“By herself?”
“She could’ve just walked in with a gun, and started playing it by ear. She could’ve got the Manley girl to tie Valenti to the bedpost. Then maybe she shot the girl, then tortured Valenti, and finally killed him.”
“But you couldn’t shake her story.”
“That’s right,” he admitted. “I mean, I’m just talking about how it could’ve gone, not the way I think it went, especially. But anyhow, what I wanted to tell you about was when I took Swanson home. At first I was just going to dump her out in front of her building. Then I figured what the hell, I may as well take her inside, which I did. So then, instead of going right back to the car, I figured I’d go around the corner and buy myself some sunflower seeds. See, I been trying to quit smoking, so I been eating sunflower seeds. I bet I eat three of those fifteen-cent packs a day, which turns out to be as much money as cigarettes. But—”
“What’s the point, Canelli?” I glanced at my watch, yawning. The time was almost midnight.
“Well, the point is that when I was walking back to my cruiser, I happened to notice a white VW bug parked around the corner from Swanson’s apartment building. So I thought what the hell, I’d copy down the license number and run it through MVB. And guess what?”
“I give up, Canelli. What?”
“Well, the car belongs to Dwight Kellaway, who I remembered reading about in your interrogation report.” He hesitated, looking at me tentatively. Then: “Do you think it’s anything?”
Imagining meek, mild-mannered Dwight Kellaway committing murder for the love of brash, brassy Jane Swanson made me grin. Whereupon Canelli’s expression of hopeful anticipation began to fade. I said, “It’s probably a coincidence that Kellaway owns a white Volkswagen, but you might as well check it out. It’s a point of intersection, as they say in the criminology textbooks. Why don’t you see if you can get hold of the car, first thing in the morning? Maybe you can pick it up before the nine A.M. briefing. Then run it through the lab. You can tell Kellaway that you’re acting for me, eliminating him as a suspect. He’s a good-natured guy; you shouldn’t have any trouble with him.”
“Okay. Will do.” He gestured toward the Draper house. “What about this, in the meantime?”
“I think that I’m going to try to get a search warrant tomorrow morning, then make it a point to be here at ten. I’d like to see Draper’s reaction, knowing that he’ll be at the funeral while I’ll be searching his house.”
“Hey, that’s pretty smart, Lieutenant. Psychological warfare. If he’s got anything to hide in there, he’s going to be sweating bullets.”
“It’s hope. After I finish here tomorrow, I’ll check with you on Kellaway’s white Volkswagen. Maybe he murdered Valenti to protect Jane Swanson’s virtue. Stranger things have happened.”
“I suppose so.” He reached for the door handle. “Do you want me to stay here and get Randall settled?”
“It’d be a good idea. At this time of night you’re going to have trouble getting a stake-out set up, with all those backyards adjoining. You’d better see if you can find someone still awake, and go through their garage.”
“The trouble I always have,” Canelli said ruefully, “is dogs. It’s dogs at night, and kids during the daytime. Well—” He sighed. “Goodnight, Lieutenant. Maybe by this time tomorrow we’ll have both cases in the bag. I hope so. I haven’t done my Christmas shopping yet.”
I smiled, starting the engine. “Goodnight, Canelli. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks.”
19
KREIGER USED A THICK forefinger to flick back his cuff, glancing at his watch. The time, I knew, was precisely nine A.M.
“Is Canelli coming?” Kreiger asked, his impersonal look circling the small group of inspectors.
“Maybe not,” I answered, explaining that Canelli had gone directly from his home to pick up Kellaway’s white Volkswagen. I next took a few minutes to summarize the Manley case, careful to address Culligan, who was still in charge of our investigation at the scene of the crime. During the entire time I spoke, Friedman had been grunting noisily, shifting his bulk heavily from side to side, rooting first for a cigar, then for a match. Now he was lighting his cigar, never once having glanced at me. But as I finished, he was the first to speak.
“Personally,” he said, pausing to puff, frowning at the cigar, then puffing again, “personally, I’m convinced that this Kellaway just isn’t the homicidal type. Not only that, but I feel that you’re all overlooking my candidate, Al Goodfellow. I admit I’ve never been at the scene of the crime, and tracked through all that talcum powder, et cetera, but it seems clear to me that, first, there were probably two or more murderers involved and, second, that the motive for the crime wasn’t your standard breaking and entering, or a crime of passion, or whatever. Valenti was tied up like a steer on a meat hook. That took some muscle. And he was tortured. That took personnel.”
“Unless,” I said, “the murderer—singular—broke in, took them by surprise, and forced the girl to tie Valenti to the bedpost. Then the murderer could’ve made the girl watch while he tortured Valenti. If he was looking for money, that’s probably what he would’ve done. And then maybe the girl came for him, and he shot her, then shot Valenti.”
“The girl was shot in the back, though,” Culligan put in sourly.
I’d forgotten that, I admitted.
“Well,” said Kreiger, turning to Friedman, “what about Goodfellow? What’s he say?”
“Frank and I decided we’d rather talk to you before we brought him in. I mean, it’s always such a hassle, with those lawyers of his. Plus the D.A. always groans very loudly, as we all know. However, yesterday, I talked to two or three of Goodfellow’s customers, and one of his subordinates. And they all agree that Valenti was very definitely on Goodfellow’s shit list. So it would’ve been just a matter of time, they all agree, before Goodfellow sent a couple of his boys around to talk a little sense to Valenti.”
Kreiger considered, finally saying, “I’ll talk to the D.A. sometime before lunch. Meanwhile, if you can spare the time, keep digging on Goodfellow. We might be able to—”
His buzzer sounded. Twirling in his chair, he picked up the phone. He listened for less than half a minute, periodically grunting. After a perfunctory “Thanks” he hung up. Swinging back to us, Kreiger said, “That was the lab. Except for a lot of marijuana crumbs, they couldn’t find anything incriminating in Bruce Manley’s car. They don’t have anything on the Haywood car yet, plus or minus. Nothing on Walter Manley’s cars, either.”
“Where’s Bruce Manley’s car now?” I asked.
“Haskell returned it about midnight,” Friedman said smugly. “No sweat. As I predicted.”
“The lab also said that Canelli called in. He’s bringing Kellaway’s car downtown.”
“I wonder if he had any trouble,” I said.
“Probably not,” Friedman offered. “If I were a murderer, I don’t think Canelli would worry me much. In fact, I think I’d be reassured, dealing with Canelli.”
Kreiger surveyed Friedman with a chilly look to which Friedman seemed entirely oblivious. For a long moment no one spoke. Finally the captain said shortly, “Is there anything else on the Manley-Valenti thing?” He turned to Culligan. “What about physical evidence—prints, for instance?”
Culligan scowled, shifting irritably in his chair. “We haven’t been able to get beyond the two victims, Bruce Manley, Billy Mitchell and the cleaning woman. We have at least five sets of unclassified prints, but we can’t put a name on them. Or Sacramento can’t, anyhow. By tomorrow, or maybe this afternoon, we should hear from Washington.”
“What’d the cleaning lady have to say?” I asked.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s going to turn out to be one of those irrational things,” Friedman said. “A couple of hopped-up hippies could’ve just wandered in off the street and done the job for kicks. Maybe they were looking for drugs, a
nd Valenti pulled a gun, which the hippies took away. Then they could’ve got inspired, and decided to try a little torture, just for laughs. When you really think about it, this case has everything except ‘Pigs’ scrawled in the victims’ blood on the outhouse door.”
“You could be closer than you think, Pete,” the captain said thoughtfully. “After all, Valenti was dealing. Given that, anything could happen.”
“What about the white VW?” I asked. “It was parked, apparently. Waiting. That sounds like premeditation.”
Everyone seemed to shrug in indifferent unison.
“What do you think of Walter Manley as a suspect, Frank?” Kreiger asked.
“He was being blackmailed, so he had a motive. He had the opportunity, too—and no alibi. Theoretically, he could’ve done it. Actually, I’m inclined to doubt it.”
“He certainly wouldn’t kill his own daughter,” Kreiger said thoughtfully. “Not intentionally, anyhow.”
“Well, it’s happened before. Or, possibly, Valenti could’ve killed the girl. Then Manley could’ve killed him. After all, we don’t have much real proof of any actual sequence of events. We don’t have a make on the bullets, either, and we don’t have the weapon. It’s all theory.” I glanced at my watch: 9:25. “I’m going to leave in fifteen minutes. If I can get a warrant, I want to search the Draper house. And I want to be there before he leaves, to see how he reacts.”
Glancing at his watch, Friedman grunted skeptically. “You’re dreaming. In my whole career in law enforcement, I’ve never gotten a routine search warrant before ten-thirty.”
“I still want to be at Draper’s by ten. Haskell’s at the judge’s chambers, waiting for the warrant. He’s going to bring it to the scene.”
“Good luck. I’ll bet—”
“I think we should be thinking a little more about Valenti’s drug involvement,” Kreiger interrupted impatiently, a note of finality in his voice. “God knows, we haven’t got much else—just a few unsavory characters, a rich father and some kind of a starving writer who just happens to drive a white Volkswagen.”
“When we do get on the right track, though,” I said, “that talcum powder should help.”
“In the meantime, there isn’t much we can do except keep on like we’re going.” Kreiger turned to Markham. “What about the Draper thing, Jerry?”
As I turned to listen to Markham, I was aware of a slight, guilty sense of anticipation. I’d tried—really tried—to catch him before the briefing, forewarning him about both Arthur Haywood’s lawyer and Dan’s decisive change of story. But having been unable to catch him, I could now plainly recognize in myself a smug, sadistic pleasure, thinking of the surprise I had for Markham.
When Markham had finished his summary, concluding that Dan was our major suspect, everyone turned expectantly to me. I drew a deep breath, then dropped the bomb. I finished with the Draper interview, explaining directly to Markham that I’d tried to reach him last night. Which, of course, only made matters worse.
Although Markham was flushed, plainly angry, his eyes were steady, his voice dead calm, as he said, “Your case against Draper is only as good as that kid’s word. Which I don’t happen to think is very good.”
“It explains the fingerprints, though.”
“Maybe.” There was a quiet, deliberate challenge in his tone.
I sighed, then said, “I might as well tell you the rest of it. Arthur Haywood, the boy’s father, has hired a lawyer, who’ll probably press charges of undue harassment against both you and me. Unless, of course, we can solve the case, and take the heat off everyone.” I turned to Kreiger. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you about the lawyer. But it could be coming. Unless, as I say, we get lucky.”
“I thought you and I had agreed,” Kreiger said slowly, “that you were going to concentrate on the Manley thing, and let Mark-ham handle Draper.” He was obviously displeased.
“I—”
“What I don’t understand,” Markham said, pretending puzzlement, “is why you stopped at the Haywoods’ in the first place.” He smiled, smoothly. “It sounds like you were mostly interested in talking to the mother. Which I can understand.”
Pointedly ignoring him, feeling the quick rise of anger, I turned to Kreiger, again glancing at my watch. “Listen, I’ve got to go, if I’m going to catch Draper.”
“Shall I go with you?” Markham asked, still smoothly.
“That’s up to you,” I said shortly, rising to my feet. I suddenly felt awkward—defensive, ill-at-ease, unsure.
“You’d better stay here,” Kreiger said to Markham, “until we see which way Mr. Haywood’s going to jump.” And to me: “Come right back here, Frank, if there’s nothing popping. We’d better get some of this thrashed out.”
Mumbling something about a funeral being a good hunting ground, I left hurriedly.
20
I CRUISED SLOWLY PAST Sigler, sitting alone in an unmarked car. I pulled to the curb in front of Cindy Wallace’s house, parking directly across the street from the Draper residence. The time was exactly 9:55. Haskell had just contacted me to say that the judge was sick with a cold and fever. Wearily I’d instructed Haskell to try another judge, then leave the warrant on my desk, where I’d pick it up when I returned to the office. Friedman had been right; I should have known better than to drive halfway across the city without a warrant.
A cold gray rain was falling. I slid down inside my raincoat, covertly speaking into my walkie-talkie, checking with Sigler, verifying that the back of the Draper house was covered.
“Any developments?” I asked.
“Negative. He came out about an hour ago, to get the newspaper. And—” I could hear Sigler stifling a yawn. “And that’s it.”
“How’d he look?”
“I couldn’t tell. He had on a bathrobe.”
“What about the little girl?”
“I haven’t—Oh, oh. Look up the street.”
A black Cadillac limousine had sedately turned the corner and was pulling to a stop across the street. An elderly couple dressed in mourning sat alone in the rear of the car. The uniformed driver was getting out, making for the Draper house. As the chauffeur crossed the sidewalk toward the tunnel entrance, I saw Draper’s front door open. A little girl came out. She was dressed in a white plastic raincoat and gleaming black boots. Her blond hair was in a ponytail, tied with a bright red ribbon. She was carrying her own small umbrella, and she came slowly down the stairs, staring at the long black car. Behind her came Howard Draper, dressed in a brown raincoat, bareheaded. He was descending the stairs uncertainly, like someone sick, just leaving the hospital.
I got out of my car. Standing with arms folded, I’d tipped my hat back so that Draper could recognize me clearly. If I couldn’t search his house, I could at least give him something to think about during the funeral.
The little girl had already reached the limousine; the chauffeur was gravely opening the door for her. Inside, I could see Susan Draper’s parents, leaning forward. The woman was reaching out for the girl, groping.
Draper, eyes on the ground, had almost reached the limousine. He hadn’t seen me. I took a step away from my car, at the same time raising my hand to my hat, ostensibly to set it at a slightly different angle against the rain, actually to catch his eye. Now the Cadillac was between us; over the roof I could see only Draper’s head and shoulders. He was ducking his head, about to—
Suddenly he saw me. Jerking himself erect, he stared at me across the rain-glazed roof of the car. I could see him stepping back from the opened door; I could plainly see the chauffeur’s face, politely puzzled. Inside the car, the three people sat motionless, watching Draper. For a brief moment action was completely frozen.
I slowly inclined my head, politely nodding to the suspect, smiling. Woodenly, Draper returned my nod. Then, moving stiffly, he lowered his head and entered the car. The chauffeur closed the door, circled the gleaming limousine and got behind the wheel. Slowly they were driving away.
Behind a rain-streaked window I could see Draper staring at me fixedly with the gaunt, hollow-eyed look of a road-gang prisoner, shackled and chained.
I climbed back inside my own car, out of the rain. Suddenly, with peevish clarity, I realized that I’d come on a fool’s errand. I should have simply instructed Markham to get a search warrant. Then I should have returned to the Manley case.
Because of a small, saddened woman named Ann, a stranger, I’d made a serious mistake last night, compounding a subordinate’s earlier error in judgment. Now, this morning, I was still making mistakes. I was playing hunches—a sucker’s game, bucking the odds.
All I had, still, was Dan Haywood’s story, already once changed. The entire case was coming down around me. I could easily predict the agenda for the conference I’d soon have with Kreiger. Markham, as my subordinate, had improperly interrogated a minor, illegally entering the Haywood premises for the purpose of harassing the boy. Then, worse, he’d botched the job, scaring Dan so badly that he dared not tell the truth. Finally, worst of all, I’d conducted my own improper interrogation, with results that couldn’t be counted as evidence, once Dan Haywood’s lawyer advised him to deny everything.
Yet I’d gotten testimony that could break the case.
Or break me.
I lifted the walkie-talkie, instructing the man covering Draper’s back door to check in. He identified himself as Kent Williams, a steady, dependable man of my own age who raised chinchillas, had been building a fiberglass sailboat in his garage for six years and was already amiably talking about retirement.
“Anything doing back there?” I asked.
“Not much, Frank.”
“How long’ve you been on?”
“Two hours. I relieved Randall at eight o’clock. Draper came out only once, at about eight-thirty.”
“What’d he do?”
“Just walked around their garden. They’ve got a pretty good-looking garden back here. It looks better in the middle of winter than mine does in the middle of summer.”
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 13