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

by Collin Wilcox

  “—surprised to see you here,” Mobley was saying, facing me across the counter. “Considering everything that’s coming down, I mean.” Arms spread wide, palms flat on the counter, he was looking at me expectantly, hopeful of inside information.

  At that moment, the reinforced metal door opened. Frowning, Jamison strode directly to the wall of file drawers. His pudgy buttocks bounced as he walked; his chin was lifted primly. With the call slip in his hand, he riffled through the 5 x 7 cards. Plainly disbelieving, Jamison compared the call slip with Williams’ card. “It checks,” he said finally, shaking his head in slow, baffled disbelief. “It checks. But the gun’s not there.”

  “What?” Ignoring me, Mobley turned quickly to his assistant. “What?”

  I waited impatiently while the two men conferred, then disappeared together through the metal door, to check section C, drawer 62. When they returned, a full five minutes later, I gestured for Mobley to dismiss his assistant.

  As the door closed, Mobley turned to face me. His thin, pale face was drawn, his mouth tight. Beneath the ridges of his hairless brows, his eyes were fever-bright. For a moment we didn’t speak. Then, slowly and reluctantly, Mobley asked, “Is that—” He shook his head, unwilling to say it. Then: “That missing gun—is it the one that killed Jonathan Bates?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s involved in this Masked Man thing?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Christ. What about the first gun—the one that killed Ainsley?”

  “Here.” I handed over a slip of paper with Jimmy Royce’s and Jessica Hanley’s names and FBI numbers. “Have you got a .45-caliber Colt automatic listed for either one of them?”

  Mobley went to the file drawers, opened two, riffled through the cards and came back shaking his head. “We’ve got nothing on Jessica Hanley. I don’t think she’s ever been booked, has she?”

  “Maybe not. How about Royce?”

  “He’s apparently never been caught with a gun. Everything else, I gather. But never a gun.”

  I nodded. “How do you think that Browning disappeared, Bert?” I asked the question quietly, deliberately pitching my voice to an impersonal, official note.

  Mobley answered the question as it was asked: without inflection. “There’re as many ways to steal things as there are thieves to steal them. You know that.”

  “Make a guess, then. I want an answer. Any answer.” This time, I’d made it an order.

  He nodded reluctantly. We both knew that in the days and weeks ahead, Mobley’s operation would come under criticism and review. No matter which way the Internal Security investigation went, his service record would be debited.

  He faced me squarely across the counter, saying: “Basically, there’s only three ways a gun can disappear. Either it’s signed in”—he gestured to the files—“but doesn’t get into the drawers, or else it gets into the drawer and then someone takes it out, or else there’s some slippage in its final disposition.”

  “I still want you to make a guess.”

  “I can’t make a guess.” He slashed the air with an angry hand. “All I can do is tell you the routine—which you know as well as I do.”

  “Someone brings in a gun,” I said. “You or Jamison fill out the card. The arresting officer signs off, and Jamison—or you—signs on. Then the gun goes through there—” I gestured to the reinforced door.

  “Yes.” He nodded vehemently. Now his eyes were harried, his voice ragged. “Yes.” In that moment, I glimpsed the two faces of Bert Mobley: the man before he’d taken the bullet, and the man after—sidelined, divorced, bitter.

  “What about Captain Rifkin? Can he get in, if he wants to?”

  “He can”—again the other man slashed impatiently at the air—“but he doesn’t.”

  “So what you’re telling me,” I said, “is that only you and Jamison ever go inside the property room.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Yes.” Now the monosyllable had a dead, defeated sound. The fire was fading from his eyes. But still I had to keep at it: “Would it be possible,” I asked, “for someone to slip into the property room while you were, say, out to lunch, and Jamison was inside the room, in a situation where he couldn’t see everything? For instance, let’s suppose that I ask Jamison for something—some evidence, in a case of mine. I wait until he goes into the room—headed, say, for the narcotics, which I imagine is in a different section from the guns. So then, after a few seconds, I go over the counter, and through the door. Then I—”

  “Do you have a key?” he interrupted acidly.

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t get in. There’s a spring lock, plus the two dead-bolt locks.”

  I nodded. Then, reluctantly, I said, “What you’re telling me, then, is that only the three of you have access—you, Jamison and Captain Rifkin. And you all need keys.”

  “Yes,” he answered slowly, meeting my gaze with shadowed eyes that suddenly seemed defeated. But doggedly he said, “Except that, as I said earlier, there’s a way around every lock. Christ, I shouldn’t have to tell you about that heroin ripoff in New York. They still don’t know how that happened.”

  “Who checked the Browning in?” I asked, this time looking away from Mobley’s face, tortured evidence of the damage I was doing.

  Without glancing at the card, still in his hand, Mobley said, “Jamison.”

  “Were you here at the time?”

  “I don’t know. But even if I was here, I wouldn’t have paid any special attention. Guns come in here all the time. They come and they go.”

  “Where do they go—finally?”

  “To the M and J Foundry,” he answered. “They’re melted down to make manhole covers.”

  “I always thought that was just a story.”

  “It’s the truth. As soon as we get a load that can’t be returned to their rightful owners, or were legally purchased by the subject, or whatever, we take them over to the foundry and watch while they’re tossed into the vats. It’s part of the job.”

  “But that wouldn’t have happened to the Browning.”

  Mobley tapped the card. “No.” His voice was toneless—as dead as his eyes, now. “Eventually, this gun should be returned to Dr. Hunsicker. It—”

  Mobley’s phone rang. He questioned me with a glance. When I nodded, he answered the phone, listened a moment, then handed the receiver to me.

  “Are you busy?” It was Friedman’s voice.

  “Not really.”

  “Then maybe you should come by my office when you’re finished there—in about three minutes, say.”

  “Right.”

  Eleven

  “FIRST YOU.” FRIEDMAN GESTURED mock-graciously. “What’s the property room connection?”

  As concisely as I could, I told him what I’d discovered. When I finished, he sat silently for a moment behind his desk, shaking his head. “It might be,” Friedman said finally, “that I’m losing my resiliency. But, I swear to God, I can’t keep up with this one. I mean”—he waved his cigar—“the script changes from hour to hour. First we’ve got a routine-type unexplained homicide. Then we’ve got this Masked Man scam—a nice, refreshing touch. Then, even better, we’ve got the P.A.L.—always a crowd pleaser, complete with the disaffected heiress and the mandatory black stud from the ghetto. But then”—Friedman sighed, dolefully shaking his head—“then, my God, the script turns sour. After all, what’s more lackluster than a cheap pusher—unless, of course, he’s been hired to kill Bates by the Masked Man, otherwise known as Jessica Hanley. So then, to turn the situation around for the third or fourth time, depending on who’s counting—we discover that the pusher isn’t the one who pulled the trigger—because there’s no way he could’ve had the gun, which was locked up in our own property room all the time, it turns out. Whereupon”—Friedman drew a deep, aggrieved breath—“we now have the Dave Vicente variable.” As he said it, the jocular note suddenly went out of his voice. A quick shadow flicked across his
eyes.

  I looked at him. “What’d you mean, the Dave Vicente variable? What’s Vicente got to do with this?”

  “Do you know Vicente?” He spoke seriously now—like a man reluctantly facing a distasteful task.

  “No. Not personally. I know who he is, but I don’t think I exchanged more than twenty-five words with him.”

  “You know that he was suspended three months ago, and brought up on departmental charges of taking a bribe.”

  I nodded—waiting.

  “Well,” Friedman continued heavily, “Canelli just reported that two vice inspectors—McNally and Caulfield—eyeballed Vicente driving south on Jones Street just a few minutes after the two witnesses saw the possible Bates assailant come down the stairs from Machondray Lane and drive off in a G.M. subcompact. And, yes, Vicente drives a two-door Vega. And, yes, his physical description fits.”

  “What’s Vicente say?”

  “Nobody’s interrogated him. I thought I should talk to you first. He’s appealing the departmental decision, so it’ll be a little tricky.”

  I sat silently, staring down at my hands. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered finally.

  “Yeah.”

  “So you think I should talk to him?”

  “One of us has to do it.”

  “Are you trying to tell me,” I said irritably, “that you think Vicente decided, after he got busted, to steal a few guns from the property room and start murdering doctors and lawyers?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything,” Friedman answered. “I’m just passing on what Canelli told me.” He spoke with exaggerated patience—as he might speak to an unreasonable child.

  “Are Vicente’s prints on the guns? Are they the unclassified prints?”

  “I don’t know. They’re checking right now.”

  “Goddammit,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I sighed. “All right, I’ll talk to him.”

  Friedman nodded.

  “What’re the particulars of his bribery case?” I asked.

  “Well, he was in Bunco—an inspector, first class.” Friedman glanced at a page of scrawled notes. “He’s thirty-four years old, with a wife and one kid. Canelli knows him; they were in uniform together. And Canelli says that Vicente was always a hustler—one of those guys who’s always talking about getting rich in real estate, or in the stock market, or whatever. But, meantime, Vicente always spent more than he made. Plus he’s got a reputation for fooling around with the girls—and that can get expensive, too. So, when he got into Bunco, he apparently saw his chance and took it. He got the goods on a guy who was doing a number with phony stocks, and he took a payoff. It’s too bad, too.” Friedman regretfully shook his head. “He was a good detective—smart and ambitious. In another six months, he probably would’ve made sergeant. He’d already passed the test.”

  “Have you got his address?”

  He handed over a slip of paper. It was an address in North Beach, near the foot of Telegraph Hill. I eyed the paper for a resentful moment, then thrust it into my pocket. “Should I take Canelli, do you think?”

  “Why don’t you ask Canelli? Leave it up to him. Incidentally”—he pointed to the address—“among Vicente’s other problems, he was divorced almost a year ago. So don’t expect to find him in the bosom of his family. And be careful. If he is the Masked Man, you’ll be going up against a trained police officer, don’t forget.”

  I nodded. “Are there any other developments? Anything on Royce?”

  “No. Apparently he knows we’re after him. He hasn’t been home for two days, at least.”

  “What about Jessica Hanley?”

  He shrugged, spreading his hands. “Nothing there, either. She only leaves her apartment to shop for groceries. I’m trying to get an order for a phone tap, but I don’t think I’ll have much luck.”

  “Hasn’t Washington come up with anything on those unclassified prints we found on the .45 and the .380?”

  “What’s to come up with? They simply aren’t on record. Period. Incidentally”—he paused, his eyes moving furtively to me—“I suppose it’s occurred to you that we’ve got to have an audit taken of the property room, as soon as possible. We’ve got to try and figure out how that .380 could have disappeared.”

  I nodded.

  Again he hesitated. “I, ah, called Captain Rifkin, about an audit, only to discover that he’s in the hospital for a gall bladder operation, for God’s sake. Which, ah, means that we’re going to have to work with his secretary, Laura Farley.” As he spoke, Friedman’s glance again strayed covertly toward me. The meaning of his oblique scrutiny was clear. Two years ago I’d made the mistake of having a brief affair with Laura Farley. She’d been newly divorced. I’d been at loose ends, divorced myself for almost eight years and between girls. From the first, the affair had been destructive. Laura had needed—demanded—more of myself than I could give. I couldn’t pretend an affection I didn’t feel—my old, chronic problem. I’d never been able to decide whether Friedman knew of the affair—not until now.

  “Is that, ah, going to be a problem?” he asked.

  “Not for me,” I answered shortly, rising to my feet. “After I’ve talked to Vicente, I’ll talk to her.”

  “I can’t get far away from my office,” Friedman said apologetically, “or I’d handle it. But I’m stuck on the phones. I have never—repeat, never—seen more tips come in on a case. I’ve got three men on the phones, with instructions to refer the nonkooks to me. It’s a full-time job.”

  “There’s no problem interrogating Laura,” I said irritably. “Forget it.” I turned abruptly to the door.

  Dolefully, Canelli shook his head. “It’s hard to believe. Old Dave—” Again he shook his head. “I always kind of liked him.”

  “So far,” I said, “there’s nothing to believe or disbelieve—except that he might’ve been driving south on Jones Street Wednesday night.”

  “Yeah, but what if those two witnesses identify him as the one they saw come down the steps and get into the car? The description fits, Lieutenant. And so does the time frame. Right to the minute. Plus the car. Everything.”

  “Look, Canelli, who do you feel sorrier for—a cop who got caught with his hands dirty, or the victims of a murder-extortion plot?”

  He sighed. “I know, Lieutenant. It’s just that I hate to think Dave could be a murderer. It’s bad enough that he got caught dirty, like you said. I mean, it’s a—a reflection on the rest of us, I guess you’d say. But a murderer, that’s something else.”

  “You didn’t have to come, Canelli. I know that you and Vicente were friendly.”

  “Aw, it’s not that, Lieutenant. I don’t mind. And, besides, we weren’t that friendly. I just hate to find out what I’m afraid maybe I’m going to find out, that’s all.”

  “Here it is.” I pointed to a modern glass-and-stucco low-rise apartment building. It was an expensive-looking building, in an expensive part of town.

  “Jeeze,” Canelli said, “that’s a pretty fancy layout, considering that Dave probably pays alimony and child support.” Then, frowning, he added thoughtfully: “I wonder how much he was accused of taking, anyhow?”

  We took a small elevator to the fourth floor and rang a bell marked “D. Vicente.”

  “I’ll do the talking, Canelli.”

  “Whatever you say, Lieutenant. Just whatever you say.”

  On the second ring, Vicente opened the door. Seeing Canelli, he began to smile. Then he saw me. Instantly, his handsome face darkened. “Well?”

  “Can we come in?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll have to come down to the Hall.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Suspicion of homicide.”

  His lip curled. “I won’t even bother to answer that.” He stood with one hand on his hip, the other grasping the doorknob. It was a relaxed, disdainful posture, gracefully posed. Athletically built, with a face that could have been Valentino’
s and a weight lifter’s torso, dressed in an Italian sport shirt and skintight jeans, Vicente looked exactly like his reputation: a smooth-talking, fast-moving ladies’ man. He also had a reputation for using his fists, Canelli had told me. A check of Vicente’s service record had confirmed the charge. Once as a patrolman and three times as a Vice inspector, he’d been cautioned for beating up suspects.

  “Where were you between nine and ten Wednesday night, Vicente?”

  He took a long, insolent moment to consider the question, all the time looking me steadily straight in the eye. Finally, speaking slowly and distinctly, he said: “I was right here. Alone. If I remember correctly, I was watching TV.”

  “Where was your car?”

  “In the garage downstairs.”

  “What kind of a car is it?”

  “A Vega G.T. I just bought it.”

  “Do you know Bill McNally and Bruce Caulfield?”

  “In Vice?”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, I know them.”

  “They say they saw you driving south on Jones Street between nine and ten on Wednesday night. They were in McNally’s car, and they were going north on Jones.”

  “I don’t care whether they were going straight up. They didn’t see me on Jones Street Wednesday.”

  “They say they did, Vicente.”

  “And I say they didn’t.”

  “It’s not too late to change your story. We’ve got two other witnesses that—”

  “Say, are you trying to connect me to this Masked Man thing? Is that what you’re trying to do, for Christ’s sake?” As he spoke, his eyes widened incredulously. Then, slowly, a quizzical smile touched the corners of his improbably handsome mouth. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said softly. “You’re trying to set me up for the goddam Masked Man murders.”

  I nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to do, Vicente. Surprised?” As I spoke, a buzzer clipped to my belt sounded. Communications wanted me.