Again, Friedman and I exchanged a long, resigned look. I picked up the .45 and we left the interrogation room. Two minutes later, a call to Mobley confirmed that, yes, Charles E. Howell, aka “Chick,” had been caught carrying the .45 automatic. And, yes, the gun was missing from the property room.
“So much for the P.A.L. connection,” Friedman said ruefully. He sat with his feet propped on a corner of my desk, drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup. “Easy come, easy go.”
Eyes closed, I massaged my throbbing temples. Ever since I’d crashed my car into Royce’s van, my head had ached. A half-dozen aspirins hadn’t helped. Now suddenly I wanted to get into bed, pull up clean white sheets and sleep for half a day—with a pillow over the phone.
“You sound pretty relaxed about it,” I muttered.
“Don’t deceive yourself. I’m scared green. I figure that this Masked Man is lengthening his lead. And I don’t see any way to stop him.”
“How long ago did that .45 come into the property room?”
“Exactly five months and three weeks ago. Christ, Charles E. Howell is already in Soledad, serving five to life.”
“When did we get the .380?” I asked, still with my eyes closed.
I heard papers rustle. Finally: “Almost four months ago.”
“It could be Vicente, then,” I said slowly. “The time frame fits.” With great effort, I opened my eyes. “Both guns were in the property room before he was suspended.”
“The time frame might fit,” Friedman said, “but I’m not so sure about Vicente, somehow.”
“He was eyeballed leaving the Bates scene, for God’s sake,” I said irritably.
“Wrong. He was eyeballed driving down Jones Street.”
“Which he denied. And which McNally and Caulfield affirmed.”
“No question. But that doesn’t make Vicente a mass murderer.”
“If there’s a third victim,” I said slowly, “and if it turns out that the murder weapon came from the property room, then we’ve got a police department connection. Especially now. Until twenty minutes ago, we had the P.A.L. Now we don’t. Now we’ve got the property room and Vicente—and that’s all. Period.”
“And the hell of it is,” Friedman said, “we don’t have a shot at Vicente. I forgot to tell you, but Vicente’s lawyer came by my office while you were out collaring Royce. We’re enjoined not to interrogate or otherwise harass Vicente without good and sufficient cause, that cause to be determined by Judge Marvin K. Clawson. It’s got something to do with Vicente’s civil rights.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“That was Dwyer’s reaction, too.”
“When the hell is that property room inventory going to be ready?” I asked.
“Not for several hours yet.”
“So what do we do in the meantime?”
“I think,” Friedman said, “that we’ve got to find out everything we can about Mobley and Jamison—and also about Laura Farley. Incidentally, I read the report you dictated on Laura. She sounds like a smart girl. A girl who keeps her eyes open.”
“She is. And she does.”
“What’s her story, anyhow?”
“I don’t know much about her, really, except that she’s thirty-three years old, and grew up in Los Angeles. Her parents were divorced. Her father left home when Laura was two years old, she told me once. Her mother was a cocktail waitress, and maybe a half-hearted hooker. Anyhow, the mother used to bring men home, Laura said.”
“Not exactly the American dream of childhood.”
“No. But Laura survived, apparently.”
Friedman shrugged. “We all survive.”
“She doesn’t seem to have many scars.”
“Except that her whole life could be a scar.” Friedman paused, eyeing me obliquely as he said, “I’ll bet she’s sensational in bed.”
Finishing my coffee, I looked past him. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because she’s a good-looking, tight-walking, completely uptight chick—a man-eater. I know the type. Sexually, they’re great. They’re fire and ice, as the saying goes. But you—one man—can’t satisfy a woman like Laura. That’s because she’s really looking for her father, the ultimate screw.”
“You’re quite a psychologist.”
“I’m a lifelong observer of sickies. It goes with the territory.”
“Would your diagnosis have been different if I’d said her father was a stockbroker and her mother painted still-life flower arrangements?”
He noisily finished his coffee. “The point is, her mother didn’t paint still lifes.” As he wiped his mouth, Friedman looked at me shrewdly. Finally: “Speaking of my prowess of observation, I observe that you are completely—one hundred percent—pooped. You’ve been working long hours. You’ve been shot at once, and you’ve been in an auto wreck. Therefore, I’m suggesting—ordering—that you take the rest of the day off. Take Ann to dinner. Being careful, of course, to give Communications a phone number. If Dwyer asks, I’ll tell him that you’re closing in on the Masked Man, who happens to be a French chef.”
“You know, I might just take you up on that. After we finished at Hunter’s Point, I felt like I was going to get the shakes. That hasn’t happened to me in years.”
“It’s settled, then.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Assuming, of course, that the Masked Man doesn’t strike again.”
Fifteen
“I SHOULD GO HOME. And you should go to sleep.” Ann lay on her back, with the sheet pulled primly up to her chin. Propped on one elbow, I watched the murmuring movement of her lips as she said, “It must be midnight.”
“Not yet. Not for ten more minutes.” With my right hand, I lifted a coil of her thick, tawny hair and lightly kissed her neck. She stirred, smiled and opened her eyes. As she turned toward me, the length of our bodies touched. In the dim light from the bedroom window, I saw a faint pixy gleam deep in her solemn hazel eyes.
“I thought we were going out to dinner,” she said. “As I remember it, I was going to come over for a drink, then we were going out to dinner.”
“That’s true,” I said softly. “We were, weren’t we?” Under the covers, I moved my hand to the crown of her hip, then to the small of her back. As I drew her toward me, I felt her body responding.
Her lips moved against mine as she whispered, “As the girl is always supposed to say, ‘We shouldn’t.’ Not because she wouldn’t like to—and not because it hasn’t been wonderful tonight. Because it has been wonderful. But whether you know it or not, you’re exhausted.” As she said it, she drew back. But it was a gesture of companionship, not of rejection. “Really, Frank. I’ve never seen you so tired. You’re hoarse. I can always tell when you’re all used up. Even in the dark. I can hear it in your voice. You—”
The phone rang.
“Goddammit.” I rolled away from her, stared balefully at the phone for a moment, finally answered.
“It’s Pete, Frank.”
“And?”
“And we’ve got murder number three, right on schedule.”
I muttered a brief obscenity. Then: “What’s the story?”
“The victim’s name is Arthur Callendar. And, yes, he’s a merchant—a big shot at Roos Atkins.”
I drew a note pad and pencil toward me. “What’s the address?”
“Eight ninety-eight Elizabeth Street, corner of Hoffman.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s in Noe Valley, just a block from Twenty-fourth and Hoffman.”
“Are you there?”
“Yes. I got here about an hour ago. I was going to handle it myself, and let you get some—ah—rest. But then I figured I should tell Dwyer. And then I figured I should call you, since I’d already called Dwyer. Protecting your rear, you might say.”
“Thanks,” I answered dryly. “I’ll be right out. How’s it look?”
“A lot like the other two.”
“It figures.”
Clim
bing out of my car, I realized that my legs ached with a dull, dragging fatigue. As I showed my badge and stepped through the barricade that blocked Hoffman Street, I glanced at my watch. The time was exactly twelve-thirty.
Sunday night, the doctor had died. Wednesday night, the lawyer had been murdered. Tonight—Friday—it had been the merchant’s turn.
If the Masked Man kept to his murderous timetable, Dwyer would die not sooner than Sunday night, not later than Monday night.
And still we didn’t have a lead—not one solid piece of evidence, except for two notes that had yielded nothing, and two guns that had been stolen from our own property room.
Eight ninety-eight Elizabeth appeared to be a small ground-floor apartment with a door that opened on a short garden walkway leading directly to the street. The building was a three-story vintage Victorian, beautifully restored. The two upper floors were divided into apartments, with a common entrance on Hoffman. Eight ninety-eight Elizabeth shared the ground-floor space with a three-car garage that opened on Elizabeth Street.
The apartment door was closed, guarded by a patrolman. I verified that the door had been fingerprinted, then pushed it open. I entered directly into a large studio room. A single glance told me that it was a girl’s apartment—a young, with-it girl who probably loved rock music, probably was sexually liberated, probably smoked marijuana—at least. The posters told the girl’s story: psychedelic posters, art deco posters, wall-filling blowups of old movie stars and rock stars.
In the far corner of the room, a girl sat huddled in a huge sunburst cane chair. Culligan sat silently beside her, his long, morose face grey with fatigue, his hands hanging limply between his thighs.
In the opposite corner, the victim lay on a king-size bed made up as an exotic, pillow-festooned couch. He was covered with a green plastic sheet. Friedman was in the kitchen, conferring with a pair of lab men. It was a small pullman kitchen, with dirty dishes and pans scattered everywhere. Friedman nodded in confirmation of a final order, then motioned me into a small bathroom, just as littered as the kitchen. He closed the door and gestured mock-magnanimously to the toilet seat
“Care to sit down?”
“No, thanks.” I leaned against the glass wall of the shower stall; Friedman propped himself against the washbowl.
“Are you ready for the particulars?” Friedman was haphazardly flipping the pages of his dog-eared spiral notebook.
“Ready.”
“The victim’s name is Arthur Callendar, as I said on the phone. He’s the menswear merchandise manager of Roos Atkins chain—a good job, according to his girlfriend.”
“Is she the tenant?”
Friedman nodded. “Exactly. Very perceptive.”
“Thanks.”
“The victim is fifty-five years old, been divorced for three years. The tenant is Miss Victoria Sorensen, age twenty-eight. She’s an assistant giftwares buyer at Roos Atkins. Are you beginning to get the picture?”
I shrugged.
“The situation,” Friedman said, “is that Callendar and Victoria—Vickie—have had a thing going for five or six months, apparently. Tonight, Vickie went to a class at the University of California extension center, at Market and Guerrero. It’s a class in short-story writing, and it was over at ten o’clock. She came directly home—drove. It’s about a ten-minute trip. Meanwhile, Callendar apparently arrived here at about nine o’clock. He drives a Jensen Healy, and the car is well known hereabouts. He apparently came in, using his own key, and made himself at home. He brought two bottles of Chenin Blanc, one of which he put in the refrigerator, after tapping the other. He put on a Sinatra record, and settled down with his wine and a copy of Swank, which Vickie says he brought with him. Incidentally, Vickie has called a girlfriend, who’s outside. Unless you want to interrogate Vickie, maybe we should let her go to her girlfriend’s—under guard, of course. She’s pretty shook up.”
“Are you satisfied with her story?”
Friedman nodded. “She was very helpful—very honest. Not only that, but in spite of her shock, she has a pretty good eye. She picked up things like the wine, and the Sinatra record and Swank. I was impressed.”
“Then let her go. But let’s be sure and make the guard tight.”
“Right.”
I followed Friedman out of the bathroom and watched while he instructed the girl, then dismissed her. When he’d finished, she dutifully nodded, got to her feet and walked toward the door, dazed and stumbling. She opened the door, hesitated, then turned to look at the shape beneath the green plastic sheet. She shook her head doggedly, as if to deny the reality of what she saw. Then her mouth began to tremble, her face to twitch uncontrollably. Finally she turned away, defeated. She was a tall, well-built girl with long brown hair, slim legs and full, exciting breasts. Culligan followed her out, softly closing the door.
I moved toward the couch. With my back to Friedman, I drew a deep breath before I reluctantly lifted the sheet from the body.
He’d apparently been reading the copy of Swank when he was shot in the chest. His body lay propped up on two satin pillows; the open sex magazine lay across his thighs. He wore a pair of tortoise-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses, his dead eyes seemed to stare at the door. I studied his lean, good-looking face, his mod-length grey hair, his brushed velour pants and his expensively casual shirt, open at the neck to reveal a strand of love beads among the thick, grizzled hair of his chest. A round blood stain, no more than four inches in diameter, was centered on his chest, just below the V of his shirt. His shoes were off. He wore argyle socks.
With one of its corners tucked beneath the body, turned so that I could read it, I saw the neatly typed note:
Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant …
Only the Chief is left. If you want to save him, it will cost $500,000.00. Call Patrick’s Attick, same message, same time.
THE MASKED MAN
From behind me, Friedman said, “I brought Xerox copies of the other two notes with me. And, sure as hell, they’re typed by the same person, on the same typewriter, using the same paper. And the goddam literary style is the same, too. What’ll you bet that he went down to the library, or somewhere, with his paper and methodically typed all the notes at the same time?”
I stood staring down at the body. It was propped at just the right position for reading in bed, with the light from a pinup lamp coming over his shoulder at the best angle. As he lay, he could have been reading, heard the door open and lowered his sex magazine to look at his visitor, standing in the doorway. Either he’d been caught by surprise, or he’d known his murderer.
Or he could have been asleep.
I drew up the green plastic sheet and dropped it over the victim’s face, careful not to damage his glasses.
“How do you figure it?” I asked.
“Before I answer that,” Friedman said, “I’ve got a bulletin for you.” Again he consulted his notebook. “They finished the physical inventory of the property room about ten minutes before this call came in. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
“Besides the two guns we already know about—the .45 and the .380—the list, if you can believe it, reads as follows: We’ve got one .22 Magnum Ruger Single Six revolver, a .32-caliber Llama automatic pistol, a Walther P-38 automatic pistol, a .357 Magnum Smith and Wesson revolver, a Winchester twelve-gauge shotgun that’s been sawed off and—brace yourself—an M-16 rifle.”
“An M-16?”
“I told you to brace yourself.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Exactly.”
“Have we found the gun that did this job?”
“No. But since Canelli is directing the search, we’re a cinch.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“The girl. She arrived about ten-fifteen. The call came in two minutes later, made from this phone.”
“Was the door locked when she arrived?” As I asked the question, I stepped closer to the door, examining the lock. It was a dead-bolt type, o
ne of the best made.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Nobody picked that—” I gestured to the lock.
“Agreed. But the girl thinks it was probably open when the murder was committed. She and the victim have been going together for several months, as I said, and Friday night is a steady thing with them. Apparently he was waiting for her to arrive so they could commence their weekly sex orgy. He was probably stoking himself up on wine and dirty pictures.”
“And he always leaves the door open for her. Is that it?”
Friedman nodded. “You guessed it. Easy ingress. She probably unhooked her bra as she stepped over the threshold—if she wore a bra.”
“So the victim didn’t necessarily know his assailant. He could have heard the door open, put down his magazine to have a look, and been shot.”
“That’s the way it seems to me.”
Nodding agreement, I turned toward a heavy plank-style Spanish table and sat on the edge. “There’s a pattern to all these murders,” I said. “All three victims were in their forties or fifties, all affluent, all involved in something that’s not quite right—homosexuality, or illicit sex or whatever. Each one of them was some kind of a swinger. And the settings are similar, too—a nice house or apartment, a ground-floor entrance.”
Amused, Friedman said, “Are you suggesting that Dwyer is a swinger?”
Wearily, I smiled.
“There’s also good marksmanship,” Friedman said. “Don’t forget that. Damn good marksmanship. A single shot through the heart, or thereabouts, each time out—and at least one shot was made in semidarkness. Bates.”
“If the Masked Man switches to that M-16 …” I let it go unfinished.
Friedman nodded. “Exactly. I figure that we can protect Dwyer from a murderer with a handgun. After all, he’s not a politician. He doesn’t have to wade into the crowds. But an M-16 rifle in the hands of a marksman, that’s something else. Unless Dwyer decides to stay holed up in his basement until this is over, which he won’t, he could get killed.”
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 12