A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I’m sorry you had to wait,” Corwin said. “Luis had orders not to disturb me.”

  “Ah—” Friedman nodded. “Yes, we were wondering.”

  “Wondering?”

  “We had a feeling that you were here. From the way Luis acted.”

  “I see.” Corwin’s lips stirred in a thin, humorless smile that left the eyes eerily empty. “Very perceptive.” The smile faded instantly.

  “Thank you.” Friedman smiled, nodded genially. Then, aware that he was unable to remain seated, eyes raised, while Corwin stood at his ease, arms folded, looking down at them, Friedman rose, stepped to the fireplace, leaned easily against the eight-foot mantelpiece. Also rising to stand beside the fireplace, Hastings knowingly noted the smile. With a member of the privileged class within range, Friedman was adjusting his sights, fixing the cross-hairs on his victim.

  “The reason we’ve come,” Friedman began, “is to ask about Meredith Powell. You knew her, we understand.”

  Corwin spoke very softly. “She was murdered. Thursday, wasn’t it?”

  “You did know her, then.”

  Still leaning against the edge of the table, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, Corwin nodded. “She’s been here often. Meredith was beautiful, one of those natural beauties.”

  “You say she’s been here,” Hastings said. “Have you ever been to her place?”

  Corwin nodded. “Yes. Twice, I think. She lived on Hyde Street, right at the top of the hill. It was a wonderful view, I remember. Really spectacular.”

  “When were you there?” Friedman asked. “How long ago?”

  Corwin shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.” He smiled.

  “Just approximately. A week? A month? A year?”

  Corwin shrugged languidly. “Months, certainly. Not weeks, anyhow. And not a year, I wouldn’t think.”

  “When was the last time she was here?”

  “I’m not sure,” Corwin answered. “It was at a party. I’m in the art business, as you may know. Every month or so I give a party for my artists and their friends.” Once more his face registered a counterfeit smile, instantly gone. “They’re mob scenes, I’m afraid. The neighbors seem to think so, anyhow.”

  “Several years ago,” Friedman said, “we met, you and I. It was after one of your parties. When a girl died.”

  “Ah …” Broadly regretful, Corwin shook his head. “Yes. It—I’ll never forget that, as long as I live. Someone brought heroin to the party. It was terrible. Absolutely terrible.”

  “What was the victim’s name?” Friedman asked. “Do you remember?”

  “It was Tina Betts,” Corwin answered promptly. “She was only nineteen. Someone brought her to the party.”

  “You’d never seen Tina Betts before that time, if I remember.”

  “That’s correct. She came with someone. An artist named Esterbrook, if I recall correctly.”

  Friedman nodded, exchanged a quick glance with Hastings. The time had come to turn up the heat.

  “Getting back to Meredith Powell, Mr. Corwin, can you give us any reason why she was murdered?”

  As if he were puzzled, Corwin frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “What we’re doing,” Friedman said, “is checking out everyone who knew her. ‘Known associates’ is the official phrase. You knew her, obviously. Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill her?”

  “None at all.”

  “Was she involved with drugs, for instance? Did she hang around with people you’d consider dangerous?”

  “Not that I was aware of, certainly. I really didn’t know that much about her friends, I’m afraid. I was simply—” Corwin paused, searching for the phrase. “I was simply an admirer.” Another pause, another search for the appropriate phrase. Then: “Someone as beautiful as Meredith deserved to be admired.”

  “Like you’d admire a work of art …” As he said it, Hastings allowed his gaze to wander to the gouged-out eye, with its ganglia dangling down the wall.

  Ignoring the direction of Hastings’s glance, Corwin nodded appreciatively, smiled. “Exactly.”

  “What about Meredith Powell’s life-style?” Friedman asked.

  Corwin frowned. “Her life-style?”

  “I’d calculate,” Friedman said, “that she needed at least a hundred thousand dollars a year to live the way she lived, assuming she was paying rent and making car payments. But she apparently didn’t work. And we don’t believe she had a whole lot of money in the bank, or in stocks and bonds. Not enough, anyhow, to produce that kind of income. So—” Friedman spread his hands. “So we think someone was paying her bills. Have you any idea who it might’ve been, Mr. Corwin?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t, Lieutenant. Sorry.”

  “You say she’s been here for your parties. Did she come with someone?”

  “At first she did. But then I invited her. As I said, Meredith was so beautiful, she was like a—a spectacle.”

  “So she came as your date,” Friedman pressed.

  Corwin lifted himself to sit on the table, legs dangling, arms braced wide on the ancient planks. He spoke judiciously. “You might say that. Except that, typically, I ask several women to come to my parties as my guests.”

  “You’re not married, I gather.”

  Amused, Corwin shook his head. “No, Lieutenant, I’m not married.” His manner was both condescending and playful, as if he were teasing the two detectives, gently chiding them for the question. “I tried marriage once, a long time ago. It didn’t work. I’ve never had the desire to try it again.”

  As if to join in the other man’s quizzical little game, Friedman smiled. “You’re very candid, Mr. Corwin. We appreciate that.”

  Corwin gracefully inclined his narrow head: dry, yellowing skin stretched across the aging bones of the skull. “As you’ve doubtless suspected, Lieutenant, I’m a spectator, I’m afraid. A dedicated spectator. Provocative art, beautiful women, anything that’s unique—I collect them all. Some would say I’m a voyeur, I suppose, a collector of new experiences, new sensations.” He shrugged. “And I can’t disagree.” He focused his avid eyes on Friedman. “It must be the same with you, in your work.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “I was thinking of murder,” Corwin said. “After all, murder is the ultimate human experience, wouldn’t you say?”

  “The difference between us,” Friedman answered, “is that you’re a spectator. With me, it’s business.”

  “Ah—” Corwin nodded appreciatively. “Yes.”

  Watching them, Hastings realized that he was witnessing the opening moves in a contest of equals, each man probing the other’s defense.

  “I’m still trying to decide on the true nature of your relationship with the victim.” Friedman said it tentatively, as if to ask Corwin for help. “She’s been here several times, and you’ve been to her place a couple of times. Now—” Pretending to search laboriously for the right words, the right phrases, Friedman paused. “Now, I understand why she came here. She was a beautiful woman, and you wanted her for your parties. An adornment, you might say. Is that it, pretty much?”

  Smiling fatuous encouragement, Corwin nodded. “That’s it exactly, Lieutenant. Excellent.”

  “And when you went to her place—” Friedman delicately let the question go unfinished.

  Corwin’s answering smile was playfully elfin. “I went with the thought that”—he shrugged, twisted his lips in a lascivious smile—“that, who knows, there might be a happy ending.”

  “That she might go to bed with you.” Friedman’s smile, too, was playfully lascivious. Watching the two men leer at each other, Hastings experienced a momentary rush of anger. It was Meredith they were talking about.

  In reply, Corwin smiled, shrugged, recrossed his feet at the ankles, dangling the sporty loafers, the with-it argyle socks. Watching the two men smiling at each other, swapping locker-room innuendoes, F
riedman leaning against the massive baronial fireplace, Corwin sitting on the huge oak-and-studded-iron table, Hastings felt reality suddenly shift. What was the meaning of this strange encounter, played against the bizarre backdrop of surreal modern art displayed in a room meant for a medieval castle? What were they doing here, the three of them?

  “But it didn’t work out,” Friedman prompted, his voice genial, his full lips curving in a small, knowing smile. Hastings recognized that mannerism, recognized that smile. Friedman was about to spring a carefully prepared trap.

  “No,” Corwin answered, also genially. “It didn’t work out. She was kind but firm.”

  “But you continued to invite her to your parties.”

  Corwin nodded urbanely. “Of course.”

  As if he were reviewing the ground they’d covered, Friedman nodded thoughtfully, allowed his eyes to wander across the room until they fixed on one of the statues, a candy-striped abstract representation of two women making love. Friedman held the pose, letting the silence lengthen, letting the tension slowly build. Finally he turned again to face Corwin.

  “Tell me about Allegro, Mr. Corwin.” He spoke casually, almost negligently.

  The effect was electric. Instantly Corwin’s head snapped up, his eyes came into sharp, hard focus. “Allegro?”

  Still casual, Friedman nodded. “Allegro.”

  “But I—” Corwin levered himself down from his seat on the tabletop to stand facing Friedman. His face was a mask, an inscrutable network of countless lines and creases drawn in on itself. “I don’t understand what Allegro’s got to do with this.”

  “Allegro owns the building you’ve got your gallery in,” Friedman said. “Isn’t that true?”

  “I—ah—yes.” Corwin’s lips parted; a small pink tongue moistened thin, dry lips. “Yes, that’s true. But—”

  “Allegro also owns the building on Hyde Street where Meredith lived.” Friedman’s eyes were very still, fixed on his victim.

  As if he were incapable of wrenching his eyes away, Corwin stood motionless, staring at Friedman. The silence lengthened, the tension heightened. Finally, speaking in a low, ragged monotone, eyes still fixated by Friedman’s cold, dispassionate stare, Corwin said, “I—I knew that—knew Allegro owns the building on Hyde Street. That’s—ah—” He broke off, suddenly dropped his eyes. Transparently, Corwin was struggling to think ahead, anticipate the interrogation’s next turn, guilt entangled in the tightening coils of truth. Both detectives scrupulously avoided each other’s eyes, afraid their excitement would show. Edwin Corwin, multimillionaire, child of the nation’s headlines, self-admitted voyeur, was making the amateur criminal’s most predictable mistake. Rather than remain silent, waiting for his lawyer, Edwin Corwin would now begin to lie. Beginning, predictably, with deceptive bits of truth.

  “That’s—ah—true, that Allegro owns both buildings. And others, too—other buildings, in San Francisco.”

  Deftly setting out another snare, Friedman spoke affably. “And New York, too. And other cities.”

  Corwin nodded eagerly. But, instantly, caution shadowed his eyes. “Y-yes, that’s right. It’s—ah—Allegro, it’s actually my family’s business. One of my family’s businesses.”

  Still affable, Friedman said, “I imagine the rents are substantial, for Twenty-one Fifty-two Hyde Street.”

  “Well—” Once more Corwin licked his lips. “Well, I suppose they are. But that’s not my affair. I—naturally—I don’t collect the rents.”

  “Do you pay rent on the Hayes Street building—your gallery?”

  “Yes.” As if he were reassured by the conversation’s turn, Corwin nodded. “It’s a paper transaction. I pay Allegro rent, they pay me dividends.” Corwin’s attempt at a smile was grotesque, a sudden, spasmodic realignment of the lines and creases. “Fortunately, the dividends exceed the rent.”

  “And what about Meredith, Mr. Corwin? Did she pay the rent?” Friedman’s voice was silky-soft.

  Instantly the caricature of a smile disappeared. The narrow shoulders jerked upward, counterfeiting an indifferent shrug. “I suppose she did. As I said, it’s not my function to—”

  Hastings interrupted. “No, Mr. Corwin, she didn’t pay rent.” Like Friedman, he spoke quietly, gently.

  “Well—” Corwin spread his hands. The fingers were trembling. He dropped his arms quickly, then refolded them across his narrow chest. “Well, that’s between Meredith and Allegro. She—”

  “We’re checking out Allegro’s records right now, Mr. Corwin. And what’ll you bet we’ll discover that Meredith lived rent-free?”

  “Are you—” Corwin’s throat closed, forcing him to break off. Then, in a half-choked voice: “Are you—you accusing me? Because if you are, I’m certainly not going to—”

  “Accusing you?” Eyebrows blandly arched, Friedman raised both hands, an innocent disclaimer. “What would I accuse you of?” Holding the innocuous pose, he let a maestro’s beat pass. Then: “Of Meredith’s murder? Is that what you were going to say?”

  At bay now, yet trying to conceal it, Corwin fell silent. His gaze slid toward the open archway, and escape.

  “Well,” Friedman said, “there’s no point in pursuing the question of rent. Either she paid it or she didn’t. It’s a matter of record.” He let another beat pass. Then, in a different voice, all business now, he said, “What about Charles, Mr. Corwin? Tell us about Charles.”

  Once more the small tongue protruded to lick lips thinned by silent desperation. The slack flesh of Corwin’s throat was corded. For the first time, Hastings saw sweat glistening on the suspect’s forehead and scalp.

  “Charles?”

  Friedman nodded gravely. “Yes. Charles. He’s your right-hand man, we understand. Did he know Meredith?”

  “I—I—” Once more Corwin’s throat closed. Then, with great effort, he said, “I can’t tell you anything about him, about Charles.”

  Friedman pretended surprise. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you—you’re insinuating that Charles—that he had something to do with—with Meredith’s murder.”

  The two detectives exchanged a long, significant glance. Then Friedman looked out into the entry hall before he asked politely, “Would you mind if Lieutenant Hastings and I take a few minutes to talk before we go on, Mr. Corwin? It won’t take long.”

  Corwin nodded numbly. Looking around him as he walked out into the entry hall, Friedman led the way to a small stone cloister that featured a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary. The statue had been painted comic-book garish.

  “So what’d you think?” Friedman asked softly. “Should we read him his rights? The book says we’ve got to do it when suspicion first enters our minds.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Hastings said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Friedman glanced back speculatively in the direction of the gallery room they’d just left. “Why hasn’t he done the lawyer dodge? I’d expect them to be here in a platoon front by now. What’s he think he’s doing?”

  “If we charge him, sure as hell the lawyers will be here.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Maybe it’s ego,” Hastings said. “The guy’s supposed to be an egomaniac. A kinky, complicated egomaniac. Maybe it didn’t occur to him that he couldn’t do a number on us.”

  “So how do you see it?” Friedman pressed, still checking over his shoulder. “How about if we give him his rights, but we don’t charge him?”

  “If we give him his rights, then we’ve got to charge him.” Hastings frowned. “Don’t we?”

  “Let’s assume we don’t.” Friedman spoke quickly, impatiently. “We aren’t lawyers. We give him his rights, we’re covered. We squeeze him a little more, then we get out. We keep the place staked out, and we get a couple of illegal listening devices. We do the same for Charles’s place, obviously. By now we should have a license number for Charles’s Fiat. We hope somethi
ng develops between now and tomorrow morning, at which time we see the DA and fill him in. Right?”

  “Sounds good,” Hastings said, adding, “He mentioned her murder, did you notice?”

  “I sure did. In my experience that could mean something.”

  “Or nothing.”

  “True.” As he spoke, Friedman began walking across the entry hall to the gallery room. At first glance, the room looked empty. But then, blocked from view by the central table, they saw him: Edwin Corwin, seated on the fireplace hearth. He sat with head bowed, shoulders folded forward, knees pressed tightly together, hands desperately clasped between his thin thighs. Standing motionless, the two detectives momentarily studied the small, huddled figure, then exchanged long, searching looks. Was this the arrogant patrician they’d left only minutes before, the baron of this bizarre castle, the master manipulator of lesser mortals?

  Holding Friedman’s eye, Hastings nodded covertly. The message: At this delicate moment, perhaps with success or failure in the balance, it was Friedman, Homicide’s senior co-lieutenant, who must take the lead, make the next moment-to-moment decisions. Accepting, Friedman nodded. As if they were stalking some small, skittish animal, neither detective made a sound.

  The tableau held for more than a minute. Outside, the wind was driving rain against the room’s small, lead-paned windows. As Hastings listened to the whine of the wind, still with his eyes fixed on the suspect, fragmentary images flashed before his inner eye: Millionaire Playboy Held in Sex Slaying, the headline read. And Edwin Corwin Charged with Murder.

  And, yes, the images included himself, facing the TV mini-cams, answering questions. Lots of questions, lots of cameras.

  In the lengthening silence, no one moved, no one spoke. Yet, palpably, the thread that connected the three of them was slowly, inexorably tightening.

  Then, in another room, a telephone warbled. The sound ceased after the third ringing. Slowly Corwin raised his head. His eyes were haunted. The mask of his face was frozen, utterly expressionless. His voice was a dull, dead monotone.