“He makes good money, though,” Culligan objected.
“Yeah, he does. And his wife’s remarried, so he’s not supporting her, or anything. But he throws a lot of it across the bar, on weekends—like I said. Plus he eats most of his meals out. It’s”—Canelli waved a hand—“it’s kind of sad.”
“Have either of you got anything on Vicente?” I asked. “Any information? Any opinions?”
“Well,” Canelli offered, “I knew him a little bit, when we were in Auto Theft together for about three months or so. And I have to say that I can’t see him doing anything very heavy. I mean, I can see him taking a little on the side. That, I have to say. But I sure can’t see him as a mass murderer.”
“We aren’t looking for a mass murderer,” Culligan said. “We’re looking for an extortionist. A mass murderer kills for kicks. This guy is out for the money. And when you think about it like that, Vicente makes sense. And especially, it makes sense that he’d have Dwyer on his list.”
“I’m talking about his personality, though,” Canelli objected. “And I’m saying that I don’t see him murdering anyone, that’s all.”
“All right.” I raised my hands, ending the discussion. “Just make sure that we’ve got a good, tight surveillance on Vicente.” I looked at Culligan. “You’re handling it, right?”
Nodding, Culligan gathered up his papers and got to his feet. “Right. We’ve got him covered front and back, twenty-four hours.”
“Does Vicente know he’s being watched?” I asked.
Culligan nodded. “No question. And he doesn’t like it, either.”
“If he was under surveillance last night,” Canelli offered, “then he couldn’t’ve killed Callendar.”
“Yeah, well”—Culligan looked uncomfortable—“He couldn’t’ve gotten out with his car, that’s for sure. But the way his apartment building’s laid out, he could’ve sneaked out on foot, if he’d been willing to climb over a couple of roofs.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” I said, annoyed.
“I only had two men on each shift,” Culligan said. “That’s all Lieutenant Friedman allocated. I had two men, and there were three ways out.”
“All right.” As I waved dismissal, my phone rang.
“This is Radebaugh again, sir.”
“What is it, Radebaugh?”
“Well”—he hesitated—“I was wondering if you knew where I could find Chief Dwyer?”
“He’s either at home, or else he’s just gone out. Why don’t you give me the message? I’ll probably be talking to him, later in the day.”
“Well, I”—again he hesitated—“I think maybe I should talk to him directly. Those—ah—were my orders, sir.”
“All right. If I talk to him, I’ll tell him to call you.” Annoyed again, I hung up the phone.
Seventeen
THE DOOR OF THE PROPERTY room was locked, with a makeshift “Closed for Audit” sign taped to the frosted glass. But I saw a gleam of fluorescent light inside, and heard a shuffle of movement. I knocked, identified myself and heard footsteps approaching. The door opened to reveal Bert Mobley.
“Hello, Lieutenant.” It was a guarded, impersonal greeting. On the doorknob, his hand was knuckle-white.
“Can I talk to you, Bert?”
“Come in.”
“Thanks.” I looked at the two empty desks. “Where’s Jamison?”
“In the cafeteria having coffee.” Mobley locked the hallway door and turned to face me. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked, gesturing to Jamison’s desk.
“Thanks.” I sat on the desktop. Mobley hesitated, then sat on his own desktop, facing me expectantly. Transparently he’d chosen the desktop instead of his chair so that he wouldn’t feel at a height disadvantage in the interrogation that he knew must come.
“You’ve had a couple of busy days,” I said.
He shrugged. “It’s all part of the job. Things disappear.”
Nodding in reply, I realized that I was suddenly uncomfortable—uncertain where to begin, or how. Finally I gestured toward the steel reinforced door. “Is the property room open for business?”
Mobley shook his hairless head. “No. Normally, we don’t open on Saturday.”
“Where’s confiscated property kept on weekends?”
“The watch commander is responsible. If he gets a big haul, it’s usually put in Rifkin’s safe.” A short, strained silence. Then: “Is that why you came—to get into the property room?”
For the first time I looked directly into his eyes. “No, it isn’t, Bert. I came to talk to you—and Jamison.”
He didn’t respond, either by word or gesture. His expression was impassive. Beneath their bare brows, his eyes told me nothing.
“What I’ve got to ask you,” I said, “is where you were last night.”
“Between the hours of nine and ten,” he said. He spoke in a dead-level voice, stoically resigned. Bert knew the moves.
I sighed. “Yeah. Between nine and ten.”
“I’ll tell you right now,” he said, “that it’s not going to add up to much. I was working on the inventory of the guns. I finished about eight-thirty. I stopped at the Lineup, for a quick bite to eat. Then I went to the Traveler’s Bar, on Mission Street, near Geneva. I suppose I got there about ten o’clock. I stayed until it closed, at two o’clock. I got tanked. I always get tanked on Friday nights. Did you know that?” Now he was speaking with a kind of inexorable momentum, plunging ahead: an irresistible, self-destructive force. It was as if he were interrogating himself, relentlessly forcing one damaging confession after another.
“I get tanked on Saturday nights, too. Or, to be more accurate, I get tanked Friday, and I stay tanked until Sunday afternoon. I didn’t have your—will power.” For the first time, expression came into his voice. His eyes came alive—bitterly, unbearably alive. His words came faster now, faster and harsher: “As I understand it, you drank secretly for the first year you were on the force. Then—good news—you saw the light. There was a happy ending. You—”
“It didn’t exactly happen like that,” I interrupted. “What happened was that I screwed up. Not a lot—just a little, luckily. And I was fortunate enough to have someone cover for me—once. Then he told me that the next time it happened, I was out on my ass.”
“And now you’re a lieutenant—a real success story. You’re less than a year on the job, but already you’re a big media personality.” Eyes blazing, he mockingly bobbed his head. “Congratulations. You’re an inspiration to me, Lieutenant. If it can happen to you, it can happen to me. Right?”
“That’s right, Bert,” I answered quietly.
“Except that it’s not right. Because it’s wrong. And you know why it’s wrong?”
“Listen, Bert, I’m not here to—”
“It’s wrong because I’m hollow inside. I’m completely hollow. There’s nothing there. Do you remember the feeling, Lieutenant?” It was a savagely sardonic question.
“I remember. You don’t forget.”
He burlesqued a deep, courtly nod. “Oh, you remember. How nice. You’re very understanding, Lieutenant. I want you to know that I appreciate it.”
“Listen, Bert, all I want is—”
“I know.” He held up a quick hand. “I know. You’re just after the facts. Well, Lieutenant—sir—the facts are that, far from having an alibi for last night, I have everything but an alibi. And as far as Wednesday night is concerned, I was at home, watching TV. That’s my solution to the Monday through Thursday problem—the TV. And as for last Sunday night, I was drying out, also at home. As I remember, I was sick—puking in the toilet. You probably remember that feeling, too. So what’s next? A warrant to search my apartment? Is that the next—”
“If I were you,” I said sharply, “I’d quit feeling sorry for myself.” But, even as I said it, I knew that the phrase sounded hollow, fatuous.
“Oh, good. And then what? After I quit feeling sorry for myself, what happens then? Do I
buy myself a toupee? Is that next? Do I—”
A key was slipping into a lock; the hallway door was opening to reveal Jamison. For a moment Mobley and I faced each other. In that moment Mobley’s eyes once more turned opaque. He’d put the mask back in place.
“Is it time for my lunch break, Lieutenant?” Mobley asked ironically.
“Yes.” I nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” Mobley walked through the open door, parade-ground erect.
I gestured for Jamison to sit down at his desk. As I sat on Mobley’s desktop, staring down at the overweight, soft-faced patrolman, I realized that the frustration of the previous minutes was suddenly boiling over. I didn’t intend to waste time pampering Jamison.
“I’m checking on everyone who had a chance at those guns, Jamison,” I said curtly. “You heard what happened last night.”
“Yessir, I heard.” He shifted uncomfortably. His buttocks, I noticed, more than covered the seat of his office chair.
“Then let’s start with last night.”
“Well, ah”—Jamison’s tongue tip touched the cupid’s bow of his upper lip—“I, ah, left here about, ah, eight-thirty, I guess it was. Or maybe it was eight-fifteen. I forget, exactly. But I could check it on the—”
“Never mind. Eight-thirty’s good enough. What’d you do after you left the Hall?”
“Well, ah, I got my car, and went home.”
“Where’s home?”
“On Clayton Street.”
“That’s on Twin Peaks, isn’t it?”
As he reluctantly nodded, his soft brown eyes searched my face for a reaction. Twin Peaks was mere minutes from Noe Valley.
“Then what?” I asked.
“Well, I”—the tongue tip circled the pursed lips—“I got home about nine, I guess it was. And then I, ah, made myself an omelette.”
“Did you stay home all night?”
“Well, ah, no, I didn’t, as a—a matter of fact.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I—I went to a bar. On—Castro Street.”
“Castro near Market?” As I asked the question, I was unable to keep the contempt from my voice. The Castro and Market area was a gathering place for homosexuals.
“Yessir.” His eyes fell, defeated. As his lips came together, his small, rounded chin began to tremble. He was close to tears.
“What was the name of the bar?”
“The Hayloft.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Ab—about ten-thirty.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Until one-thirty. I—” His phone rang. Startled, he stared at the phone, then raised his eyes to me, mutely asking whether he should answer. Impatiently, I gestured permission.
He listened a moment, then wordlessly handed the phone to me.
“This is Pete, Frank. Are you busy?”
“A little.”
“I understand. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be getting to the Hall in about twenty minutes. Unless you’ve got another shootout scheduled, stick around.”
“Right.”
“Anything happening down there?”
“Not really.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. There’ll be something happening when I get there.”
Thoughtfully, I hung up the phone. Without doubt, Friedman had just finished meeting with Dwyer. And, from the sound of his voice, Friedman had news—important news. The probability was plain: the city had decided to pay the half-million dollars.
“Is there anything else, Lieutenant?” Jamison asked. In the interval he’d recovered some of his flabby, smug composure. “Because if there isn’t, I’ve got to finish indexing the inventory.”
I shook my head, and moved toward the door—just as someone tapped on the glass. Opening the door, I saw Laura.
“Come in.” I stepped aside to let her enter the office, then turned to face her. She wore close-fitting slacks and a Levi-style jacket—dressed casually for the weekend, like the rest of us. Her soft chestnut hair hung to her shoulders. She carried a manila file folder, which she handed to Jamison. He looked at it, thanked her and went to the reinforced door of the property room vault. I noticed that he used two keys to open the door—his and Mobley’s.
“Have you discovered anything?” She spoke in a low, impersonal voice, at the same time sitting on a corner of Mobley’s desk. She sat with legs crossed, torso slightly arched, chin lifted. Her eyes were coolly appraising as she met my glance with a steady, subtly challenging gaze.
“We’ve discovered lots of things,” I said. “But one thing contradicts the other. We keep drawing blanks.”
“Poor Frank.”
I smiled ruefully. “I get the feeling that you didn’t mean that.”
Her answering smile, despite its silkiness, was malicious. “You were always tuned in to my moods, Frank.” She recrossed her legs. “You’re really a very sensitive man. You don’t think so, but you are.”
“Thanks.” I looked away from her, toward the door.
“Are you the one who ordered me followed?” she asked.
“You aren’t being followed, Laura.”
“I’m being checked out, though. My landlady told me.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you. We’ve got to know how those guns got from the property room to the murder scenes. You’re right in line.”
“Is that all there is to it?” she asked.
I looked at her. “Is there more?”
The silky smile returned. “Maybe you aren’t as smart as I thought you were.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
For a silent, supercilious moment she studied me before she said, “Is Dave Vicente under suspicion?”
“Sorry, but I can’t answer that.”
With the studied smile still in place, she said, “You don’t have to answer it. I can see it in your face.”
“We’re checking him out,” I answered shortly. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“Dave and I once went around together. I thought you knew.”
“No,” I answered slowly, turning to face her fully. “No, I didn’t know.”
“Well”—she lifted her chin—“we did. So, theoretically—if he’s the one you’re looking for—I imagine you’re thinking that he could’ve gotten the guns through me.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
“Did he ever ask you anything about property-room procedures?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect that Vicente is guilty, Laura? Because if you do, now’s the time to talk about it.”
“No,” she answered, “I’ve no reason to think so. None.” Her answer matched my question: spoken gravely, deliberately. The cynical smile was gone.
“What about the bribe he’s supposed to’ve taken? Do you think he’s guilty of that?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Yes, I think he took that bribe. I think he took several bribes.”
“Did he ever admit to you that he was guilty?”
“No.”
“How long did you go around together?”
“Five or six months.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“About the same length of time—five or six months.”
“So you started going around together about a year ago.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Did you part friends?”
Her mouth twisted in a sudden bitter spasm. “Dave’s a bastard,” she said softly. Then she looked at me as she said wryly, “Besides, I don’t seem to have much luck, parting friends. Remember?”
I hesitated, then said, “We parted friends, Laura.”
“No.” She sharply shook her head. “I don’t think we were ever friends.”
I sighed. “Sometimes I think it’s hard, for a man and woman to be friends—at least, when they
’re—” I dropped my eyes. “When they’re lovers,” I finished.
“Sometimes I think you’re right.” She spoke in a hard, flat voice. Her eyes, too, were flat and hard. Suddenly she slipped from the desk, to stand facing me. Her legs were braced, her back was arched—her breasts were lifted as she confronted me with arms stiff at her sides, fists clenched. Then, without speaking, she suddenly turned to the door. A moment later she was gone.
As I stared at the closed door, I saw a fist materialize on the frosted pane, heard two short, peremptory raps.
“It’s Pete, Frank. Come out here a minute, will you?”
I went out into the hallway, and in response to a gesture from Friedman, followed him in silence to the coffee machine at the end of the long corridor. It was Friedman’s belief that coffee machines, like park benches, were the safest place to exchange secrets. I deposited enough money for two cups of coffee, handed one cup to Friedman—and waited.
“I’m afraid,” he said abruptly, “that Dwyer’s losing his cool. I can’t say that I blame him, but I have to admit I’m surprised. He certainly looks the part of a fearless leader of men. At least, he did until recently.”
“What happened?”
“What happened,” he said heavily, “is what I thought was going to happen. They’re going to pay the money.”
“Five hundred thousand dollars?” I asked incredulously.
Friedman nodded. Then, ruefully, he said, “Of course, there’s a hook—a master stroke, Dwyer thinks.”
“What is it?”
Lowering his voice as he looked up and down the corridor, Friedman said, “We—you and I—are going to figure out how to capture the Masked Man while he’s in the process of picking up the money.”
“That’s Dwyer’s master stroke?”
“That’s it,” Friedman answered. “The genius of the plan, you see, is that you and I don’t mention it to another living soul in the Department—thus assuring security, since there seems to be a fifty-fifty chance that one—or more—of our colleagues are—”
“Why the hell doesn’t he sneak off to Mexico, or someplace, until we can find the handle to the case?”
“Probably because he’s afraid that the Masked Man would follow him. Or maybe he wants to protect his image. Either way, a payoff—a secret payoff—gets him off the hook.”
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 14