Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What’d he mean by ‘the top’?”

  “He meant the top of government—the Pentagon, the Senate, possibly even the White House.”

  “But he didn’t name names.”

  “I assume,” Sheppard said, “that he named names to Eliot. But Eliot didn’t pass on the names to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t want to take a chance on leaks.”

  “Did he tell you how the kickback scheme would operate?”

  “Just in general terms. It had something to do with surplus military hardware. That’s all Eliot would tell me.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Murdock, Mr. Sheppard?”

  “He called Monday, from Washington. He said that he got everything he needed in Washington. Which makes me think that he might’ve gotten affidavits.”

  “What else did he say when he called Monday?”

  “He said that he was leaving the next day for here—for San Francisco.”

  “Why San Francisco?”

  “I don’t know,” Sheppard said, speaking with a note of unmistakable finality. “Except that he said San Francisco might be the last stop.”

  “The last stop?”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant,” Sheppard said, rising from the chair and buttoning his elegant jacket. “That’s what he said—the last stop. As it turned out, he was right.” With an imperious gesture, Sheppard pointed to his card, still lying on my desk. “Hold on to that,” he ordered. “I expect to hear from you. I’ll be at the Mark Hopkins until tomorrow afternoon. Then I’ll be at my office in New York.” He turned abruptly and left the office. I didn’t get to my feet to see him out.

  Nine

  WAITING FOR NEWS FROM the FBI’s fingerprint division in Washington, I stayed at my desk until nine that night. For hours I’d been trying to assemble all the tangled skeins of the Murdock case into some kind of coherent pattern. I hadn’t had much success. With most of the lab reports complete, the results were predictable—and disappointing. After eliminating fingerprints known to be Murdock’s and Blake’s, the lab identified at least four other sets of latent prints found in the murder car. One set probably belonged to the murderer. The other two sets probably identified garage mechanics, friends of Frazer’s or complete strangers. An hour ago, CBI at Sacramento had called to say they didn’t have prints on file that matched the prints on the compress wrappings. Now Washington was our last hope.

  At about eight, Canelli and Culligan returned from the field—empty-handed. Ricco had apparently vanished without a trace. With more than half the hotels checked, the three detectives working the phones hadn’t found any trace of Thorson. Making it a request, not an order, I asked Canelli and Culligan to check out Walter Frazer’s movements last night. They agreed to canvass Frazer’s neighbors for an hour or two before they went home to bed. Then, tomorrow, they could begin checking out Frazer’s business activities.

  After eating vending-machine sandwiches and coffee with Friedman, I put a call through to Richard Blake, at the County Hospital. He’d gotten his methadone shot and greeted me like an old friend. But when he learned that Ricco had disappeared, he became agitated. “Are you going to let me go?” he asked.

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Not with Ricco loose, that’s not what I want,” he answered. “No way.”

  “I’ve got to charge you or release you in forty-eight hours.”

  “Forty-eight hours?”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “Jesus.”

  At that moment my other line blinked. Pressing the illuminated button, I heard an elegantly English-accented woman’s voice coolly announce that Avery Rich, the publisher and sole owner of the San Francisco Sentinel, wanted to speak with me. I’d once been told that west of the Mississippi, only a handful of men were more powerful than Avery Rich.

  His voice was thin and dry: an old, brittle instrument, but one still finely tuned—still a marvel of impersonal precision. “I’ve just talked with Jeffrey Sheppard, Lieutenant Hastings.” He waited for me to answer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know of your reputation, Lieutenant. I believe you to be a conscientious policeman—and a man of intelligence and integrity.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Which is why I’m calling you before I call the mayor. I want to tell you what I intend to tell him.” There was a brief pause. In the background I thought I heard chamber music. “I’m going to tell the mayor,” the precise voice continued, “that I’d like to see our police department extend Mr. Sheppard every courtesy and consideration. I’m telling you this for two reasons, Lieutenant. The first reason is that I’ve never believed in going over a man’s head without telling him first. And the second reason is that I want to make it very clear, both to you and to the mayor, that I expect the same consideration for Mr. Sheppard as I expect for myself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Good. You’re working late. Are you working on the Eliot Murdock case?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Are you making progress?”

  I considered, then said, “At this point in the investigation, I’d say we’re making normal progress.”

  It was Avery Rich’s turn to pause before he said, “That sounds like an honest answer, Lieutenant. It sounds neither fatuous nor self-serving nor craven. It sounds about right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Eliot Murdock was a second-rate journalist. I met him once and didn’t like him. He lacked depth, and it showed in his work. He lacked grace, and he lacked command of the language. He was too anxious for success—in too much of a hurry. And that showed, too. Quite plainly.”

  I decided not to reply.

  “Still, he was an honest man. And, with all his shortcomings, Eliot Murdock had a by-line. He had his own audience. His voice was heard—and recognized. Which is to say that, in death, his faults will be forgotten and his virtues enlarged, especially if it serves the purposes of others. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Good. I hope, when you’ve solved the case, you’ll come by my office. I’d like to meet you—and thank you personally. Call my secretary. She’ll remember you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Lieutenant. How old are you?”

  “Forty-four.”

  I thought I heard him sigh. “My daughter is forty-three. She’s just called to say she’s divorcing her third husband. Good night, Lieutenant.” The line went dead.

  I hung up the phone, looked at it for a moment, then lifted the receiver again and asked the operator to get me Barbara Murdock, at the Beresford Hotel.

  Across the small Formica table, Barbara Murdock drank the last of her scotch and water and gravely placed the empty glass on the table before her. It was her second drink in less than twenty minutes.

  “I shouldn’t do that,” she said. “Not tonight.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “You don’t drink.” She gestured to my half-empty glass of tonic water.

  “No.”

  “Did you ever drink?”

  “Yes,” I answered slowly. “I used to drink. A lot. Too much, in fact.”

  For a moment she looked me full in the face, frankly appraising me. Finally she said, “You have the look of a man who—” Still assessing me, she broke off, thinking. Then: “You look like a man with something on his mind. Something that’s been on his mind for a long time.”

  I smiled. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No,” she answered, “everyone doesn’t. Everyone should. But everyone doesn’t. Most people forget things they shouldn’t forget. That’s the great gift the media confers on us. It lets us forget. Which explains why Americans are people who don’t have past tenses to their lives. All we’ve got is the future. And it scares us. It scares us silly.”

  “You’re a very philosophical lady.”

  “And I suspect
that you’re a very philosophical man.”

  “Thank you. Do you want another drink?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “So I’m not going to have one. But thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Why are we here, Lieutenant? You haven’t told me. Not really.”

  As concisely as I could, I outlined Jeffrey Sheppard’s visit. As I talked, her eyes never left mine. When I finished, she said, “I remember meeting Jeffrey Sheppard. I was only a little girl, not more than ten years old. But I remember thinking that he was a real prick.”

  I laughed out loud. “Do little girls use words like that?”

  “Only when someone like Jeffrey Sheppard comes along.”

  “Still, he gave me something to think about. It sounds like your father’s notes are missing. Maybe some affidavits, too.”

  Staring off across the small cocktail lounge, she smiled: a sad, wistful twisting of her small, determined mouth. “Dad would love all this. He was very good at building the suspense—at keeping people guessing.” She let a pensive moment pass, then added, “I suppose, really, that he was a little paranoid. Most secretive people are.” For a moment she sat silently, idly turning her highball glass in its own wet circle on the Formica tabletop. I found myself looking at her long, tapering fingers, curved so gracefully around the glass. Barbara Murdock was a small woman, compactly made. To match her body, the hands should have been small, with short, stubby fingers. If the body expressed the personality, then perhaps the difference between her hands and her stature reflected the contradictions in her nature. Because, certainly, she was a study of opposites.

  “He was really a pretty pathetic person,” she said softly. “He was driven by vanity and insecurity and power lust, all rolled into one big, messy ball. He was really a small, frightened person—like the rest of us. Even when he was on top of the heap—or, at least, his particular heap—he was always looking over his shoulder.” Again, she paused before she said softly, “I always secretly despised him for looking over his shoulder. But now I realize that most ambitious people look over their shoulders. It goes with the territory.”

  “Do you look over your shoulder?”

  For a long, speculative moment she looked at me before she said, “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “I suppose so. In my business there’s always someone who can run faster and hit harder and shoot straighter. That’s what my business comes down to—running faster than the bad guys.”

  “What did you do, before you were a policeman?”

  “Mostly I was a football player—a professional football player for the Detroit Lions. Then, after a couple of knee operations, I took a job in my father-in-law’s factory. Which turned out to be a mistake.”

  “Are you married?”

  “I was.”

  “I was, too,” she said quietly. “I’ve been divorced for longer than I was married. Until today, somehow, I never thought much about it. The last few hours, though, I can’t seem to think of anything else.” She shrugged. “Maybe it’s just as well.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Three years.” She sat silently for a moment, staring down at the table between us. “Until tonight I never really regretted it. Getting divorced, I mean. But now—” She broke off and shook her head, softly sighing. Then: “Tonight, I’m dreading that empty bed.”

  “I know that feeling, too.”

  “She raised her gaze and looked at me with frank appraisal. “Do you?” It was an invitation: an eye-to-eye suggestion that we might help each other through a lonely night—one lonely night.

  As I looked into her eyes I remembered my own lonely nights. After my divorce—after my escape from Detroit—I’d tried all the combinations: the bars, the bottle, the long nights alone with the TV. There’d always been women—but never the right woman. I’d always known that the fault was mine, not theirs. I’d always realized that since my divorce, I couldn’t get a handle on myself—couldn’t begin to understand who I was, or what had happened to me. Separated by only a year, the end of my playing career had coincided with the end of my marriage. At first, it had been easy to blame my wife. Carolyn had been a blond, beautiful, predatory socialite. For purposes of her own, a football player had been exactly right: a cunningly contrived contrast to the rest of her life. Later, complementing what seemed to be a picture-perfect marriage, we’d had children. The boy, Darrell, looked like me: heavily built, with big hands, regular features and serious eyes. Almost fifteen years old, Darrell was struggling with an identity crisis, keeping his problems to himself. Claudia resembled her mother: a willful, intelligent, wonderfully proportioned girl. Claudia was almost seventeen—and hated her stepfather. Someday, she said, she’d move to San Francisco. Whenever I heard her voice on the long-distance phone, I wondered whether the time had come.

  I realized that I was still staring at Barbara—and she was staring at me. I decided to look away—to murmur something trivial—to decline her unspoken invitation.

  Because, less than a year ago, I’d met Ann—and my life had changed. I didn’t know how it had changed. I realized that I might never know. But I knew Ann was the reason.

  Across the table Barbara Murdock was smiling: a small, lonely, infinitely regretful smile. But it was a friendly smile, too. The smile confirmed that, subtly and silently, we’d become friends. Never lovers. But friends.

  “You’re a—” She hesitated. Then: “You’re an understanding man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What time is it?”

  I glanced at my watch. “A little after ten.”

  “Do you have men still—” She bit her lip. “Still working on my father’s murder? Besides you?”

  “Yes. Several men.”

  She nodded. “Good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But I have to be honest. We aren’t doing it for you. Or, at least, not entirely for you.”

  “I know. You’re doing it as much for the Jeffrey Sheppards of the world as you are for me.”

  Regretfully, I answered her nod. “In a way you’re right. It’s sad but true.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Dad’s notes,” she said. “And I remembered something.” I waited for her to go on. “He always carried one of those salmon-colored expanding envelopes,” she said thoughtfully. “The kind that’s used for legal papers, and has a string. It was a—a thing with him. One of his trademarks. He always carried it in his inside jacket pocket. He always hated to carry a briefcase.”

  “If he was carrying it on him,” I said, “then the murderer took it.”

  “I doubt if he’d carry it on him—not at night. Not in a strange city. Dad was always very careful. He got mugged once, in Washington. After that, he was supercautious.”

  “Well, it wasn’t in his room, or in his suitcase.”

  “Have you looked in the hotel safe?” she asked. “Whenever he checked into a hotel, he always put his envelope in the hotel safe.”

  I dropped a five-dollar bill on the table and made for the door marked “Lobby.” Barbara was close beside me.

  Ten

  “CHRIST,” I BREATHED, DROPPING one blue-covered affidavit on the bed and reaching for another one. “It looks like your father had the goods.”

  She’d put on horn-rimmed glasses, and was rapidly riffling through several pages of legal-size, lined yellow paper. Each page was covered with Murdock’s untidy scrawl. “He was right,” she said softly. “It would’ve made a great story. It’ll still make a great story.”

  Looking at the papers scattered across the bed, I said, “I wonder whether the murderer knew these notes existed.”

  She pushed the glasses up into her hair. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because,” I said slowly, thinking it out as I spoke, “if he was after the notes, then he would’ve—” I glanced at her apologetically before I said, “He would’ve tried to find out where the notes were hidden, before he killed your father.”

  “Maybe he
did find out. “Maybe he—” She winced. “Maybe he forced Dad to tell him, before he killed him.”

  “I don’t think so. If it had happened like that—if the murderer was primarily interested in the notes—then he wouldn’t have killed your father. Not before he got the notes, anyhow. He’d have gotten the notes first, to guard against the possibility that your father lied to him.”

  She looked at me for a long, troubled moment, then asked, “What’s going to happen to them?” She was sitting on one corner of the queen-size bed. She’d taken off her shoes and her jacket. I was aware that her silken blouse outlined small, perfectly proportioned breasts.

  “Ultimately,” I said, “it’s a legal question. And I’m no lawyer. But it seems to me that for now, the state—the police—should take custody of them, as evidence. Eventually, as part of your father’s estate, they’ll go to you.”

  “If Sheppard gets to them long enough to make copies, though, they’d be worthless. Or, at least, they’d be debased.”

  “Sheppard claims they’re his property,” I answered. “If he knows they’ve been found, he’ll hire lawyers. Lots of lawyers.”

  “I can hire lawyers, too.”

  “Not as many as Sheppard can hire.”

  “What about now?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re in your possession. Police possession. Is it possible that Sheppard could get to them—make copies of them?”

  “That’s another legal question. And it takes time to resolve legal questions—days, or weeks, or months. For now, though—for the next day or two—it’s my decision. And I can tell you that I’m not going to let Sheppard get to them.” As I spoke I was thinking of Avery Rich’s dry, precise voice on the phone. Had he called the mayor? How long would it take for the mayor to call the police commissioner—for the commissioner to call Dwyer, the police chief?