“Tonight. I’m going to call the lab superintendent, and have him meet me at the Hall.”
Culligan studied me for a moment, shrewdly sucking a tooth. “Something’s up, eh?”
“That’s right,” I answered. “Something’s up.”
Seven
I’D HARDLY UNLOCKED MY desk the next morning when Canelli knocked on my door. I’d learned to identify his knock: three quick, tentative raps.
“Come in.” As I wearily gestured Canelli to a chair, I rubbed my hot, dry eyes. I’d gotten less than three hours sleep. Driving to the Hall, I’d heard on the morning news that “authorities” suspected a “million-dollar extortion plot” based on the Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief rhyme. But, so far, the media hadn’t speculated that Dwyer might be the chief.
“What is it, Canelli? Have you got anything?”
“Well, I don’t have much, Lieutenant. But maybe it’s something. A car, maybe.”
“A car?” I looked at him.
“Maybe a car. See, I did like you told me last night. We rolled them out, down at the bottom of those cobblestone steps. And we got two people—two independent witnesses—that saw a guy in a dark jacket come down the stairs at just about nine-twenty—just a minute or two after the murder. He was medium build, and everything—and he wore dark slacks, too. Everything fits.”
“Was he black?”
“No. White, they said. With dark hair.”
“I thought he was wearing a stocking cap.”
“There wasn’t any cap, Lieutenant. But if he was smart, maybe he put it in his pocket, the way I figure.”
“All right.” I began rubbing my eyes again. “Go ahead.”
“Well, he got into a dark compact car—a Vega, maybe. Or maybe a Pontiac, or one of those little G.M. cars. Anyhow, it was a two-door model. Both witnesses agree on that. He drove south on Jones Street. Then he—”
My phone rang.
“Yes?”
“This is the reception desk, Lieutenant. There’s a Mr. Ramsey Powell here. He says he’s an attorney representing Jessica Hanley.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I knew Powell—too well. “All right, send him in. Give me ten minutes.”
“Yessir.”
I turned to Canelli. “Have you heard the speculation that this Masked Man thing could be a major extortion plot?”
He nodded decisively. “Yessir, I sure have.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is it? Big, I mean?” His large brown eyes blinked hopefully.
“It could be, Canelli. So I want you to circulate the information you’ve got—really circulate it. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear.” Again he hesitated, then asked, “Is there anything else? I mean, are there any other developments, or anything, on the Bates murder?”
“There’re two separate sets of prints on the .380, according to the lab. I’m waiting to hear on their classification.”
“Two?”
I nodded, paused a moment and then decided to say: “That’s right, two partial sets, one on the outside of the gun, and another set on the magazine. I’m waiting to hear from Sacramento right now.” As I said it, speaking with an air of finality, I looked toward the door. Following my glance, Canelli got quickly to his feet. Canelli was always anxious to leave a superior’s office.
“Leave the door open, will you? And remember, get that tentative car make circulated.”
“Right.”
A moment later, Ramsey Powell stood in the doorway. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“Good morning, Counselor. I’ve been expecting you.” I watched him enter my office and, uninvited, take a chair. Ramsey Powell was the counterculture’s establishment lawyer: a tall, gangling young man with a humorless face and scarecrow limbs that moved at constant cross-purpose. He bought his clothing at salvage shops, but carried a fifty-dollar attaché case. Today he wore a rusty, turn-of-the-century frock coat, with a checkered yellow shirt and a flaming-orange tie. He was bald on top, but his sparse sandy hair hung almost to his shoulders. His glasses were the obligatory aviator style. A random wisp of chin whiskers accentuated the long, Lincolnesque lines of his face. His expression was amiably vulturous. Glancing down as he crossed his bony legs, I saw that he wore corduroy slacks—and grey spats.
“I’m going to a funeral from here,” he explained. “It’s for a Hell’s Angel. Maybe you read about it. He got decapitated by an oil truck.”
“And you’re suing.”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Pity the poor oil company.”
He permitted himself a small, smug nod.
“How much money did you make last year, Powell?”
Behind the aviator glasses his eyes were round and virtuous. His mouth was turned down at the corners, registering prim disapproval of the question. I’d never seen Ramsey Powell smile. “I probably made about three times as much as you did, Lieutenant. This year, I should do better.”
Mockingly I shook my head. “And I always thought revolution didn’t pay.”
“I’m a good lawyer. People in trouble need good lawyers. I’m also an honest lawyer. The word gets around.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “you probably are an honest lawyer, come to think of it.”
“So I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you that Jessica Hanley is very distressed that you’ve seen fit to connect her with the murder of Gordon Ainsley.”
I nodded. “I can see how she would be distressed. Especially since we’ve got the murder weapon tied tight to Royce—and since we’ve got Royce tied to Jessica Hanley and the P.A.L.”
He raised one thin forefinger. “As it happens, Lieutenant, that’s what my client is distressed about. She’s not connected to Royce, either personally or politically. She hasn’t seen Royce for six months.”
“Have you asked her whether she and Royce planned to extort money from the city and county of San Francisco before they split up? Or have you asked her whether they planned the extortion attempt and then split up, as a blind?”
“As it happens, I didn’t have to ask her. She assured me—and wants me to assure you—that she had no prior knowledge of any conspiracy to murder Gordon Ainsley. And furthermore, I feel I should warn you that—”
“How about a conspiracy to murder Jonathan Bates?”
“Who?”
“Jonathan Bates. Last night. Bates was a lawyer. Ainsley was a doctor. If you read the papers this morning, you’d realize that this Masked Man is murdering people according to the old nursery rhyme. And he’s apparently following the alphabet, too—which makes D-someone the chief.” I paused, giving myself the satisfaction of seeing Powell’s eyes pucker and his mouth purse.
“Which explains,” I continued, “why we’re all a little uptight around here. And which also explains why, if your client really isn’t associated any longer with Royce, she should be trying to help us find Royce, instead of doing everything she can to hinder us. Because, believe me, we’ve got no sense of humor about this one, Powell. And, furthermore, you should—”
My phone rang.
“Excuse me.” I turned half away from him as I answered.
“Lieutenant Hastings?” a strange voice asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Clifford Taggart, Lieutenant. Intelligence and Identification, in Sacramento. This is in reference to your circular ‘D’ for David, dash six eight three, dash ‘E’ for easy.”
“Yes.” I pulled a note pad closer.
“We have two partial sets of fingerprints—one set on the slide and the breech mechanism of the Browning .380 and the other set on the magazine.”
“Right.”
“We are unable to classify the fingerprints on the external part of the pistol, even though they match the fingerprints on your previous circular relative to the Colt .45-caliber automatic used in the Ainsley homicide. Do you want us to check with the FBI in Washington?”
“We’ve already done that, thanks. What about the second set?”
“We show
that subject as George Williams, alias ‘Cat’ Williams. Do you want the particulars by phone or mail?”
I suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. “Give them to me now.”
“We show a Caucasian male, twenty-seven years old, weight one hundred sixty pounds, height five foot ten inches, hair dark brown, brown eyes, regular features. Identifying marks, a scar above the left eyebrow. Last known address, eleven months ago, six-two-oh Jones Street, your city. Previous arrests—” He paused. “Do you want them all, Lieutenant?”
“No, I’ll get them from Records. What’s Williams’ trade, anyhow?”
“Mostly he pushes drugs, I’d say. He’s a small-timer, but he’s got a history of violence. He’s classified as a sociopathic personality.”
“All right. Thanks.”
I cradled the phone, considered, then excused myself while I asked the switchboard for Chief Dwyer.
“I have something you should know about, sir,” I said.
“All right, come on up, Hastings. Bring Friedman too, if he’s free.”
“Yessir.” I hung up the phone and swiveled to face Ramsey Powell. “Do you know whether Jessica Hanley’s fingerprints are on file anywhere?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact,” he answered, “I do. And they aren’t. She’s been questioned—harassed—repeatedly. But she’s never been booked.”
“She might help herself,” I said, “if she volunteered her fingerprints. Because it begins to look like we’ve got a conspiracy—two killers, maybe, and a mastermind.”
“And she’s the mastermind. Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, Counselor. That’s what you’re saying.”
His response was a patronizing sigh.
Dwyer impatiently closed the Cat Williams folder, tossing it across the desk toward me. Speaking to Friedman, Dwyer said, “I’m inclined to agree with you, Pete. I don’t see either Royce or Williams as the brains behind this. And, especially, I don’t see either of them writing the notes. I’ve just finished with Doctor Feigenbaum. He says that, in his opinion as a psychiatrist, both notes were written by the same person. And that person was educated—which sure as hell rules out Royce and Williams, at least according to their jackets. Sure, Royce is smart. San Quentin tested his IQ at a hundred thirty, in fact. But Feigenbaum made the point that, even though some of these hoods have a high native intelligence, they simply don’t have the formal education to write a grammatical sentence. And I go along with him.”
Friedman nodded. “Me, too. Good grammar you can’t fake.” As Dwyer looked at me for either confirmation or disagreement, I nodded.
“On the other hand”—Friedman pointed to the folder—“Cat Williams’ description seems to fit the description we have on the Bates assailant.”
Dwyer snorted, “That wasn’t much of a description. One teen-ager, looking down from a second-story window.”
“Pete’s talking about the information Canelli developed,” I said.
“What information is that?” Dwyer snapped.
“I just now heard about it,” I apologized. “I was telling Pete in the elevator that Canelli turned up two witnesses that could have seen the assailant getting into a dark two-door G.M. sub-compact car—probably a Vega. They describe a white male, dark hair, medium build—wearing the same dark jacket and slacks the girl saw. Everything fits but the cap, which he could’ve put in his pocket.”
“Maybe both Royce and Williams are working for Jessica Hanley—for the goddam P.A.L.,” Dwyer mused in a low, resentful voice. “If that’s the way it went, then everything makes sense. Jessica planned it, and wrote the notes. The two hoods pulled the triggers.”
But as he spoke, Dwyer’s frown deepened; his blue eyes blinked, bemused. He didn’t like his own theory—didn’t like to think that, after all, the P.A.L. might be his antagonist.
Friedman was shaking his head. “I don’t see Williams working for the P.A.L. It doesn’t fit. He’s a hood.”
“So is Royce.”
“Royce is a hood with pretensions, though. Plus he’s black. These middle-class white female revolutionaries go for types like Royce. But not for a cheap hustler like Cat Williams.”
“All right.” Dwyer impatiently spread his hands. “Let’s hear you take the facts and come up with a different theory.”
“I don’t really have a theory,” Friedman said. “I’m just saying that, to me, the whole thing doesn’t add up.”
“That’s all very well,” Dwyer said irritably, “but it’s not very helpful.” He scowled at Friedman for a long moment, then abruptly turned to me. “What about you, Frank? Where do you stand?”
“Basically,” I said, “I’ve got to agree with Pete. I don’t think we’ve got enough information yet.”
“Well,” Dwyer said, “we’d better start developing some information—and fast.” Now he spoke in a lower, less decisive voice. His normally ruddy face was pale and drawn, its taut, self-sufficient cast had sagged into an expression of petulant uncertainty.
Was the aura of dynamic leadership that surrounded Dwyer nothing more than a glib, convincing conjurer’s trick? A good actor could change his appearance and mannerisms to suit the role he was playing. Could a successful executive do the same?
Was Dwyer scared? So scared that, momentarily, he’d lost his place in the script—forgotten his lines?
I watched him as he stared down at the desk in front of him. He sat motionless in his brass-studded leather chair. His fists were clenched on the desk top before him. Finally he spoke. “There’s no point in pretending that this—this thing doesn’t worry me. I mean, it’s not the easiest thing in the world, you know, to realize that some son of a bitch’s going to try and shoot you.”
Carefully I avoided looking at either Friedman or Dwyer. An uncomfortable silence followed. Then I heard Dwyer sigh sharply. The big leather chair creaked as he seemed to shake himself. When I looked up, I saw Dwyer’s chin lift. He’d recovered the appearance of command. “Is there anything else?” he asked, speaking with slightly exaggerated authority—still unsure of his lines, perhaps, and therefore overacting.
“Well,” Friedman said, speaking slowly and easily, “I’ve been wondering exactly what’s motivating all this.”
Dwyer frowned. “It’s obvious. Extortion.” He looked at me. “Is there any doubt?”
“I suppose not,” I answered. I hesitated, then said, “Have you heard anything from the mayor, sir? I mean”—I cleared my throat—“I mean, let’s suppose that there is a merchant that gets killed. Would there be any, ah, question of paying?”
Dwyer’s mouth tightened; his eyes came indignantly alive. “The answer to the question,” he said, “is that, no, I haven’t heard anything from the mayor about paying. And, no, he hasn’t heard anything from me. Nothing.”
Nodding, I looked quickly away.
“Is there any, ah, policy about the city paying blackmail or ransom?” Friedman asked.
“I don’t know,” Dwyer said. As he spoke, his voice sunk, his eyes shifted slightly. Had he momentarily forgotten his lines again? Stealing a glance, I saw that, yes, Dwyer was once more struggling to sustain his expression of decisive command. Friedman must have seen it too.
Perhaps to cover the chief’s confusion, Friedman began a short monologue: “There’s a possibility that the whole extortion thing is a blind, either to cover a murder that’s already been committed, or to cover one that’s going to be committed. Or maybe the murderer’s some kind of a nut who’s out to eliminate a certain kind of victim. That might seem a little—theatrical. But, after all, this whole thing is a little bizarre. For instance, I’ve been doing a little research on Jonathan Bates. And I discover that, for openers, Bates was a homosexual—that, in fact, he’d just broken up with one lover, and was in the process of taking another. Then there’s Ainsley, who was a philanderer, apparently. So maybe the Masked Man’s an avenging angel, or something.”
“Thanks a lot,” Dwyer said dryly.
It was o
ne of the few times I’d ever seen Friedman disconcerted. He made an involuntary gesture of disclaimer, quickly opening his mouth to say something. But instead, he decided to smile. After a moment, Dwyer grudgingly returned the smile. Then, shifting his eyes aside and speaking with slow, tentative speculation, he said, “If I am a target—and it’s some kind of a nut—then …” He let it go unfinished as his eyes wandered thoughtfully away. At that moment, his phone rang. As if he were relieved at the interruption, he lifted the receiver, listened for a moment, then said, “All right. Good.” Dwyer hung up and turned to face us.
“That was Halliday, in Intelligence,” he said. “They’ve located Cat Williams’ apartment, down in the Tenderloin. The address is just a block from Williams’ last known, and there’s no sign Williams has skipped, or is spooked. So maybe we’ve got a break.”
Together Friedman and I rose to our feet. “I’ll get right out there,” I said.
Eight
“THE TENDERLOIN ALWAYS AMAZES me,” Canelli said. “I mean, Jeeze, everything’s for sale down here.” He nodded at a man walking toward our car on the far side of the street. “Look at that mark there. I’ll give him fifty feet, at the outside, before he gets propositioned.”
Canelli was right. Everything about the man screamed Tourist—Conventioneer. We were parked in the four hundred block of Ellis Street, on the edge of the Tenderloin. Perhaps unwittingly, the mark was crossing an invisible boundary, venturing into strange, dangerous territory. The farther he went—the deeper he walked into the Tenderloin after nightfall—the more he risked injury, even death. Here in this block he would encounter only hookers. If the mark was lucky, he’d get his lay for twenty dollars and make it back to his hotel safely, still with his wallet—and his life. If he was unlucky, he’d be robbed, probably in the girl’s hotel, possibly on the street. If he resisted, he could die. In the Tenderloin, a hundred dollars was considered a fair return for murder.
“What’d I tell you,” Canelli said, watching a hooker slide up beside the mark.
Ignoring him, I turned toward 432 Ellis Street, Cat Williams’ address. The building was standard for the area: a grimy brick-and-frame apartment house four stories high, probably forty years old. A pornographic bookshop occupied the first floor. Each of the three upper floors contained four two-room apartments. Williams’ apartment was the second-floor front, on the left-hand side as we faced it. The building had been under intensive surveillance for nine hours, since ten-thirty that morning. We’d had time to draw a rough map of the building’s floor plan, Xerox the map and pass out a copy to each stakeout unit. As a precaution, we’d evacuated the two apartments that adjoined Williams’, confining the displaced tenants in the second floor’s fourth apartment, in the rear. It wasn’t legal—but it was necessary. We couldn’t afford to lose Cat Williams; we couldn’t afford to have him warned.
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 5