“I’ll let you know tomorrow. While we’ve been sitting here, three radio cars and one team of detectives passed us. And the detectives, at least, recognised me.”
Her lips moved in a small, rueful smile. “Have you found Maxine Summers, by any chance? She still hasn’t shown up for work.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You said she hadn’t been around today. But you didn’t tell me that she hadn’t reported for work. When was she due, anyhow?”
“Five o’clock this evening.”
As I looked around for a phone booth I asked, “If Maxine is missing, and you’re here, who’s minding the store?”
“Bronco.” She shrugged. “Wednesday’s always a slow night. And, besides, if Maxine doesn’t show up tomorrow, I’ll have to work tomorrow night. So I decided to take the time off when I could get it.”
“Excuse me,” I said, rising. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”
“Do you want to come in for some coffee?” She took the key from me, dropped it into her purse and stepped into the dimly lit hallway.
I glanced at my watch. It was one-thirty, and I was due at the county hospital shortly after eight A.M.
“Maybe I’d better pass. Not that I wouldn’t like a cup of coffee. But—” I shrugged and realised that I was shuffling uncomfortably. The hallway was narrow. A single step forward, and I could slip my arms around her. In the dim light her eyes were large and pensive.
“Good night, then. Thank you. Tomorrow, I’ll ask about your daughter She shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Thank you.”
Suddenly she seemed a little lost—a slim, wistful girl with large eyes, standing in a long hallway that lead into a darkened, empty flat.
“Good night.” I was moving a single pace towards her.
We were closer now. I raised my right hand to touch her shoulder. Beneath the soft suede leather she seemed to tremble slightly, then moved a little closer.
“Good night,” I whispered again.
She nodded, then swallowed, lifting her chin.
I was gripping her shoulders with both hands, kissing her. She held her arms at her sides, but she came closer. Her lips were seeking mine with a passion controlled, yet urgent, intense.
Finally she drew a deep, unsteady breath, moved away, and smiled. Her dark eyes were softened with the first blurring of desire, but her smile was faintly mischievous.
“It’s not fair, you know. I was drinking Scotch; you were drinking Cokes.”
“I’m one of those who can’t drink. So I don’t.”
We were talking very softly. Then, suddenly, I was kissing her again. Now her arms came up to my waist. I felt her tremble, then felt her body deeply respond to mine.—Finally, with a tight, tremulous laugh, she buried her face in the hollow of my shoulder.
“Is this the way you treat your suspects, Sergeant? It must be exhausting for you.”
I didn’t reply, but only held her closer.
“There’s a bruised quality about you that I like, Sergeant,” she whispered. “You’ve got scar tissue on your soul. And that means, to me, that you’re sensitive enough to get hurt, and tough enough to heal. It’s a good combination, Sergeant. I like it. Most of the so-called men I know, they don’t heal. They fester, and they think the festering process is the tortured writhing of their immortal, artistic souls.”
“Being bruised comes natural to me, I guess. It’s my profession, you might say. Bruise or get bruised.”
“Don’t fret.” She drew back, then lightly caressed my cheek. “You’re in the wrong profession, I’m sure. But so’s everyone else. Me, for instance. I should be having babies, so I can grow up and get fat and become a Jewish mother.”
I chuckled, “Beautiful girls. Remember what I said.”
“I don’t think of myself as beautiful, I’m afraid. Just as you don’t think of yourself as very sensitive, or very compassionate. But you are, Sergeant. Believe me, you are. And, besides, you’ve got strong, sinewy arms. You’ve no idea what a comfort it is, for a girl to feel strong arms around her.”
I held her away, looked at her, and then lightly kissed her. “Good night, Cecile. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“In the line of duty, Sergeant?”
“The first time, maybe. The next time, no.”
She smiled, then lingeringly closed the door behind me.
TWELVE
AT SEVEN-THIRTY THE next morning, waiting for my eggs to poach, I checked with Communications on the hold-for-interrogation order I’d requested the previous evening on Maxine Summers. There had been absolutely no developments—no trace of her, no indications that she’d fled to escape either questioning or apprehension.
I got the morning paper from the hallway, and then sat down to a quick breakfast. As I ate, I stared absently at the newspaper, aware that the print was blurred before my unfocused eyes.
I was remembering the feel of Cecile Franks beneath her suede leather dress.
I was remembering, too, Inspector Carruthers’ smile as he and Sabatini had cruised by Alfredo’s Sidewalk Café about eleven-thirty the previous evening.
Two years ago, Detective Sergeant MacLean had been called to answer captain’s charges of threatening a Mexican waitress with arrest on a trumped up prostitution charge unless she went to bed with him. MacLean was now a house-painter, and drinking heavily. He’d been the departmental example—the target of Kreiger’s outrage.
I got my gun and hat. I was due at the county hospital at eight-thirty.
I walked softly into Angie Sawyer’s room.
She was sleeping, and I motioned for the intern and the uniformed man to leave us alone. I waited until the door closed, then lit a cigarette. I drew a chair up to the bedside, then sat watching her, smoking.
She looked to be in her early twenties. Her hair was blonde, long and straight. Her features were only average—lips rather full, nose wide, eyebrows dark and too thick, growing close together across the bridge of her nose. Idly, I wondered whether she dyed her hair. I leaned forward, but couldn’t see any hint of darkening at the roots. And, after all, she was a tawny blonde, so that the dark thick eyebrows were believable. Her best feature, I decided, was the modelling of her cheek and jaw. The cheek was sculptured in intriguing hollow planes; the jaw was wide and lean.
I nudged the bed with my knee. She stirred, moaned and snuggled back into the pillow, softly sighing. Her lips moved, murmuring. She seemed very vulnerable—childlike, and innocent.
“Miss Sawyer.”
Her eyes came open, suddenly. She blinked; her glance fled swiftly around the small white room. Then she saw me. She frowned, puzzled, and twisted to see me better. Now, startled, she seemed to shrink away, curving her body beneath the covers toward the far side of the bed. “W—who’re you?”
“Don’t you remember?”
She shook her head. I noticed that her hands, gripping the white sheets, were stained and dirty. Hadn’t they washed her?
“I’m a policeman.” I showed her the badge. “Detective Sergeant Hastings. I tried to get you down from that roof yesterday.”
“Roof?”
“Never mind. How do you feel?”
“Thirsty.”
“That’s all. Just thirsty?” I reached over for a pitcher, pouring her a glass of water. Awkwardly she raised herself, then drank. I took the glass from her. Looking closely at her hands, I decided that her fingers were stained by paint, not dirt.
“Do you know where you are, Miss Sawyer?”
She looked slowly around the room, frowning in a kind of innocent perplexity. It was as if we were playing a question and answer game—a childhood game, in some distant, sunny field.
Her eyes returned to mine. “In a hospital?” Her voice was very soft.
“That’s right.” I nodded. “You’re in a hospital.” I hardened my voice. “Do you know why you’re here?”
She shook her head.
Her eyes had wandered absently away. Her lips were moving, as if she were singing silently to herself.
I leaned forward, firmly gripping her forearm, shaking her. “Miss Sawyer. Look at me.”
Obediently she moved her head on the pillow.
“I’m here,” I said distinctly, “because you were arrested yesterday.” I paused, to catch her reaction.
She was frowning, for the first time troubled. “Arrested?”
I nodded.
“B—but what for?”
“Apparently you had a bad trip. We found you up on the roof of your apartment building. You were kneeling on the edge of the roof, teetering. You had a baby in your arms.”
“A—a baby?”
I sighed. “You don’t remember. Is that it?”
She shook her head, bewildered. “I—I don’t know. The last thing I remember, I was seeing the most wonderful things—mushroom trees, and rainbow mountains and sleek, beautiful animals with hard, shining muscles, creeping through a shining bright jungle.” As she spoke, her eyes became vague and unfocused.
“I don’t know about rainbow mountains, Miss Sawyer,” I said shortly, deliberately harsh. “I do know, though, that you can be held on a half dozen counts, including kidnapping.”
With an obvious effort, she was concentrating. “Kidnapping?” She frowned, as if the word had no real meaning for her.
“Listen, Miss Sawyer, I’m assuming that you don’t remember what happened yesterday afternoon. I’m also assuming that you took an hallucinatory drug about noon yesterday. Thursday. Now, I’m primarily interested in what happened before that—especially what happened Tuesday afternoon and evening. Do you remember?”
“Y—yes. The day Donny came to see me. Is that the day you mean?”
I exhaled, leaning back in my chair. “Yes, Miss Sawyer. Now, I want you to tell me about that day, and that night. Every little detail.”
“But—but Donny’s dead.”
I suppressed an impatient exclamation. “I know he’s dead. That’s why I’m here—to find out who killed him.”
She only stared. Her eyes were large and brown. Doe eyes. Most of the flower children, I was thinking, had large, soft eyes.
“Listen, Angie. We can either do this the hard way or the easy way—either here, or downtown, where we’ll charge you with a few of the offences I’ve mentioned. Now, it’s not very pleasant downtown, Angie. You’re locked up in what we call a tank—a big cell with maybe a dozen girls in it. Prostitutes, drunks—the whole thing. And those tanks stink, Angie. Do you understand that? People who get locked up, they don’t wash themselves. And they vomit, and—and other things, too. Do you understand?”
Slowly she nodded. She seemed to comprehend it.
“All right—” I glanced at my watch. I wanted to be downtown by ten at the latest and it was already almost nine. “All right. Now. if you understand, then I want you to give me a full and complete account of everything you know concerning Don Robertson’s movements during Tuesday afternoon and evening. And I mean everything, Angie. But I’ve got work to do, Angie. I’ve been assigned to find out who killed your friend Donny Robertson. So start talking, Angie. Everything. And quick.”
“He’s dead.” She blinked. “Someone killed him.”
“All right, start there. Who killed him?”
“He didn’t say. He knew, I think. But he didn’t say.”
“Did he know someone was going to kill him? Is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded.
I drew a long, slow breath. In a few minutes, if I handled her right, I could have the whole story. I’d knock on Kreiger’s door, sit down in the visitor’s chair, and lay it all out for him.
“All right; I want you to tell me exactly what happened Tuesday. When did you first see him? What time of the day?”
“About—about noon.”
“Did he come to your apartment?”
“Y—yes.”
“All right. Then what happened?”
“We—we just talked.”
“What about?”
“About where he’d been, and what he’d done.”
“He’d been to New York. Is that right?”
She nodded.
“Why’d he go to New York, Angie? Did he say?”
Again she nodded.
“Well?”
“He said that if he’d stayed, he’d’ve been killed. Just like Karen Forest was killed.”
As the sound of the name I felt a quick, surging excitement. “He said that? Exactly that?”
“Yes.”
“He was afraid he’d be killed by the same person who killed Karen Forest. Is that right?”
“Well—” Doubtfully she hesitated.
I realised I could be leading her—trying to make the story add up to my preconceived answer, regardless of the truth.
“Could it have been,” I said slowly, “that he killed Karen Forest, and was afraid of being caught?”
“Oh, no. Not Donny. He never would’ve killed anyone He—”
“We found an overnight bag in your apartment that belonged to Donny,” I interrupted. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Well, it’s Donny’s. He asked if he could leave it.”
“Was he going to stay with you?”
“Yes. But he—he never did. He came to my apartment about noon, and we talked until it was time to get supper. He went out, to buy some food, to cook. But he—he—” She vaguely waved her hand, sad and bewildered.
“He never came back. Is that it?”
She nodded, frowning and biting her lip.
“Did you open the bag, after he left?”
“No.”
“All right. Can you give me the names of other friends of Donny’s?”
“I—I don’t think so. He—he didn’t have many friends. Not really. He was alone, most of the time, or else with me. He—he used to walk a lot. In the park. On the beach, too.”
She seemed confused, again slipping away. I decided to try and shock her back into reality: “Was Donny Robertson a homosexual, Angie?”
It worked. She looked at me, focused, then said, “Oh, no. Some people thought he was, because he was so gentle, and—and vague about things, and so kind, and shy. But he wasn’t a homosexual. I—we—” She hesitated. “We lived together, for a while. Before he—” She faltered.
“Before he got so deeply involved in drugs. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Yes.” She sighed, staring off dreamily as she answered. Yet her answers were becoming steadily more rational. She was coming around.
“I liked Donny,” she said softly. “Down in the Haight, there’re lots of people. But it’s possible to still feel lonely, you know. I—I guess that’s why Donny and I were together, for a while. Because we had that—that same feeling. A lot of the people down here, they’re—they’re so sure of themselves, and what they’re doing. It’s just—just like high school, and college. There are the insiders, and the—the—” She moistened her lips, and blinked. “—and the people like Donny, and me. I—I guess that’s the way it is everywhere.”
“All right. Now I want to get back to his friends, Angie. I’ll name a few people. You tell me whether Donny knew them, whether he liked them, whether they liked him. Do you understand?”
“Y—yes.”
“All right. I’ve already asked you about Frank Walters. Did Donny know him?”
“Y—yes. But he—he never talked about him.”
“Never?”
“Well, hardly ever.”
“You knew, though, that Donny was supposed to be peddling drugs, for Walters, didn’t you? Pot? Acid?”
“Well, I—” She looked away, frowning.
“What about Karen Forest, Angie? Did Donny know her?”
“I—I don’t think so.”
“How long did you and Donny live together?”
“Just—just about three months, I think.”
“Were you living together at
the time he left town for New York?”
“No.”
“Where was he living at that time?”
“With some boys, I think.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No.”
“All right. How about Cecile Franks? Did Donny know her?”
“Well, a—a little, I think. But everyone knows about Cecile. I mean, she—”
“You knew her by reputation, then.”
Hesitantly, she nodded.
“Did you ever hear that Karen Forest and Cecile Franks had any dealings with each other?”
“No, I didn’t. But I wouldn’t. I mean—” Helplessly she shrugged. “I mean, I didn’t know those people. They’re—it’s like high school, like I was saying. Everyone’s so—”
“Larry Vannuchi—do you know him?”
She smiled. “Oh, yes. I like him. He—he’s wonderful. So kind.”
“Did Donny know Vannuchi?”
Still smiling, she nodded—happily bobbing her head.
I took a deep breath I wasn’t getting what I’d hoped for from the interrogation. “Listen to me, Angie. From my own information, and from what you’ve told me just now, it’s obvious that, somehow, Donny was involved in the murder of Karen Forest. He—”
“Oh, no. Not Donny. He couldn’t’ve—”
“He left town immediately after the murder,” I continued, “with some money—a big wad of money, unexplained. And now I find out that he made the statement that he’d be murdered like Karen Forest was murdered—presumably by the same person. Or else—” I paused, again to get her attention. “Or else,” I said slowly, “it could be that Donny murdered her, and was afraid that he’d be killed by someone avenging Karen Forest’s death. Isn’t that possible?”
“No, no. He said that he’d be killed just like Karen Forest was killed. He—”
“Isn’t it also possible,” I interrupted, “that what you thought was fear was actually guilt? Don’t you see how it adds up, Angie? Don Robertson could’ve been afraid of being arrested for murder. You liked Donny, and I can understand that. But you also admit, that most of the time, Donny was stoned. And I think he got stoned on the wrong kind of stuff. I understand that normal, even mouselike people can become killers if they take too much methedrine. And I think that—”
The Lonely Hunter (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 12