid blue eyes, momentarily tugged at the easygoing, all-American musculature of the face.

  Caution?

  Why?

  “Well—” Lee Persse swallowed. “Well, I don’t know her, exactly. I mean, we—we’ve talked a few times, like that.”

  Eyeing Persse thoughtfully, Hastings allowed a long moment of silence to pass. Because silence, he’d discovered—a hard, watchful silence—could often reveal more than a dozen questions.

  But Persse’s momentary facial spasm, origin unknown, passed as suddenly as it had come. Requiring, therefore, more probing.

  “How long has she lived here, would you say?”

  “Oh—” Persse calculated. “Maybe two years.”

  “You say you talked to her?”

  Persse shrugged. “A few times. Six, seven times, maybe.”

  Hastings nodded, decided to let another moment of silence pass. Then: “I’ve just come from her flat, Lee. Have you ever been up there? In her flat?”

  “No—” The denial came quickly. A single beat too quickly. “No, I’ve never seen her place, never been inside, up there.”

  “You talked—where—in the hallway? The lobby?”

  Again the shrug, a disclaimer. “Yeah, the lobby. And out in front, sometimes.”

  “What kind of a neighbor is she, would you say?”

  Persse frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “Did she give wild parties, cause any trouble? Were there lots of people coming and going in her place, would you say?”

  The youth shook his head decisively. “No—no. She’s real quiet. You’d never know she’s up there. Just—you know—comes and goes, minds her own business.”

  “Did—does she keep regular hours?”

  The puzzled frown returned. “I’m not—”

  “Does she come and go at regular times? As if she were going to a job, for instance?”

  Persse shook his head. “No, I don’t think she works. I’d be surprised if she works. She’s—” He shrugged: a teenager, searching for the phrase. “She’s too—too classy, for that. Too elegant. You know?”

  “Yes—” Spontaneously regretful, Hastings sighed. Lee Persse had summed it up: Meredith had been too classy, too elegant, for her own good.

  “What about visitors?”

  Persse shook his head. “I can’t ever remember that she had a visitor, not that I saw, anyhow.”

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “Oh—a week ago, maybe. Something like that.”

  “When was the last time you saw her, whether or not you talked to her?”

  “Well—”Another moment of calculation. “Well, just seeing her, not talking, like you said, that would’ve been last night.”

  “Last night?” Hastings felt his heartbeat quicken. It was a rookie’s reaction, a random flash from the past: other interrogations, in other rooms. “When, last night?”

  “Oh, maybe nine o’clock, like that. Maybe a little later, but not much.”

  “What were the circumstances?” As he spoke, he jotted down 9 P.M., 9:30, Leland Persse.

  “She was just coming out of the garage.”

  “Driving, you mean?”

  Persse nodded. “Right.”

  “What kind of a car does she drive?”

  “It’s a Mercedes Three-eighty SL.” Persse sighed gently: the male teenager, infatuated with cars. “It’s silver. Beautiful.”

  Writing in the notebook, Hastings felt the rookie’s rush return. In San Francisco, there were probably less than a hundred 380 SL owners.

  “Can you tell me anything about her?” Hastings asked. “How was she dressed last night?”

  “It was too dark to tell. I could just see her head.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Right. Alone.”

  “Did you speak to her? Wave to her?”

  “No. I was in a car, with a couple of friends. We were going down to Tower Records, and we were just taking off. But—” A thoughtful pause. Then: “But there was something that happened last night.”

  “What was that?” Asking the question, Hastings was conscious of a small, significant visceral shift.

  “Well, after we went down to Tower and got a couple of CDs, we went to
this girl’s house—Christine Hejanian—to play them. They’ve got a big room over their garage that’s all wired for sound and everything. And a couple of other people came by, and everything, until it was kind of a party. So I didn’t get home until about one o’clock. That’s when he dropped me off—Jack Thiede, he was driving, had his mother’s car. So anyhow—” Persse paused, for breath. “Anyhow, we were parked across the street and down a few houses, talking. I was sitting in the front seat. And I saw her Mercedes come up the hill and turn into the garage. And I remember thinking that it was strange, how it happened. I mean, usually, whenever anyone goes into the garage, he punches the electronic door opener when he’s maybe fifty feet away, you know. The door opens, and whoever it is drives inside, no waiting. But last night she pulled into the driveway, and she just sat there, nothing happening. I guess she was having trouble with her opener, or something. Or maybe there was someone else in the car, and they were talking. But anyhow, finally the door came up, and she drove inside.”

  “Are you sure she was driving? Did you recognize her?”

  “No. I couldn’t see into the car. But I wondered, like I said, whether she had someone with her.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, there’s a door that goes from the garage into the building, right?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Yeah. Well, there is. Which is what she did. Went into the foyer and took the elevator up, I guess. But then, maybe a minute or two later, the garage door came up again. And a guy came out.”

  A guy?

  Persse nodded.

  “Did you get a look at him? A good look?”

  “No. He turned left and walked down Hyde, toward Filbert. We were parked at the corner of Greenwich. There’s a fireplug there, and we were just—”

  “Let’s get back to this man. Describe him as much as you can. Was he young? Old? Fat? Skinny?”

  “Well, he was slim. Maybe a hundred sixty, something like that. And he moved like he was young. But that’s about all I could tell. See, we were parked at the corner, and it was real dark, and—”