Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Did she discover the body?”

  “Yes.”

  Friedman nodded ponderously, gesturing for me to continue. I knew that mannerism; he was lapsing into his Holmesian mood. His eyes became hooded under lazily lowered lids; his broad, perpetually sweat-sheened face settled deep into the folds of his hopelessly jowl-mashed collar. It was a pose that always irked me. Before he’d decided to cut his losses and become a policeman, Friedman had spent two unsuccessful years in Hollywood, making the rounds of the casting offices with a sheaf of 8 x 10 glossies. Something about my visitor’s chair apparently evoked Friedman’s fondness for the theatrical.

  “They lived in a ground-floor flat,” I continued. “A very elegant flat in Pacific Heights. What happened, I think, was that Ainsley was gone from Saturday morning until Sunday night, when he returned about eleven. He was shot in the back as he was entering the door, I’d say.”

  “He was shot once through the heart,” Friedman said, still with his eyes closed.

  “Yes.” I hadn’t known it for sure, but saw no point in admitting my ignorance. “If I had to guess, I’d say the murderer was hiding in the shrubbery when Ainsley came home, and shot him when he opened the door, probably from a range of about ten feet. Then the murderer stepped out of hiding, entered the foyer and tucked the note down beside the body. Then he—”

  My phone rang.

  “Lieutenant Hastings,” I answered.

  “This is Sergeant Halliday, Lieutenant. From Intelligence. I just heard on that Ainsley gun, and Lieutenant Friedman said I should call you.”

  “Right.” As I said it, recollection of the 4 P.M. calendar notation suddenly came clear. That morning, I’d left my car to be serviced. So, to shop for Ann’s present, I must first pick up my car on Van Ness Avenue, then drive downtown before the stores closed. I’d lost another hour.

  Aware that Sergeant Halliday was waiting for me to say something more, I pulled a note pad toward me, motioned Friedman to an extension phone and told Halliday to make his report.

  “The pistol was stolen in that National Guard Armory robbery up in Seattle seven months ago, Lieutenant,” Halliday said. “On March eighth. Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “There were seventeen .45-caliber automatics, eight M-1 rifles, three M-16 rifles and one M-70 rocket launcher stolen, for God’s sake,” Halliday continued. “We checked with the Seattle authorities, then double-checked the FBI’s computer. And, out of everything stolen—not counting this pistol, which is recovered—there’re nine .45s, three M-1s and one M-16 still unaccounted for. But”—I heard papers rustle—“the funny thing is, Washington lists the serial number for the Ainsley gun as being already recovered.”

  “What?” Surprised, I raised my eyes to Friedman, who was shrugging at the news.

  “That’s right,” Halliday said. “For once, the FBI doesn’t have all its ducks lined up, it looks like.”

  “Give them time,” Friedman dryly interrupted. “They’ll get them in line.”

  “Huh?” Halliday asked, surprised. Then: “Oh, hello, Lieutenant Friedman.”

  “Hello, Halliday. Sorry. Proceed.”

  “Well, there’s not really much more that I can tell you,” Halliday answered. “Except that a couple of months ago, we heard through two separate informants that Floyd Ferguson had a few guns from that National Guard robbery. Do you know about Ferguson?”

  “No,” Friedman answered for both of us.

  “Well,” Halliday said, “Floyd Ferguson hasn’t been in town more than about six months, so it’s not surprising that you don’t know about him. But down in Los Angeles, Ferguson used to move a lot of illegal guns. Mostly he used to work for the big boys—organized crime. In fact, he’s supposed to have supplied the guns for that armored car robbery about a year ago. But then, so the story goes, he got into a beef with one of the Mafia types down there over a girl. Ferguson is a flashy, good-looking black dude, and this Mafioso wanted Ferguson’s hide, because of the girl. So, also being a smart black dude, Ferguson came up to San Francisco while he could still make the trip.”

  “Do you know what he’s been doing in San Francisco?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it so happens I do. He started screwing around with another white girl up here, and he’s got another white guy sore at him. The white guy is Frank Moran, that numbers guy who operates in the Tenderloin. So, if you want me to, I can talk to Moran.”

  “An excellent idea, Halliday,” Friedman said. “If Moran doesn’t know what’s coming down, he can find out inside an hour. And you can tell Pickles, as we used to call Moran when I was in Vice and Pickles was running a string of girls—you can tell Pickles, for me, that if he doesn’t give us a little help on this gun thing, we’ll have him downtown for questioning every time there’s a corpse found anywhere in the Tenderloin, whether or not there’s a numbers connection. And that’s at least one corpse a week, at the going rate.”

  “Right, Lieutenant. Got you.”

  “Good,” Friedman answered. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Then we can let Lieutenant Hastings get on with his, ah, shopping. Keep scratching, Halliday. And keep us posted.”

  Three

  BY NINE-THIRTY THE next morning, working for an hour without interruption, I’d emptied my In basket and crossed off three of the day’s four calendar notations. I was leaning back in my chair with my eyes closed when my interoffice phone rang.

  “It turns out,” Friedman’s voice said without preamble, “that Pickles Moran, at age fifty-two, is head over heels in love with a girl half his age—who, it seems, is turned on to Floyd Ferguson. Which is to say that Pickles will do anything in the world, even if it’s legal, to help us put Floyd Ferguson away, provided Halliday makes it easy enough for Pickles to retain his image as a fearless cop-hater—which Halliday has done, with some coaching from me.”

  “Is Ferguson ready to talk about the gun?”

  “That’ll be up to you. Ferguson is in custody. Halliday and Company caught Ferguson last night with Pickles’ girl in bed and an M-16 rifle wrapped in a bath towel and stuffed in the closet, courtesy of Pickles. So, this morning, Ferguson is willing to listen to reason.”

  “All right, I’ll talk to him. What about you?”

  “With luck, Markham and I are about to wrap up that Fillmore thing, which turns out to be a standard husband-and-wife beef that got nasty. So, as always, I leave the glamour case to you.”

  Thinking of Friedman’s fondness for the limelight, I snorted.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.” Halliday admitted me to the interrogation room, nodded dismissal to an Intelligence detective and gestured to a long, lanky black man seated at his loose-limbed ease in the straight-backed metal prisoner’s chair.

  “This is Lieutenant Hastings, Ferguson,” Halliday said. “He runs Homicide, along with Lieutenant Friedman. So, if you’d like some free advice, don’t screw the dog with the lieutenant. In Homicide they’ve got nothing but heavy time to hand out. And you can’t afford it.”

  “Man, who’s talking about screwing the dog?” Ferguson protested, speaking in a soft, plaintive ghetto croon. “I mean, there I was listening to a little music and entertaining a friend last night, and the next thing I know, Jesus, you guys’re busting down the door. I mean, Jesus, I was just—”

  “You’re forgetting about that M-16, Ferguson. Which is ten years, mandatory minimum. Or, for you, maybe a life sentence, since this is your third fall.”

  “Man, I keep telling you—” Ferguson rolled his eyes up to the ceiling in a pantomime of deeply aggrieved innocence. Dressed in a studded denim jacket, purple velour slacks and gleaming wet-look black boots, Ferguson could have been a rock musician, resting in the wings between sets. His long, expressive face was framed in a closely cropped beard, elaborately trimmed. His eyes were quick and shrewd, contradicting a studied laziness of speech and gesture. Ferguson had heard all the questions, and knew most of the answers.


  “I keep telling you,” he repeated. “There’s this dude named Homer Granville, who crashed with me for a coupla days last week, on his way down south, I think he said. Or maybe it was east. I forget. Anyhow, Jesus, Homer must’ve wrapped that mother-loving M-16 up, like you found it, and stuffed it down in that closet there, and took off. Homer’s like that. He’s always been like that. I mean, with Homer, it’s always screw-your-buddy week, for sure. See, he’s one of these real mean, sly dudes who always—”

  I slipped the unloaded .45 from my pocket and pointed it between Ferguson’s eyes, two inches from his nose. “Let’s talk about this piece, Ferguson,” I said softly. “Let’s forget about the M-16. Because that M-16 is nothing, Ferguson, compared to the trouble this piece is going to give you. They’re talking about reinstating the death penalty, Ferguson. Maybe I can arrange it so that you’ll be the first one into the gas chamber, after all these years.” As I slowly lowered the pistol, I said, “You’ve got about sixty seconds. That’s all.”

  Ferguson glanced at the pistol, then looked away, as he shook his head in despairing, long-suffering bafflement. Now Halliday leaned forward, picking up the interrogation’s softly menacing cadence: “That piece killed someone Sunday night, Ferguson. And we’ve got that piece tied to you, tight as wire. That’s what the lieutenant’s telling you, Ferguson. That’s why he’s here—because we’ve got you cold for Murder One.”

  As Halliday talked, I watched Ferguson’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I saw his hands tighten. The cords of his long, skinny neck drew taut as he swallowed once, then twice. Murder One can make the mouth go dry.

  “Hey, listen, man,” Ferguson protested, sitting up straighter in the steel chair as he looked warily at Halliday. “Listen, I don’t mind if you do your number about that M-16. I mean, so old Homer messed me up. So I can handle that one. But when you start talking about murder, man, then you—”

  “Who’d you sell this piece to, Ferguson?” I asked, again raising the heavy automatic, this time pointed toward the wall. “Tell us who you sold it to. Then we’ll talk about the M-16.”

  “What’d you mean by ‘talk,’ anyhow?” he asked. “What you telling me?” As he spoke, his shrewd eyes narrowed. Like every hustler, Ferguson’s ear was finely tuned to the first hint of a deal—a way out.

  “I’m saying,” I answered, speaking very deliberately, “that if you help us—tell us who bought this gun from you, and when and where and why—then we’ll go looking for your friend Homer, about the M-16. You help me, I’ll see whether I can help you. But if you screw me up, Ferguson, then I guarantee the roof’s going to fall in on you. The D.A. will hit you with the Sullivan Act like nobody’s ever been hit before. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Ferguson?”

  “Yeah,” came the soft, thoughtful answer. “Yeah, man, I heard about the Sullivan Act, it seems to me.”

  “Do you know about the part on machine guns?” Halliday asked. “Because that’s what we’re talking about, you know—unlawful possession of a—”

  “All right. Jesus.” Ferguson’s voice slipped to a ragged, aggrieved note. “All right.” He glanced down at the .45, pretending to study the pistol as he frowned heavily and shook his head, projecting an air of exasperated vexation mingled with injured innocence. “Jesus. You—you don’t even give a guy a chance to think about things. I mean, Jesus, I don’t know whether I can help you or not, and I don’t know whether you can help me, either.” For the first time he looked at me directly, deciding whether he could trust me.

  “I don’t have time to waste on this, Ferguson,” I said, holding his gaze until, finally, he dropped his eyes. “If I walk out that door, I walk to my office and I call the D.A. And you’re screwed. Automatically.”

  “And the lieutenant means it, Ferguson,” Halliday said. “If he tells you something, he’ll do it. Good or bad—easy or hard—whatever Lieutenant Hastings tells you, that’s how it comes down.”

  “Yeah—well—” Ferguson blinked at me. “That’s great. I mean, Jesus, you can say it, no sweat. But we’re talking about my ass, not yours.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Ferguson,” I said, “and you know it. Either you trust me, or you fall, hard. And your time is about up.”

  “Did you read the papers this morning, Ferguson?” Halliday asked. “The guy that died Sunday night was rich—a doctor. Do you think the lieutenant’s going to let this one die? Do you think he can let it die?”

  Ferguson sighed, then shrugged, affecting a slack-shouldered indifference. He was ready to deal. “All right, I’ll give you a name. But, Jesus, you better protect me. Because the name I’m going to give you, he plays a rough game.”

  I waited.

  “Don’t worry about the protection,” Halliday said. “You just think about that M-16.”

  “Yeah. Well, as a matter of fact, that M-16 is part of the deal. I mean, this guy—Jimmy Royce—he wanted it. Or, anyhow, that’s what he—”

  “Did you say Jimmy Royce?” Halliday asked incredulously. “Is that the name you’re giving us?”

  “That’s the name.” As he said it, Ferguson’s eyes slid toward the .45.

  I picked up the pistol. “Jimmy Royce bought this from you?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “If it’s the gun I think it is—from Seattle—then that’s what I’m saying,” Ferguson answered steadily. Having finally copped, his manner was now more businesslike. “You wanted a name. Now you got one. But don’t expect me to make your case for you. I mean, I didn’t keep a list of the serial numbers, or anything.”

  I turned to Halliday. “Put him in a holding cell. I’ll get back to you in an hour.” I pocketed the .45 and quickly left the room.

  “Well,” Friedman said, “this is a socko development, no question. You know what it means, don’t you?”

  I decided to wait for him to tell me.

  “It means,” Friedman said ruefully, “that we’re going to be ass-deep in reporters.” As he spoke, he stared down at the Xerox copy of the extortion letter. “It fits,” he finally said, nodding decisively as he said it.

  “What fits?”

  “The language and the feeling of this note fits the P.A.L.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes, I do,” he answered. “Definitely.” He tapped the note. “I took a copy of this home with me last night, and passed it around the dinner table, just for the hell of it. And all three of us—Florence and Steve and me—we all agreed that this note was probably written by someone who had both a high IQ and a good bit of education—in other words, a profile that fits most of these P.A.L. types. Agreed?”

  “Yes,” I answered thoughtfully, “I guess so.” Rereading the note, I allowed my voice to trail off. The P.A.L.—the so-called People’s Army of Liberation—had hit the headlines ten months ago with a spectacular bank robbery, followed by their Communiqué Number One, announcing that the “people’s revolution” had begun. Three members of the army had been captured—two refugee intellectuals from the affluent middle class and one Chicano with a record of juvenile delinquency, car theft and aggravated assault. Communiqué Number Two had threatened reprisals against the “ruling class” unless the three “soldiers” were released forthwith. Communiqué Number One had been signed simply “P.A.L.” The second communiqué was signed “Comrade Cain,” the revolutionary name of Jimmy Royce, a tough, smart, opportunistic black hood who’d apparently become the darling of the radical left following a love affair with Jessica Hanley, the daughter of aluminum cookware tycoon Jackson Hanley. Both Royce and Jessica Hanley had often been arrested on suspicion of numerous crimes, but sympathetic lawyers had always gotten them off. Jessica Hanley called herself the P.A.L.’s Information Minister. Royce was the Minister of Internal Security. Hanley and Royce were the only members of the P.A.L. whose whereabouts were known to the authorities. The rest of the Army had gone underground.

  “You don’t seem convinced,” Friedman prompted, waiting for my argument. />
  “Why the Masked Man?” I asked, on cue. “Why not the P.A.L., or Comrade Cain, or whatever Jessica Hanley calls herself?”

  “It’s a point,” Friedman admitted.

  We were standing in front of my desk, each of us lost in separate speculation as we continued to stare down at the letter. Finally Friedman sighed. “It’s almost ten o’clock. How about coffee and doughnuts? Unless I’m mistaken, it’s your turn to buy. Then we can call the FBI. Maybe, if they’re feeling nice, they’ll tell us where to find Royce.”

  “Do you want to bet?”

  “No.”

  Four

  “I SHOULD HAVE BET you,” Friedman said.

  We were cruising slowly past 2314 Scott Street, the address the FBI had given us for Jessica Hanley and/or James R. Royce. Located deep in San Francisco’s central slums, the decaying building had once been vintage Victorian, with a pillared portico, curved bay windows and imposing gingerbread trim. But now the gingerbread was gap-toothed, and the pillars had been replaced by two-by-sixes nailed together. Panels of plywood were fastened across the elegantly curved window frames. Once a three-story town house, the building was now a warren of tenement apartments.

  Canelli was driving the cruiser; Culligan sat beside him. Friedman and I were in the back seat.

  “Park around the corner, Canelli.”

  Beside me, Friedman was surveying the ghetto street with a policeman’s practiced eye. It was on a street like this that a cop came to terms with himself and his job. This was enemy territory.

  “It’s hard to believe that Jessica Hanley’s really here,” Friedman said. “I think I remember reading that Jackson Hanley is worth fifteen million dollars. Every year, they say, he contributes a fortune to the loonies on the far right.”