A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Charles, with a woman he’d recruited—a woman and a car?

  Approaching the Jaguar, the car was slowing. Hastings checked the walkie-talkie’s frequency, keyed the mike, and then quickly released it, verifying that, yes, the channel was open. The car drew even with the Jaguar—then continued, disappearing from Hastings’s field of vision. He keyed the mike again, spoke into the microphone. “Phil?”

  The patrol sergeant’s voice was hardly audible. “Check.” He was speaking softly, afraid of being heard.

  “What’d you think? Can you see?”

  “Hold on.”

  Ten seconds passed. Twenty seconds. Finally Phil Toll said, “They look like neckers, Lieutenant. It’s hard to tell, the light’s so bad. They’re past the Jag, heading for the exit.”

  “Did you see the guy’s face?”

  “Not really. He looked young, though. The woman looked like she was a blonde. This goddamn rain, you can’t see anything.”

  “Gord,” Hastings said.

  “Yessir.” In one of the four unmarked units assigned to the stakeout, Gordon Rayfield’s voice came through clearly. At that moment, Hastings saw the large American car emerge from the far end of the driveway and turn into the Legion of Honor Drive, going back the way it had come.

  “Follow them, Gord. It could be him, with a woman. Go to Communications. What’s your designation?

  “Inspectors Fifty-five.”

  “Roger. Inspectors Fifty-five. I’ll get you backup, for a rolling tail. I might want a traffic stop.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Always,” Rayfield answered cheerfully. “Here we go.” Ahead, without headlights, Rayfield was making a U-turn as the unidentified car continued at a steady pace, leaving the scene. Hastings spoke again into the radio. “Do you think the driver could tell it was Thompson in the Jag?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant,” Phil Toll answered. “He had to pass on the right side.” A pause. Then: “Do I have to guess?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d say he didn’t see Thompson clearly.”

  “What’d you think, Thompson? Was he craning his neck, to see you?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I figured I should be looking the other way, so all he could see was the back of my head.”

  “Okay.” Hastings sighed, clicked off the radio, checked the time: twelve minutes after nine. And still the rain came down, bouncing on the pavement, hammering the roof of the car.

  9:07 P.M. A foot at a time, an inch at a time, Charles advanced. Ahead, through the trees, the pale crescent of streetlamps revealed the Jaguar, certainly Edwin’s. And, behind the wheel, he could see the indistinct outline of a man’s head.

  Edwin’s head?

  Carefully, cautiously, cowboys and Indians, he moved another long step forward. Beneath his forward foot, a branch cracked, cowboys and Indians. But the sound of the wind and the rain would deaden the sound.

  Cowboys and Indians …

  Had he ever played cowboys and Indians when he was a boy? Had he ever played hide-and-seek, or gone fishing, or wrestled with other boys?

  Had Edwin ever played cowboys and Indians?

  Did it all go back to childhood, a tracery of despair? Everything? Always? Had he been—?

  Ahead, beside the trunk of a huge Monterey pine, there was a hint of alien movement, a thickening of the darkness. Was it an animal? A man, close beside the massive tree?

  A policeman, standing guard?

  If he went to the right, even a single step, he could—

  The figure moved. It was a man, crouched down beside the tree. Protruding from the crouching figure at an angle, a tubular object reflected the pale light from the stormy sky.

  It was a gun barrel. A rifle or a shotgun.

  Involuntarily he had stepped back: one quick, reckless step. But now he must stand perfectly still, until he could master the terrible hammering of his heart, the sudden spasmodic shortness of breath, the knees trembling. He must not move. Because it was movement that would betray him. People moved. Not trees. Not the underbrush. Only people. Only animals, and people.

  If there was one man with a gun, surely a policeman, then there must be more men. All of them watching. Waiting. Guns ready. Eyes peering into the darkness.

  Without moving his feet, he turned to the right, then to the left, staring into the raging dark of the night, wind still howling, rain still falling. Except for the swaying of branches in the wind, there was no movement.

  Slowly, deliberately, he turned. One step. And another step. And another. Ahead, through the trees, the lights of Clement Street were closer. Another step closer. And another. In the car, the Ford Tempo, he would be safe. Driving, he would be safe.

  Away from the men with rifles, waiting, watching. Away from the Jaguar—and whoever sat behind the wheel, the Judas goat.

  9:15 P.M. On the screen, Charles was moving to the right, about to disappear, as completely as he might disappear from the earth, stepping directly into oblivion.

  Primitive tribes still believed it, believed one could step off the edge of the earth.

  In less than a minute, it would be finished. The stage would be empty, even though the video camera had continued, focused on the inanimate stage: the draperies, the candles, the low catafalque, the sculpture, all of it so synchronous, so perfectly balanced. Even the plastic sheeting in which Meredith was wrapped draped gracefully over Charles, bent beneath his burden as—yes—they finally disappeared, Charles and Meredith, both of them gone off the screen, entering a new dimension, fallen off the earth.

  As he clicked off the VCR he was conscious of a malaise, a debilitating deadness of the spirit.

  He would miss her.

  Only now, this moment, had he realized how much he would miss her.

  If art was the constant quest for perfection, then death was surely its seal. Memory must enshrine before the flesh could decay.

  Thus she would always remain for him: perfection incarnate, confirmed forever on the tapes he could never destroy.

  It was an oath he must swear, inviolate. If the tapes went, then must he follow.

  Therefore, he rose slowly, went to the small room that housed the props, and switched on the fluorescent lights. For tonight’s program, a contingency, the stage must be set, the camera readied. Then the mind must be prepared.

  9:24 P.M. Beneath the dash a green light glowed as the dispatcher’s voice broke into the dispirited silence of Hastings’s command cruiser. “Inspectors Eleven.”

  Hastings raised the microphone. “Inspectors Eleven.”

  “I have a patch-through from Inspectors Fifty-five for you. Hold on.” A moment of static-filled silence followed. Then: “Lieutenant?”

  “What’ve you got, Rayfield?”

  “We stopped that car for an intersection violation. The name of the driver’s Roger Sobel, age eighteen, car registered to his father. We checked out the kid and the car. They’re both clean.”

  Hastings sighed. “Okay. Let him go.”

  “Shall we come back there?”

  “No. We’re going to close it down here.”

  “Roger.” The green light went off—then came on again. “Inspectors Eleven, I have a message for you.” It was Communications, back on.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Lieutenant Friedman reports that he’s in transit to Jackson Street. Do you copy?”

  “I copy. Thanks.” He clicked off the microphone, sat silently for a moment, staring at another set of headlights, coming up the gentle hill from Clement Street. It was a white pickup truck that passed the museum driveway without slowing down.

  “Well,” Canelli said amiably, “it looks like another busted stakeout, Lieutenant. Jeez—” Looking out the window, Canelli shook his head. “I bet those guys out there in those goddamn trees won’t mind taking a hot shower. Neither will I, come to think about it. This dampness gets to you.”

  Without replying, Hastings spoke in
to the walkie-talkie. “That’s it for tonight, I guess. Sorry about the weather. When you leave the area, be discreet. Conceivably, he could be hiding somewhere close by, watching. So get out slow and easy, one at a time. If you’re on special assignment for this one, return to the Hall, check in your weapons, and sign out. Canelli and I are going to follow the Jaguar out of here. Do you copy that, Thompson?”

  “Yessir. You want me to go back to the Corwin place?”

  “Right. Have you got Corwin’s garage-door opener?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay. When you get within hand-held radio range, call Lieutenant Friedman on surveillance channel three. He—” Struck by a sudden thought, Hastings broke off. Then: “Listen, Thompson, when you get within, say, two blocks of the Corwin place, park the car. I’m going to swap places with you. I want to drive the Jaguar into Corwin’s garage. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay.” And to the detail at large: “Okay, guys. That’s it. Thanks a lot. And remember, slow and easy leaving here.” He gave the radio to Canelli and started the cruiser’s engine.

  “Hey,” Canelli said, smiling appreciatively and nodding. “Pretty clever, Lieutenant. You get the opener, you get inside Corwin’s place without a warrant. Implied permission, right?” He nodded again, then asked, “Want me to come with you?”

  Hastings shook his head. “I don’t think so, Canelli. You’re right about implied permission—hopefully. But only one can ride on that ticket, it seems to me.” As he spoke, the Jaguar began to move forward. He put the cruiser in gear, ready to follow. “Here we go.”

  9:27 P.M. Charles brought the Tempo to a stop, switched off the lights, sat motionless for a moment, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts incandescent, a blaze of wild, helpless confusion. All around him, surrounding him, he could sense the city pulsating: the predators stalking their prey. Sirens screamed, the audible signal of the hunt, waves of savage sound. But radio waves could stalk him silently: dispatchers at police headquarters, policemen in their squad cars.

  The gangland word was “squealer.”

  The police—the lieutenant—had found Edwin, discovered the secret of their meeting place, the time and the place. Edwin, then, had squealed on him, offered his car to lure him, entrap him. Edwin would go free. He could die.

  Or Edwin could die—while he went free.

  9:45 P.M. With the chamber locked behind him, with his robe draped over the carved chair, his throne, safe behind the massive oak door, Corwin was descending the staircase from the third floor to the second. Dressed again in tweeds and flannels and oxford cloth, back in costume, he was about to make his entrance. But would the lines come? When he stepped onstage, faced the lights, would the lines come?

  Yes, the lines must surely come, had always come. Change the scenery, touch up the makeup, and the lines would surely come.

  At the second-floor landing, he paused. With Luis off, the house was deserted. Only the two front rooms were lighted; the rest of the house was dark. Outside, the police were stationed, watching. At the Palace of the Legion of Honor, Charles could be in custody.

  Or Charles could be dead, lying in the rain.

  Or Charles could have escaped.

  The difference, for him, could be profound.

  Yet, incredibly, he experienced no anxiety. Here, now, he was apart from it all. And apart from himself, too. Lost, somehow, in random images that returned from the past, wayward fragments, long forgotten.

  Poor Little Prince.

  It was a headline he’d once seen, with his picture beneath it: a small boy in a stiff white collar, with large, bewildered eyes. He hadn’t been able to read the words, but he’d torn out the picture. Then he’d wandered through the house, looking for someone to read the words. Finally he’d found a gardener, an immigrant Portuguese. Together, he and the gardener had puzzled out the headline and part of the story beneath the picture.

  “By God,” the gardener had said, shaking his head in wonderment, “you’re famous. Such a little boy, so famous.”

  9:47 P.M. With his hand resting on the butt of the revolver—Edwin’s revolver—and the key to the service door in his hand—Edwin’s key, taken the night Meredith died—he was slowly advancing toward the small iron gate that led to the service entrance in the rear of the mansion. If the service door was bolted from the inside, he would fail. If it was unbolted, he would succeed. On such random chances rested great enterprises. For want of a nail, the horseshoe was thrown. Napoleon’s Waterloo. And Edwin’s, tonight.

  With his hand resting now on the gate, he realized that he was standing motionless. Was he defying them, whoever might be watching? Had they followed him, stalked him through the stormy darkness?

  Yes, he was defying them. Because even if they arrested him he would prevail. Just as Edwin was invulnerable, so would he be.

  Because he would have the tapes. And with the tapes, Edwin’s destiny became his destiny. The money, the lawyers, even the headlines—it was share and share alike. Beginning now.

  Beginning this moment, as he pressed the gate’s latch and stepped forward.

  9:47 P.M. Parked on Jackson Street, Friedman sat behind the wheel of his cruiser with a walkie-talkie on the seat beside him. A few minutes ago, as he was driving from the Hall of Justice to the Corwin mansion, the rain had slackened, then subsided. Overhead, the dark clouds were ragged, edged with moonlight. As he looked at his watch, calculating the time of Hastings’s arrival in the Jaguar, the walkie-talkie sputtered to life.

  “Lieutenant.” It was a hushed voice, excitement suppressed.

  He picked up the walkie-talkie. “Friedman.”

  “There’s someone approaching the scene.” It was MacLean, his voice low, tight. “You can’t see him, I don’t think, from your angle.”

  “What’s he look like, Mickey?”

  “Medium build, that’s about all I can see. He’s white, though. Five ten, maybe. Slim. A hundred seventy, maybe.”

  Hastings had used the same words, the same phrases, to describe Charles.

  “How’s he dressed?”

  “Jeans, dark jacket, dark watch cap. You know—dressed like a burglar.”

  Conscious of his own rising excitement, a tightness at the throat inappropriate to the voice of calm command, Friedman allowed a deliberate beat to pass before he said, “What’s he doing now?”

  “There’s a little gate at the sidewalk here that leads down to the service entrance, I guess it is. He’s unlatched the gate.”

  “Is there a back way out?”

  “No, sir. Once he goes down there, that areaway, then that’s it. He’s got to either go inside the house or else come back out. I checked it out, Lieutenant. Personally.”

  And now, still the calm voice of authority, he must make a decision. A second-to-second decision. Up or down. Right or wrong. Winner take all. Was a lieutenant’s pay enough now?

  “All right. If he goes inside—” Friedman drew a long, fateful breath. Had he stayed in the office, his natural habitat, this problem wouldn’t exist—not for him, at least. “All right, if he goes inside, let him go. Don’t stop him, if he goes inside. Clear?”

  “Yessir, that’s clear.”

  “But if he comes back out—doesn’t go inside—then collar him. Give a shout, for reinforcements. And collar him.”

  “Yessir. He’s—” MacLean’s voice trailed off, diminished by indecision. “I can’t quite see, but—wait. Just—” A pause. Then, decisively: “He went inside, Lieutenant. Opened the door, and went inside.”

  “Ah—good.” Was it satisfaction that had made him say it? Yes—a gambler’s satisfaction. Win or lose, minute by minute, the stakes were rising. Soon Hastings, in the Jaguar, would—

  In the rearview mirror, he saw headlights. Was it Hastings?

  “Listen, Mickey, I’ve got to change channels. Marsten’s got the net. Channel three.”

  “Got it,” MacLean answered. The other three positions acknowledged the command change.
Friedman switched channels quickly as the headlights drew abreast of him—

  Corwin’s Jaguar, with Hastings at the wheel.

  Friedman raised the walkie-talkie, signaling that they must talk. Then he raised one finger, saw Hastings raise one finger in response. He watched the Jaguar pull to the curb, stop within fifty feet of the Corwin driveway. Moments later he heard Hastings’s voice on channel one.

  “Pete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything?”

  “There might be.” Briefly Friedman described the situation. Hastings’s response was a speculative grunt.

  “So they might both be in there,” Hastings said.

  “It sounds a little better than fifty-fifty. Corwin’s there, for sure. Unless there’s a secret tunnel, he’s in there. And this guy in the stocking cap sounds enough like Charles that I decided to let him go in.”

  “Why’d you do that?” Hastings asked. “I’m just curious.”

  “Call it intuition,” Friedman answered. “Or maybe wishful thinking. I thought—you know—maybe the pot would start to boil, with the two of them in there together, especially if Charles figures Corwin set him up. And if that happens—if they start arguing—maybe we can hear something, get lucky. I’ve got two of those new directional mikes that’re supposed to pick up a pin dropping in Cleveland. Inadmissible, of course. But useful, maybe.”

  “If I can get inside, you won’t need the mikes, and I’m admissible.”

  “If you get inside, in the car, they’ll hear the garage door opening, sure as hell. Those things rumble.”

  “I know …”

  “Maybe I can force the lock, raise it by hand,” Friedman said. “I’ve done that on my garage door when the electricity’s off. I’ve got some tools. What’d you think?”

  “Go ahead. I’d better stay in the car, out of sight.”

  “Right. Keep your eye on me. You take over the net. Channel three. Four positions total. Marsten’s coordinating. Canelli’s here, too.”

  “Roger. Good luck with the door. D’you want to go inside with me if it opens?”

  “I’d better stay out here,” Friedman answered, “on the radio. Besides, we could be on thin ice if more than one person returns the car.”