“Screwy?”
“Yeah. Screwy. I mean, things just seem to be—things seem to be just—just sort of coasting. In neutral. Nothing’s adding up.”
Hastings smiled. “That’s why they’re called mysteries, Canelli.”
“Hmmm …”
“Personally,” Hastings said, “I think the Bells did it—the mother, maybe with support from her husband. She’s wacko enough to have done it. And, God knows, wacko or not, she’s got a motive. Or at least a perceived motive. From all I can get on Hanchett, he probably didn’t bother to give the Bells much sympathy when he told them their son wouldn’t be getting a liver. And that kind of thing can fester. If she started thinking that Hanchett was responsible for her son’s death, and if she started to brood about it, and if she wasn’t too stable to begin with, then she could’ve gone over the edge.”
“Yeah …” Canelli nodded dubiously. Then, tentatively: “It sounds like we shouldn’t have much trouble getting prints from her. I mean, if she’s a loony and everything, then you could probably get her prints on something without her ever suspecting. Except that—” As if he were vexed with his own reasoning, he interrupted himself, and began again. “Except that some of those goddamn loonies, I’ve found, they’re cagey. It’s paranoia, that’s the way it was explained to me. They—you know—they’re always suspecting people’re out to get them. Which, of course”—he shrugged—“some people are. Like us.”
“What about the ones you interrogated?” Hastings asked. “Paula Gregg and her father. What’s his name?”
“It’s Edward, Edward Gregg. He’s a big-shot lawyer. Plenty of money, like that. A real asshole, in my opinion. Lawyers, you know, a lot of times they look down their noses at cops, have you ever noticed that, Lieutenant?”
Hastings nodded. Lawyers, doctors, psychiatrists, successful executives—all of them patronized the cops. The more taxes they paid, the higher the angle of their noses.
“So what about Paula?” Hastings asked. “I understand she hated Hanchett because he molested her.”
“Boy,” Canelli said fervently, “you got that right, Lieutenant. She hated him, no question.”
“So could she’ve killed him, would you say?”
Once more furrowing his brow, Canelli considered this, then said, “I could see her killing him—you know, on the spur of the moment, like that. But planning it—lying in wait for him—” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”
“Her father? Edward Gregg. Anything there?”
“You mean him killing the guy who wronged his daughter, that kind of thing?”
Hastings shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. Besides, Hanchett took Gregg’s wife away from him. Hanchett took his wife and then screwed his daughter.”
“Yeah—well—if Gregg was a wacko, like the Bell woman, maybe I could see it, Lieutenant. But this guy, he’s thinking about his stocks and bonds and what he’s going to wear to the opera, seems like to me.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to—” Hastings’s phone warbled, the interoffice line.
“It’s Pete, Frank.” From the particular inflection in Friedman’s voice, it was subtly apparent that he’d discovered something significant.
Which was Hastings’s cue to respond with a disinterested “Hi.” Playing the hard-to-get game.
“I got a name from Floyd Palmer. I’m disinclined to boast, as you know. But I have to say, as soon as I brought Florence Ettinger downtown and made sure that Floyd knew about it, why, Floyd rolled over, no sweat.”
“And?”
“And it’s Charlie Ross. Good old Charlie Ross. How about that?”
Charlie Ross—a slim, vain, dapper little man, sixty at least, who talked like a racetrack tout and preened himself like a pint-sized peacock. An impeccably garish dresser who’d worn toupees as long as Hastings had known him, Ross was San Francisco’s most prosperous, most reliable fence, specializing in big-ticket items. During the brief time Hastings had worked the pawnshop detail, Charlie Ross was reputed to have successfully fenced a Renaissance painting and two Rollses, a package deal.
“If Charlie had that Llama,” Hastings said, “then he sold it. No way did he kill anyone.”
“Agreed.”
“Have you got an address for Charlie?”
“Definitely.” Friedman read off an address in Dolores Heights.
“I’ll go talk to him,” Hastings said. “I’ll take Canelli.”
“Right. Say hello to Charlie. Remind him that, the last time I busted him, when I was in Safes and Lofts, I gave him four cigars to smoke until his lawyer sprung him. Loaned him four cigars.”
“Hmmm …”
3:50 PM
“Hello, Charlie.” Smiling, Hastings offered his badge. “Remember me?”
Squinting myopically, Charlie Ross looked first at Hastings, then at Canelli, then back to Hastings. “The face is familiar, but—” Apologetically shaking his head, he shrugged. “But I can’t place you. Sorry.”
“No problem, Charlie. I’m Frank Hastings. Lieutenant Frank Hastings.” He paused to let the significance of his rank register. “I worked the pawnshop detail years ago, and we talked a few times. This is Inspector Canelli.” Hastings introduced the two men with a wave. “I’m in Homicide now. Lieutenant Friedman and I are co-commanders. Lieutenant Friedman sends his best regards, by the way.”
“Ah.” As if he were recalling fond memories of happier days, Ross smiled. He was dressed in a gleaming white shirt with long collar points, knife-pleated gray polyester trousers, and a matching vest. His blue-on-blue tie was impeccably knotted; his tasseled loafers gleamed. His dark, lusterless toupee and pencil-thin matching mustache contrasted vividly with the pallor of his sallow, pinched face. His lips were heart-patient pale. “Ah, Inspector Friedman. That’s how I always think of him.” The small smile softened appreciatively. “Nice man, very fair, very smart. And funny, too. Dry, and funny. I always figured his humor went right over most people’s heads. You know?”
“Listen”—Hastings’s gesture requested admittance to Ross’s apartment—“I’d like to talk to you, Charlie. I think you can help us with a case we’re working on.” Holding the other man’s eye, he let a carefully calculated moment pass before he said, “It’s a murder case.”
Ross’s expression went blank, a conditioned response. But the small, carefully drawn mustache twitched, an involuntary reaction. As Friedman had observed, the word homicide had near-magical power. Now the tip of Ross’s pink tongue moistened thin, pale lips.
“Yeah …” Ross nodded. “You did say you’re in Homicide now, didn’t you? By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t place you, Lieutenant, from Pawnshops. The fact is, lately I’ve been having health problems.”
“Maybe you should think about retiring. You’re a celebrity. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“Yeah, sometimes I think about it. But then I think, what’d I do all day long?”
Hastings nodded sympathetically. The silence that followed signified that the preliminaries had been concluded. Whereupon Ross stepped back, allowing the two detectives to enter without further formalities—and without warrants. Appreciatively, Canelli’s gaze swept the large, extravagantly furnished living room. “Very nice, Charlie,” he said affably. Then, grinning: “I suppose you kept the receipts.”
Ross’s pained expression registered prim disapproval. His hospitality, his willingness to waive the matter of a warrant, had been affronted. Correcting the lapse, Hastings said, “Yeah, very nice, Charlie. Good neighborhood, too. And according to City Hall, you own the building.”
“Yeah, well …” Pointedly ignoring Canelli, Ross delicately spread his small, manicured hands. “Well, I’m not getting any younger, Lieutenant. Like we said. And I don’t collect Social Security.”
Hastings nodded again. Then, signifying an end to the pleasantries, he dropped his voice to a lower, more businesslike register. “What we’re looking for, Charlie—what we’ve got to have—is information on a Lla
ma automatic.” As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slip of paper on which he’d written the missing guns’ serial numbers and the name of the original owner—only to realize that he’d left his reading glasses on his desk. He held the paper at arm’s length, frowned, finally made out the name. “The original owner,” he said, “was a Beverly Hills gun collector named Crowe. Fourteen of his guns were stolen, but eventually ten were recovered. That leaves four. Two of those four went through Floyd Palmer. We’re trying to trace those two guns now. But whether or not we find them, they’re accounted for. That leaves two guns. One of them is a Colt forty-five automatic—a presentation model, embossed, nickel-plated, very fancy. And the other gun—” Hastings paused and leaned forward, verifying that Ross realized they’d come to the essence. “The other gun is the Llama automatic. That’s the one we’re interested in.”
“You mean you’re looking for it?” Ross’s expression registered nothing more than objective interest.
“No,” Hastings answered. “We’ve got it. And we’ve got a bullet from it.”
“A bullet, eh?” The question suggested only mild interest.
“The bullet killed a very prominent doctor named Brice Hanchett, two nights ago.” Hastings’s voice, too, expressed nothing beyond the academic. He and Charlie Ross were playing an intricate game: two professionals, maneuvering for position.
“So what we’re looking for,” Hastings continued, “is the owner of the Llama.”
“Yeah.” Ross nodded judiciously. “Yeah, I can see that, all right.” Thoughtfully, he let his eyes wander to a Spanish-style window that overlooked Dolores Park, a prime view. Hastings had counted four apartments on the building’s roster of tenants. Plainly, Charlie had saved his money.
“It’s murder, Charlie,” Hastings said softly. “Homicide. A rich, famous doctor. I guess you’ve seen it on TV, read about it.”
“Oh, yeah …” Reflectively, Ross continued to gaze out on his premium view. “Yeah, sure, I read about it.”
“And in Homicide,” Hastings said, “in these murder investigations, everything is on the line. It’s make-or-break time. You understand what I’m saying?”
Ross nodded. “Oh, yeah. Sure. I understand.”
“What the lieutenant means,” Canelli said, “is that a guy can store up lots of brownie points downtown. A lot of brownie points. In your business, I guess those points never hurt, Charlie. I mean”—Canelli smiled—“I mean, what the hell, there’s no such thing as too many brownie points. Right?”
Ross nodded absently, but made no reply. Plainly he was calculating odds, weighing alternatives. Finally, speaking to Hastings, one prime player to another, he said, “Let me think about this. I, uh, I think maybe I can help you, but I’ve got to make a couple of calls.”
Nodding, Hastings laid a card on a lamp table and rose. “Call me tomorrow, by ten o’clock. One way or the other, call me by ten. Clear?”
“Clear.”
4:40 PM
Muttering darkly, Canelli braked the cruiser as he balefully turned his head to track an old, dented sedan as it careened through the intersection ahead, trailing earsplitting rock music, and ran a red light. The driver was a white male, unshaven, dark hair long and unkempt, wearing a Giants baseball cap with the visor reversed. The driver sat low behind the steering wheel, his eyes hardly higher than the dashboard.
“We should bust that bastard,” Canelli said. Then, looking hopefully at Hastings: “Should we bust him?”
Hastings glanced at his wristwatch, then shook his head. “I want to be downtown by five o’clock.”
“Shall I drop you?”
“Please. It’s, uh, personal business. Why don’t you take the car home, and stay on call? Lieutenant Friedman and I are going to talk to Teresa Bell at eight-thirty tonight.”
“Are you going to try for a warrant?”
“Not now. Not without physical evidence. But if she should confess, we might need you. I know you’re off the desk tonight, because of the extra hours on the Hanchett thing. Have you got plans for tonight?”
“Gracie’s bowling tonight. She’s in the semifinals, if you can believe that. And I was going to root for her. Where do the Bells live?”
“In the Sunset. Moraga.”
“Ah.” Canelli brightened. “The bowling alley’s out on Geary. I can just take my beeper, no sweat.”
“Fine.”
5:10 PM
“Sir?” The parking attendant was advancing purposefully. “Ticket?”
Prepared, Hastings palmed his shield. “I don’t have a car here. I’m waiting for someone.”
“What?” The attendant frowned.
“Never mind.” Hastings waved the attendant away, turned his back, and walked to the rear of the lot, where Victor Haywood’s Porsche was parked. A van was parked beside the Porsche. He turned, stared the attendant down, then stepped behind the van. Ah, yes, Victor Haywood appeared at the parking lot’s shack, waiting for the keys to his car. Moving to keep the bulk of the van between them, Hastings waited for Haywood to open the Porsche’s driver’s door before he showed himself. Startled from his stooping posture, Haywood suddenly straightened.
“What th—”
“Sorry,” Hastings said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Instantly taking the offensive, Haywood snapped, “I’m not scared.” A trim, trendy man in his mid-forties, his face bronzed on the ski slopes and his body hardened by tennis and daily Nautilus workouts, Victor Haywood was a psychiatrist who, Ann always said, specialized in the emotional problems of recently divorced women whose ex-husbands were rich and whose lapdog lovers were poor.
“What I wanted to tell you—what I wanted to say”—Hastings began, “is that Ann was pretty upset yesterday, when you called her. She said that you were bothered, apparently, by the fact that we’re living together. So I—”
Still on the offensive, elaborately condescending, the elitist patronizing a civil servant, Haywood twisted his thin lips derisively as he said, “Do you think this is the time or the place to discuss it, Lieutenant?”
As if he were considering the question, Hastings looked around the parking lot. He shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any.”
“For you, perhaps. Not for me.” Haywood turned to his car. “I’m afraid I’ve got to—”
“The thing is,” Hastings said, “I want to talk to you about this. I don’t care where, but I want to talk. Just the two of us.”
Still half turned away, with his hand on the Porsche’s door handle, Haywood remained motionless for a moment, holding the pose. His gleaming white cuffs with their golden cuff links, Hastings noticed, were an elegant contrast to his impeccably cut dark blue blazer.
Now, very deliberately, Haywood straightened, turning to face Hastings squarely.
“I don’t know what you think we have to discuss, Lieutenant.” Haywood spoke softly, in precise Ivy League cadence. “Because, for my part, I don’t think we’ve got anything to discuss. Nothing.”
“What about Ann?”
Projecting long-suffering forbearance compounded by barely suppressed anger, Haywood sighed. “What’s between me and Ann, Lieutenant—and what’s between me and my sons, particularly—is no concern of yours. None. Absolutely none.”
“And what’s between Ann and me, that’s no concern of yours, either.”
“Not so long as you do your screwing on your own time—on your own money—it’s no concern of mine. Unfortunately, though, that’s not the case. Unfortunately, you’ve chosen to—”
“I don’t touch a dime of your money, Haywood. Not a dime. And you know it.”
“If you and Ann want to be together, then get married.”
“When we’re ready to get married, we’ll get married.”
“Fine. But in the meantime, let my family alone.”
“They’re your sons. They’re not your family. Not anymore.”
Haywood snorted contemptuously. “I don’t think you want to get into an exis
tential argument with me, Lieutenant. I don’t think you’re equipped.”
Hastings stood silently for a moment, thoughtfully eyeing the other man. Then, measuring the words, he said, “You’re probably right. On the other hand, though, I don’t think you’re equipped to insult someone you can’t bully. What do you think?”
“I think,” Haywood said, “that this is making me late for a squash game. Excuse me.” He opened the door and slid into the Porsche. Hastings stepped forward, blocking the door as Haywood was about to close it. Hastings put both hands on the door, shifted his feet for better leverage, and threw his full weight against the door, breaking its stop lever so that the door slammed flat against the Porsche’s left front fender.
“Excuse me,” Hastings said, then stepped clear, gently closed the door, turned, and left the parking lot.
7:45 PM
It was important, she knew, to remain utterly quiet, remain perfectly still. Because even the slightest movement, even the shifting of feet on the floor, even flesh moving inside clothing, the scraping, the rustling, it could do her harm, even more harm, she knew that now. So silence, just silence, was all that remained. Because only then, only in the silence, could she hear what must be heard, the echoes of the past mingling with the sounds of the present, voices returned from beyond, voices fading away.
At first she’d feared the final sound, the explosion that ended everything. At first she’d feared that the surreal eruption of orange fireblossoms in the dark would overlay the sound of the voice that began it all: a child, so softly crying. And then the last sound: the soft, eternal sigh that ended it all.
Until now, the final sound.
Until now, these minutes and the minutes to come, when he would come.
Would the world come alive when she saw him? Or would—?
The chimes.
A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 32