Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What if Sheppard demands to see them—just to read them, without copying them?”

  “The same thing applies. As far as I’m concerned, these notes and the affidavits are evidence in a homicide investigation. If the contents are made public too soon, the investigation might be compromised.” I looked at her. “That applies to you, too—” I pointed to the pages she still held in her hands. “I don’t know what you’ve been reading in those notes. But whatever it is, I want you to keep the contents to yourself.”

  “I knew you were going to say that.”

  “I mean it, Barbara.” Again, I pointed to the sheaf of notes. “That’s evidence. As such, it’s police property. Police business.”

  “The murder of my father,” she said slowly, “is my business.” Her chin lifted; her small mouth settled into a firm, unyielding line. Her eyes came up, quietly challenging me. I could see both desperation and determination in her eyes—both dignity and despair. In that instant I thought I could see deep into the past, the present and the future of Barbara Murdock. I thought I could see a little girl who’d been too precocious, a young woman who could be too willful and, finally, an older woman who would be too lonely.

  I could also see that she didn’t intend to stand aside, waiting for someone else to find her father’s murderer.

  I moved around the foot of the bed and stood above her. She rose to face me, and for a moment we stood close together, silently confronting each other. I was aware that the rhythm of her breathing had quickened. Close to my chest, her breasts were rapidly rising and falling. In response, I felt my genitals tightening.

  “His murder is my business, too,” I said. “I’m on your side.”

  “I know that.”

  I put out my hand, palm up. “Give me the notes.”

  Without a word, she gathered the sheets of lined yellow paper together, folded them once and gave them to me.

  “I’ve already read them, you know.” She spoke quietly. Defiantly.

  I drew a deep breath. “I’m telling you again. Don’t talk about those notes. If you do—and if you foul up my investigation, you could be prosecuted.” I stared at her for a long, hard moment before I added, “That’s what I told Sheppard, too. I threatened to have him locked up if he didn’t cooperate. I could do it, too.”

  “No,” she answered. “No, you couldn’t have Jeffrey Sheppard locked up. Never.”

  “We’ll see.”

  She stepped away from me and pointed to the affidavits still scattered across the bed. “I don’t know what you got from those, Lieutenant. But I can tell you what I got out of those—” She gestured to the sheets of yellow paper.

  “So?”

  “So I can tell you that you’re dealing with a lot of very important people. They aren’t the kind of people you can throw in the back of a police car and haul off to jail. If these people go to jail, they drive to the Hall of Justice in chauffeur-driven limousines, and they surrender in style. Then, an hour later, they’re out on bail. Their chauffeurs don’t even go home. They just wait at the curb.”

  “But, still, they go to jail.”

  Stubbornly, she shook her head. “No, they don’t. I know how the system works. I know—and you know—that rich men don’t go to jail.”

  “I don’t agree. I’ve put a few rich people in jail. Not many, I admit. But a few. The more expensive their lawyers, the longer the process takes. But they still go to jail.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I shrugged.

  Again, she pointed to the notes. “When you put Baxter Wardell in jail, I want to hear about it. I want to be the first to know.”

  Involuntarily, I looked down at the notes. “Baxter Wardell?” Asking the question, I struggled to put a person with the name—and couldn’t. Yet, certainly, I’d heard the name.

  “As you’ll discover when you read Dad’s notes,” Barbara said, “the name of ‘Wardell’ keeps popping up. The notes are pretty cryptic, I’ll admit. Dad always kept as much in his head as he kept on paper. And, in fact, he didn’t mention ‘Baxter’ once. Just ‘Wardell.’ But I’m sure—dead sure—that somewhere in those affidavits, someone states that Baxter Wardell masterminded a multimillion-dollar arms swindle that involves the Pentagon. And a few assorted California congressmen. And, last but not least, a few assorted White House staffers.”

  I turned to the bed and began gathering the affidavits together. As I stuffed the salmon envelope full, and knotted the string, I asked, “Who’s Baxter Wardell?”

  “He’s a wheeler-dealer,” she answered. “A financier. Or a crook, take your pick. During the Second World War, his father made millions in scrap iron and real estate and God knows what else. At least once, I know, Wardell Senior was indicted for black-marketeering. But he never went to trial. After the war the old man began dealing in surplus munitions. Then Baxter Junior took over—fresh out of Harvard Business School. He became a munitions broker—among other things. Many, many other things, including international money manipulations. Did you read The Silver Bears, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s all about men like Wardell. They’re international currency speculators. Some of them are swindlers. But they score so big that they’re above the law—because they control the politicians who make the laws. Except that you never hear about them. They pay people to keep their names out of the papers. Which is why you don’t know anything about Wardell, for instance. Even though he lives in San Francisco.”

  “How do you know so much about Wardell?”

  “Dad told me about him” she replied. Then, thoughtfully: “And now I know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was testing my reaction to Wardell’s marketability,” she answered promptly. “Market research.”

  “Did he tell you the rest of it—the munitions swindle at the Pentagon?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She eyed me for a frosty moment before she answered, “I’m sure, Lieutenant. That’s the way Dad operated. He’d tell different people bits and pieces. He did it partly to test reactions—to see whether I, for instance, was interested in knowing about Wardell. But no one knew the whole story. Not until Dad was ready to break it. He—”

  Beside the bed, the phone rang. Startled, she stepped quickly to the bedside table and snatched up the receiver. As she said “hello” I glanced at my watch. The time was almost eleven.

  “Oh—yes,” she was saying. “Just a moment, please.” She handed the phone to me.

  “This is Communications, Lieutenant. Allingham speaking.”

  “Hello, Allingham. What is it?”

  “Lieutenant Friedman would like to talk to you. He’s got some information on the Murdock homicide.”

  “Put him on.”

  Three clicks, and Friedman came on the line. “Are you interrogating the Murdock woman?” he asked. “Shall I call back?”

  “It’s all right. What’ve you got?”

  “We just heard from the FBI in Washington on the prints from that compress wrapping,” Friedman said. “It looks like we could’ve caught a big fish.”

  “Who?”

  “The name is Joey Annunzio.” Friedman paused, for the effect. “Ever hear of him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, Joey Annunzio happens to be a highly respected hit man with many, many satisfied customers, mostly in the Mafia. Which explains the ice pick and the compress and all the other nice little professional touches that we admired so much.”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Also,” Friedman said, “it just so happens that an FBI courier is flying out here tomorrow—to the San Francisco FBI office. And he’s going to bring copies of the whole Annunzio file, including pictures. Which is a break.”

  Balancing the salmon envelope on my hand I said, “I’ve got something, too.”

  Friedman chuckled. “I can hear that laconic, Western-marshal note in your voice. Which is always a dead giveaway.
You’ve got a scoop. Right?”

  “I might’ve found out why Murdock came to San Francisco.”

  “Are you coming down to the Hall?” he asked. Then: “Before you answer, I should mention that I was just going home to bed. You want to call me at home?”

  “That’s all right. It’ll keep. I’m going home, too. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow. Besides—” Smiling, I looked at Barbara. “Besides, the suspect I’ve turned up isn’t going to start running.”

  “It sounds intriguing.”

  “It is.”

  “It also sounds like tomorrow could be a big day.”

  “It could be.”

  Eleven

  “I WAS RIGHT,” FRIEDMAN said. “Today could be a big day.” He gestured to the affidavits and the sheets of lined yellow paper now stacked in piles on my desk. “Except that when Chief Dwyer sees that stuff—especially the stuff about Baxter Wardell—the chief is going to crap right in the seat of his pin-striped trousers. I happen to know that Dwyer suffered one loosening of the bowels already this morning, when he heard from the commissioner, who’d heard from Avery Rich, who’d just heard from Jeffrey Sheppard.”

  “I’m surprised that I haven’t heard from Dwyer.”

  “You will, I’m sure. After he recovers his composure. Then, when he discovers that Wardell has got to be interrogated—” Friedman smiled, smugly satisfied at the thought of Dwyer’s discomfort. “I just hope I’m there,” he said, “when Dwyer hears about it. He thinks of Wardell as his buddy, you know.” Now the smile mischievously widened. “Me, too.”

  “You?”

  He nodded. “Years ago—before your time—some nut decided he was going to extort a million dollars from Wardell by threatening to kill him. I’d just made inspector, at the time, and I was Wardell’s bodyguard. Or, rather, I was one of his bodyguards. He had several. His own, and the city’s.” Unwrapping his first cigar of the day, Friedman said, “Chief Dwyer was the head bodyguard. Except that he was Captain Dwyer, then. Even in those days, though, it was obvious that Dwyer was destined to be Chief. Show Dwyer someone with money, or power, or both, and Dwyer starts kissing ass. He learned when he was a patrolman, and he never forgot. So, naturally, he started kissing Wardell’s ass—with a passion.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand how you ever made lieutenant,” I said. “I really don’t. You—Christ—you never miss a chance to take a crack at Dwyer, or the mayor, or the commissioner. Not to mention most of the captains and both deputy chiefs.”

  “The answer to the question is simple,” he said. “It’s possible—barely possible—to get as far as lieutenant purely on merit, without kissing ass. It doesn’t happen often. But it does happen. It happened to me—and it happened to you, too. Of course, you had the advantage of looking like a lieutenant, which I never had. Still, we both made it with our virtue more or less intact. But lieutenant is as far as either of us is going.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “I know you don’t. But that doesn’t make me wrong. You wait. Ten years from now we’ll both still be lieutenants. You think just because you’re photogenic and show up on the six o’clock news sometimes that you’re captain material. But you’re wrong.” He pointed his cigar at me. “You’re too stubborn to make captain. And I’m too fat. Too fat, and too virtuous. Plus I’m Jewish, of course.”

  “Jewish doesn’t count.”

  “No. But I’m a smart Jew. Too smart for my own good, promotionwise. I figured that out a long time ago. And you’re too pigheaded, like I said.”

  “You’ve got a theory for everything, you know that?”

  “That’s because I’m a smart Jew. Like I said.”

  “Well, if you’re so smart, what’d you suggest we do next?”

  “I’ve got it all figured out—” He aimed his cigar at the notes and the affidavits. “First, we duck around the corner, and we make two Xeroxed copies of that stuff—one for me, and one for you. We return to the Hall, and we turn over the originals to the property room, after which we tell the D.A. we found the notes. Then we each take copies home. Just in case.”

  “You’re saying that the originals could disappear.”

  Decisively, he nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Either disappear, or get buried.”

  In silence, we stared at each other. It wasn’t the first time we’d bent the rules. Slowly, somberly, I nodded. “All right. What else?”

  “By that time,” he said, “with luck, we’ll have the FBI file on Annunzio. On the outside chance that Annunzio is still in town—which is less than fifty-fifty, I figure—we put Canelli and Culligan and about four other guys on Annunzio’s trail, or the lack of it. Also, while we’re at it, I think we should turn Richard Blake loose.”

  “He doesn’t want to be turned loose. Not until we’ve found Ricco.”

  “I can see Blake’s point. However, if we turn him loose, and skillfully stake him out, and then put out the word that he’s loose, Ricco might come out from his hole long enough to take a crack at Blake. Or, who knows, there might still be a connection between Blake and Annunzio.”

  “What kind of a connection?”

  “Money,” Friedman answered promptly. “Maybe Annunzio still owes Blake some money. It would make sense, considering that the usual deal is half up front and half after the job is finished.”

  “The job wasn’t finished, though.”

  “That wasn’t Blake’s fault. And besides, these Mafia types are very scrupulous about debts.”

  Doubtfully, I shook my head. “It sounds like wishful thinking, Pete. Besides, I promised to protect Blake, if he told me what I wanted to know.”

  “You will be protecting him. You’ll just be protecting him at his place, not ours.”

  Giving in, I shrugged. “All right. But you’ve got to tell him that you pulled rank.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What then?”

  “Then,” he said, “we go look for Baxter Wardell, my old buddy. But we won’t tell anybody we’re going to look for him. We’ll pull the plug. I’ve got my car. We’ll take that.”

  “Why pull the plug?”

  “If we don’t pull the plug, we’ll have Dwyer perspiring all over us, sure as hell. As only Dwyer can perspire.”

  As I gathered up Murdock’s papers, I said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said—about us being promoted. And you know what I think?”

  “What’d you think?”

  “I think that you’re the reason I won’t get promoted. You and all these little wars you have going with the brass.”

  Grinning slyly, Friedman dropped his cigar butt in the ashtray and heaved himself to his feet. “Warfare purifies the breed.”

  “And saves the city the expense of pensions, sometimes.”

  “Touché.”

  Friedman set the handbrake and stared at a three-story brick town house. “It’s the same place Wardell lived in when he was about to be assassinated,” he said. “I’d’ve thought he would have moved up.”

  “How can you move up from a house like that?” I opened the car door and got out.

  When Friedman joined me on the sidewalk I said, “According to Barbara, Wardell doesn’t like publicity.”

  “‘Barbara,’ eh?” Owlishly lecherous, Friedman leered at me. “It’s against regulations, you know, to screw around with witnesses.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “The answer is, yes, Wardell hates publicity. All crooks hate publicity.”

  “Why don’t you take the lead, since you know him?”

  “Right.”

  We swung open a tall iron gate and walked side by side to a pillared portico. The house was Georgian style, with fluted columns and intricate scroll trim accenting massive brick walls. Delicately segmented windowlights fanned above the stately front door. It was a house that should have been surrounded by acres of rolling lawns, with a circular driveway and stone lions guarding the entryway. I pressed the bell butto
n and was adjusting my tie when the door swung open to reveal a Negro maid. She was dressed in the traditional servant’s uniform: a small white cap, black organdy dress, white ruffled apron.

  Feeling faintly foolish, I showed her my badge and asked to see Baxter Wardell.

  “I’m sorry but Mr. Wardell isn’t in. Can I help you?” As she spoke, she glanced again at the badge. Her expression was unreadable.

  “Can you tell us where we could find him?” Friedman asked. “We have some important information for him. We’ve got to locate him as soon as possible.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “What kind of information?”

  “Sorry—” Friedman smiled at her. “We’ll have to talk to Mr. Wardell. It’s got to do with one of his business enterprises. There’s been an accident involving an associate of his. A serious accident.”

  Her calm, calculating gaze was plainly skeptical as she took a moment to look Friedman over. Like many blacks, she’d developed a finely tuned ear for a con.

  “Just a minute, please.” She began to close the door on us, then thought better of it. “Would you like to step in? I’ll see if Mrs. Wardell’s free.”

  “Thank you.” We followed her into a high-ceilinged, walnut-paneled entry hall. Two carved chairs flanked a small Regency side table. Arranged in a blue-and-white Wedgewood vase, a bouquet of white carnations had been placed in the exact center of the table. The maid gestured us to the two chairs and disappeared down the hallway. Less than a minute later she reappeared, smiled perfunctorily and asked us to follow her. We walked on a succession of Oriental rugs to the rear of the house, where the maid gestured us through the open door of a sun room. One wall of the room, floor to ceiling, was glass, offering a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge. In front of the glass wall, exotic splashy-leafed plants grew out of a huge field-stone planter as wide as the wall. The floor was terrazzo, covered with woven wool rugs. The furniture was made of expensive walnut-stained rattan. With the exception of a huge abstract wall sculpture, the white-painted brick walls were bare.