Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “For a minute or two,” I said, “I thought he was going to turn into a human being, talking about airplanes.”

  Smiling, Friedman shook his head. “Not Baxter Wardell. Never Baxter Wardell. He’s a complete, hundred and ten percent phony. If he ever allowed anyone to get to him, he’d shrivel up into a normal-size human being and promptly blow away.”

  “What’d you think of his answers?”

  “I was interested,” Friedman said thoughtfully. “I was very, very interested.” As he said it, the old flyer’s nostalgic light faded from his eyes, replaced by his customary on-the-job stare, impassively reflective. “Especially, I was interested in the part where he was talking about the exposé Murdock was doing on him—considering that neither one of us said anything about an exposé.”

  “And also considering that Murdock was apparently trying to keep the story under wraps until it broke. Even his own daughter didn’t know that Wardell was involved. Or his editor, either.”

  “Exactly,” Friedman said. We were both standing, staring abstractedly at each other as we tried to fix the details of the brief interrogation in our memories. Finally Friedman smiled—his habitually sly, smug, cat-and-mouse grin. He’d thought of something—some subtle angle, some small wedge. Some special twist that appealed to him.

  “Well?” I asked, watching him. “What?”

  “I was just thinking,” he said softly, “that it would be wonderfully ironic if it turned out that Baxter Wardell, international financier and playmate of presidents, made the same mistake that most petty hoods make—and just plain talked too much, trying to get himself off the hook.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I said, nodding. “The very same thing.”

  “I was thinking something else.” Friedman said musingly.

  “What’s that?”

  “I was thinking,” he said, “that if Wardell tries to take a B-25 off a runway that isn’t at least five thousand feet long, it won’t make much difference whether he’s conning us or not.”

  Thirteen

  FRIEDMAN HAD PARKED THE family Ford in the City Club’s passenger zone, and we drove off under the disapproving stare of a uniformed doorman.

  “It’s always amazed me,” Friedman said, “how the servants of the very rich acquire their employers’ snobbish bad manners.” He pointed to the doorman. “Can you imagine what happens to him after he takes off his admiral’s uniform and goes home to his overweight wife and underweight kids?”

  I gestured to a police call box on the next corner. “Why don’t I call in?”

  “Good idea.” He stopped the car beside the box and turned on the radio, trying to find a local newscast.

  Communications had an urgent message for me to call Canelli. Less than a minute later Canelli came on the line. “I been trying to get through to you for about fifteen minutes,” he said. “Or maybe twenty. I couldn’t find Lieutenant Friedman either.”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Well,” Canelli said, “I think we might have a break on Annunzio, Lieutenant. And all it took me was about a half hour on the phone, if you can believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “What happened,” Canelli said, “was that I decided, what the hell, I’d check the rent-a-car concessions at the airport for Wednesday, which was the day I figured he probably came in. Of course, we already checked the incoming flight for Annunzios, and Thorsons, and everything. But I figured he could always give the airline a phony name. To rent a car, though he’d have to show a driver’s license, and everything. So I called them. And, would you believe it, I connected first time out.” I heard paper rustle. “Joseph Annunzio, from Miami. Arrived Wednesday afternoon, which would be about right.”

  “Is the car still checked out?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I just called the agency to verify it. Just a few minutes ago. And it’s still out.”

  “What’ve you done about it?”

  “Put out an APB,” he answered promptly. “Also, right now, we’re calling all the motor hotels and all the downtown parking garages, giving them the description of the car, and the license number, and all that.”

  “Good, Canelli. It sounds like a break.”

  “I also got the car agency staked out, in case he brings it back.”

  “Good.”

  “I was surprised that he’s still around. I mean, I thought he’d’ve left town, after the job.”

  “Maybe he’s got some unfinished business,” I said.

  “Or maybe he’s sticking around to do some sightseeing.”

  “Maybe,” I answered doubtfully. “Is there anything else?”

  “Not really, Lieutenant. We’re checking out Walter Frazer, but so far we got nothing that says he’s not just a well-heeled lawyer who had his car stolen.”

  “Well, keep on it. What about Blake?”

  “He’s gone home, about two hours ago. I had someone pick him up at the hospital and take him to his apartment.”

  “Have you got him staked out?” I asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir. I put two teams on it. Lieutenant Friedman’s orders.”

  Relieved, I nodded at the phone. “That’s right. Good.” As I spoke I heard a buzzer sound three times, urgently. It was the “hotshot” signal. Canelli had an important call.

  “Hey, I got a hotshot, Lieutenant. Want to hold on, or should I call you back?”

  “I’ll hold on.”

  I heard a click, then silence. I turned to Friedman, holding up one finger. Listening to the car radio, he nodded indifferently. Less than a minute later, Canelli’s voice came back on the line: “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said excitedly. “It happened. Jesus, I can’t believe it.”

  “What happened?”

  “We got Annunzio located. He’s registered under the name of Thompson at the Beakman Motor Inn, on Van Ness. Both the make of the car and the license plate check.”

  “Is he at the Beakman now? On the premises?”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. The car’s there, though.”

  “We’re less than five minutes from the Beakman. We’ll park around the corner, on Pacific, or Jackson, whichever it is. Get three men, and meet us there. Make sure everyone has walkie-talkies. We’ll need a couple of shotguns, too. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s clear.”

  Except for a chambermaid trudging sore-footed behind her linen cart, the corridor was deserted. I waited until the maid turned the corner, then raised my walkie-talkie.

  “This is position one. All set?”

  “Position two is ready,” Friedman answered. With Culligan, Friedman was concealed on one of the two outside balconies that flanked Annunzio’s balcony. Both Friedman and Culligan carried shotguns. Canelli and I, in the hallway, carried revolvers. Two detectives from General Works were in the garage downstairs, watching Annunzio’s rented Oldsmobile. In constant contact with both our walkie-talkie net and Communications, the two G.W. men were our reserve unit. Friedman had located a small step-ladder. When Canelli and I were inside Annunzio’s room, Friedman and Culligan would climb the ladder and drop down into Annunzio’s balcony. When he’d proposed the plan, I’d wondered aloud whether Friedman could drop over a six-foot wall without hurting himself. He’d been offended.

  “How’s it look back there? I asked. “Can you see into his room?”

  “No,” Friedman answered. “There’s a sliding glass door, but the drapes are drawn.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “We’re ready.”

  “All right. We’re going in.”

  “Right.”

  So that Friedman could hear us, I slipped my walkie-talkie into its case at my belt, switched on. I drew my revolver, nodding for Canelli to do the same. “I’ll go in low,” I whispered, “and break to the right. You break to the left. Clear?”

  “That’s clear,” Canelli breathed.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.” With my revolver clamped under my left arm, I slipped a passkey into the lock and
slowly, cautiously turned the knob. When the door came open a quarter of an inch, I dropped the key into my pocket, took my revolver in my right hand and used my left hand to inch the door past the point where a night chain would hold it. Then, suddenly, I banged open the door. Bent double, I cleared the doorway and broke to my right, fast. Close behind me, breathing noisily, Canelli lunged into the room to find cover behind a gold-brocaded armchair.

  The room was empty.

  The double bed’s elaborately quilted bedspread was un-wrinkled. Even before we searched the closet and the dresser drawers, I sensed that Annunzio was gone and wouldn’t be back.

  Outside the sliding glass door, feet thudded heavily on a concrete slab. The door rattled as someone jerked at the handle, hard.

  “Never mind,” I called. “He’s gone.”

  Automatically, by the book, Canelli and I quickly team-searched the closet and the bathroom. The closet was empty; the bathroom obviously hadn’t been touched since the maid left. Dresser drawers and the medicine cabinet yielded nothing. Holstering my revolver, I stepped to the sliding doors, drew back the floor-to-ceiling drapes and flipped the lock. Cradling their shotguns in the crooks of their arms, Friedman and Culligan strode casually into the room. In due time, I thought, incidentally, the departmental comptroller’s office would charge yet another fruitless search-and-secure mission against Homicide.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I ordered needlessly. And to Canelli, “Let’s get a fingerprint team up here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Holstering his revolver and taking out his handkerchief, Canelli reached for the phone. While he dialed, Friedman and I stepped aside.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” he said dryly. “Just the other day I read that a little adrenaline kick is good for the heart, once in a while.” He emptied his shotgun, took the required “safety click” and tossed the gun on the bed.

  Ruefully, I snorted—then remembered to switch off my walkie-talkie.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” I retorted.

  “Maybe,” he said mildly, “I should go back to the Hall. You and Canelli can stay here, and find out when and how Annunzio left. Meanwhile, I’ll make sure the airport guards have Annunzio’s description.”

  “All right.”

  While we’d been talking, Canelli had come to stand a respectful three paces away, apologetically clearing his throat.

  “What is it, Canelli?” I asked irritably.

  “Well, ah, I’ve got a message from Chief Dwyer’s office for you, Lieutenant.”

  Exchanging a resigned look with Friedman, I turned to face Canelli fully. “What’s the message?”

  “As soon as either you or Lieutenant Friedman get back to the Hall, you’re supposed to report to the Chief. It’s, ah—” He cleared his throat again. “It’s got something to do with Jeffrey Sheppard, and Murdock’s notes, or something. The way I get it, Sheppard’s down at the Hall. And he’s raising hell.”

  Trying to put the ball in his court, I exchanged a questioning glance with Friedman. “I’ll handle Sheppard,” he said airily. “And Dwyer, too. No sweat.” Taking his shotgun from the bed and beckoning for Culligan to follow, he strode out through the open door, flipping his hand back over his shoulder. With the shotgun tucked under his arm, he looked like a jaunty hunter, off for a carefree pheasant hunt.

  Fourteen

  AFTER INTERROGATING A HALF-DOZEN motel employees, Canelli and I determined that Annunzio had surreptitiously left the motel early that morning, probably before eight o’clock. During his two nights at the Beakman, Annunzio had been a quiet, unobtrusive guest. He’d arrived Wednesday at four P.M. and had paid cash for three nights’ lodging. The maid testified that he’d been traveling light, with only one medium-sized suitcase that he’d always kept closed and locked. He’d made no phone calls through the switchboard, either local or long distance. The garage attendant only remembered his driving the rental Olds once, on Thursday. The motel manager remembered that shortly after Annunzio arrived on Wednesday, he made several phone calls from the public booth in the lobby, once asking the manager for change—dimes and quarters. A check of the car-rental agency revealed that the Olds had been rented with a Master Charge card issued to Joseph Annunzio, of Miami Beach.

  Canelli and I were drinking coffee in the motel’s coffee shop when the pager clipped to my belt buzzed, and Communications asked me to phone Friedman at the Hall.

  “I just finished talking with Dwyer,” Friedman said heavily.

  To myself, I smiled. “It sounds like you came out second best.”

  “I’ll settle for a draw.”

  “What happened?”

  “What happened,” Friedman said, “is that Dwyer’s crapping in his pants. And the odor is going to get worse, not better.”

  “What about Murdock’s notes? Is Dwyer going to give them to Sheppard?”

  “He’s ‘taking it under advisement,’” Friedman mimicked savagely. “He said he wanted my ‘input,’ before he decides. Which, translated, means that Dwyer wants me for a pigeon if Sheppard fouls up our chain of evidence.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said he could go screw himself. Politely, of course. I said that he should let the city attorney decide the merits of Sheppard’s claim. By the time we get a decision from the C.A., I figure we might have someone in custody.”

  “Good. You did just right.”

  “Don’t sound so smug. It’ll be your turn next. As soon as you show up here, he’s going to want your ‘input,’ sure as hell. Christ,” he grated, “I can’t stand these prissy-assed, pseudo-intellectual catch phrases.”

  “What’d he say about the Wardell interrogation?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “He didn’t say anything,” Friedman explained, “because I, ah, didn’t get a chance to mention that we talked to Wardell.”

  “What?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling,” he said blandly. “I wanted to tell you not to blow the whistle on me. Wardellwise, that is.”

  “Listen, Pete—” I paused, considering how to put it. “I don’t mind all these private little war games you play with Dwyer, and the mayor, and assorted other politicians. I enjoy them, in fact. And I admire you for your principles. And most of the time I agree with what you’re doing, and go along with you. But—” Again, I hesitated. “But I don’t want you to include me in. Not automatically, anyhow. Not without checking with me first. Already, we’ve taken private possession of evidence—the notes. Fine. I agreed to it. You propositioned me, and I agreed. But when you tell Dwyer we didn’t interview Wardell, you’re putting me in the middle. You’re—”

  “I didn’t deny that we interviewed him. I just didn’t mention it.”

  “It’s the same thing,” I answered quietly. “And you know it. Right now—right this minute—Wardell’s lawyers could be knocking on Dwyer’s door. And when he discovers that we interrogated Wardell, and didn’t tell him about it, he’s really going to crap in his pants.”

  “I’ve considered all that,” he answered airily. “And it’s no problem. The way the conversation went, Dwyer was so steamed up about Sheppard and Avery Rich and the power of the press and the damage this case could do to his career that I didn’t get in more than a few words. It was his fault that he didn’t hear about Wardell. Not my fault.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “However,” he continued, “to cover our asses I’ve written up a report on the Wardell interrogation and put it in channels. If Dwyer doesn’t read the report, he’s got only himself to blame.”

  I paused again. Then, deliberately pitching my voice to a hard, uncompromising note, I said, “You didn’t listen. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want you deciding when I need my ass covered.”

  A moment of tight silence passed before he said, “I’m listening. And, what’s more, I’m agreeing with you. You’re right. I was wrong.” He spoke slow
ly, in a low, reluctant monotone.

  I realized that I was holding the phone away from my face, incredulously staring at it. Finally: “In all the years I’ve known you,” I said, “that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you admit that you’re wrong.”

  “That’s because I’ve never been wrong before.” Now he was speaking in his normal voice—casually, irreverently.

  “Oh.” Glad of the chance to ease the tension, I spoke with broad sarcasm. “That explains it.” I realized that I was smiling.

  “Incidentally, Dwyer has something else on his mind, besides the missing notes. He thinks we made a mistake, turning Blake loose. He wants us to pick him up again and hold him as a material witness.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s afraid that Annunzio might get to him.”

  “He could be right. We were thinking about collaring Ricco when we turned Blake loose. But with Annunzio still in town, I think Dwyer’s right.”

  “Maybe so,” Friedman said grudgingly. “Why don’t you and Canelli pick Blake up?”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “There it is,” Canelli said, pointing. “Three eighty-seven Mason Street. He lives on the top floor.”

  It was a typical Tenderloin apartment building. Originally built in the twenties to offer luxury apartments close to the center of town, the building was now plainly infected by urban blight. A motley assortment of bedsheets, cheap bamboo blinds and torn lace curtains fluttered in its windows. Wooden boxes tacked to crumbling window sills served as makeshift refrigerators. Only the building’s massive brick-and-stone construction had saved it from decay and ultimate destruction. It was a four-story building, with an all-night grocery and a pornographic bookstore occupying the ground floor.

  I glanced at my watch. The time was four o’clock. The weather had turned cold and raw. Over the ocean to the west, dark clouds lay heavily on a purple horizon. By morning the season’s first rains were predicted.

  “Where’s the surveillance team?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I sent Marsten and Swig out. I didn’t go with them.”