Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “She could also be getting herself in a lot of trouble,” I mused. “A lot of trouble. If Annunzio thinks she knows more than she really knows—” I let the ominous thought go unfinished.

  “Exactly.” Friedman dropped his burnt-out cigar stub into my ashtray. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d tell her that—”

  My phone rang. I waited for Friedman to pick up the extension, then answered. The time was exactly ten o’clock.

  “It’s Charles Brautigan, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh—yes.” I tried to sound casual, as if I’d just remembered that he was going to call.

  “Have you got your clearance?”

  “Well—yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

  “It’s supposed to mean that Lieutenant Friedman and I have decided to try and help you. But we’re doing it on our own authority. So it’s got to be off the record. We’ve got to be careful.”

  “The more careful the better,” he answered. Then, peevishly, “Mr. Forbes made that plain last night, I thought.”

  “Mr. Forbes.” Not “Calvin.” I tried to imagine the scene that precipitated the change.

  “Well,” Brautigan was saying, “how’ll we handle it?”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the Federal Building.”

  “Why don’t you walk down to Market Street and Larkin and stand in the bus stop on the northwest corner? We’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. We’ll be driving a green Plymouth Horizon.”

  He repeated the instructions and abruptly broke the connection.

  “There they are—” Friedman pointed.

  I swung the Plymouth to the curb behind a bus—and promptly heard another bus horn abusing us from behind. Friedman swung the rear door open. Brautigan gestured Forbes inside, then folded his long, elegantly dressed frame into the cramped rear seat. Friedman, I noticed, had pushed his seat back as far as possible.

  “This is Mr. Forbes,” Brautigan said, gracelessly introducing Friedman. “Mr. Calvin Forbes, from Washington. Mr. Forbes is a deputy director of the Bureau.”

  Half turned in his seat, Friedman said, “Hello, Calvin. My name is Pete.”

  I tried to see Forbes’s expression in the mirror but couldn’t. Leaning the other way, I looked at Brautigan. He could have been sucking a lemon.

  “I thought we’d drive down to the Marina Green,” I said. “In a half hour, the Enterprise is coming in through the Golden Gate.”

  “The Enterprise?”

  “It’s an aircraft carrier.”

  “Yes,” Brautigan said stiffly. “We know.”

  On a cold, gray Saturday morning in November, with rain threatening, the Marina Green was populated almost entirely by hard-core joggers and weekend athletes doggedly circling the ten-acre expanse of grass that bordered the bay. In the center of the green an amiable girls-and-boys touch-football game was beginning. Ignoring the prohibiting sign, renegade dog owners looked the other way while their pets relieved themselves on one of the city’s premier playing fields.

  “I’d like to bust them,” Friedman muttered, staring bale-fully at the offenders. “I swear to God, if I had a citation book, I’d bust them. Every one of them.”

  I pulled into a parking place that faced the bay. In another fifteen minutes, despite the threatening weather, all the parking places would be filled, anticipating the Enterprise’s arrival. As I switched off the engine and turned in my seat, Forbes spoke for the first time. “Have you got the documents?”

  “Yes,” Friedman answered. “We’ve got them.” He turned in his seat, facing Forbes.

  “Are they originals or copies?”

  “Copies.”

  “Good.” Forbes snapped open a black-and-chrome attaché case and placed it on the seat beside him.

  “We should warn you, though,” Friedman said, “that they aren’t as sensational as you might expect from reading today’s newspapers.” He made no move to hand over the big manila envelope he’d placed on the floor at his feet. I wondered whether Brautigan and Forbes had seen the envelope when they’d gotten into the car. I didn’t think so.

  “Are they complete?” Forbes asked. “Are you turning over everything you’ve got?”

  “They’re complete. But they’re—” Friedman hesitated. This, I knew, was the beginning of the game—the sting. “But they’re—puzzling. And we, ah, were hoping that you could fill us in.”

  “Lieutenant Friedman—” Like an exasperated, long-suffering schoolteacher deciding how best to deal with a wayward pupil, Forbes paused. Then, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for this. It’s eleven o’clock. Even if I’m lucky enough to catch a one o’clock flight, I still won’t be home before ten tonight. So you’ll—”

  “When did you get into San Francisco?” Friedman asked. His face was blandly inscrutable. His voice was polite. Deceptively polite, I knew.

  “Last night,” Forbes answered shortly. “And—”

  “Did you come all the way out here just for the notes?” Friedman inquired innocently. “Six thousand miles, round trip?”

  Eyes snapping dangerously, Forbes didn’t reply. Instead, he glanced sharply at Brautigan, as if to ask how he’d come to be sitting in a strange car, in an unfamiliar city, being interrogated by an inferior. Finally, speaking in a tightly controlled voice, he said, “Those notes might have a bearing on a current investigation the Bureau is conducting, Lieutenant. Therefore, we appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, getting them to us. And we appreciate your, ah, discretion. On this one we’d just as soon not go through channels. However, as I’ve said, my time is limited. So if you don’t mind—” Impatiently fingering the attaché case’s lock, he let it go unfinished. Once more he threw a sharp, impatient glance at Brautigan.

  “We don’t mean to hold you up,” Friedman answered equably. “And I’m glad you appreciate the trouble we’ve taken. But I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear—” For emphasis, he paused. Forbes turned in his seat to stare out toward the Golden Gate, registering haughty disinterest in Friedman. But as the silence lengthened oppressively, he was finally forced to return his gaze to Friedman. With that accomplished, Friedman continued smoothly. “What I’m suggesting,” he said, “is an exchange of information.”

  Forbes’s small, humorless mouth twisted into something that could have been an ironic smile. “I see.”

  In reply, Friedman inclined his head in a mockingly urbane nod—only partly concealing his cat-and-mouse grin.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the authority to pass along information on a current case,” Forbes answered.

  “Well, strictly speaking, neither do we. But we’re willing to make an—”

  “You have all the authority you need, Friedman,” Brautigan snapped. “So, if you don’t mind, let’s cut the crap. Cal—Mr. Forbes is a busy man. He hasn’t come all the way out from Washington to sit here and play games. He—”

  “We’re not playing games,” I interrupted sharply. “We’re looking for information. So are you. We can help each other. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Forbes said icily, “is that I’m heading an investigation that could reach high up. Very, very high up. And I simply can’t compromise that investigation.”

  “Well, we’re investigating a murder,” I retorted. “To you that might not seem like a very big deal. But—”

  “What Frank’s saying,” Friedman said softly, “is that we take our jobs just as seriously as you do—Calvin.”

  I saw Forbes’s expression turn murderous—then saw his eyes drawn inexorably past Friedman, out to the Golden Gate. Turning, I saw the huge, squared-off prow of the Enterprise moving slowly beneath the bridge. On the sunless, sullen day, with the clouds lying dark and heavy on the horizon, the enormous gray shape of the aircraft carrier was materializing in the heavy haze like some silent, ghostly shade—implacable and immense, yet somehow without substance, come from another world. Above its bow and stern, two helicop
ters hovered like huge, predatory insects. On its flight deck, precisely aligned, rows of supersonic fighters squatted with wings folded, canopies gleaming, vertical fins ranked like broadswords. Dozens of pleasure boats had fallen in beside the monstrous gray shape. Moving beside the carrier through the haze, the pleasure boats lost color and definition, as if their essence had been mysteriously sapped by the warship. Only a fire-boat, spewing a bouquet of white plumes high in the air, lightened the scene.

  For a long moment, reluctantly, the four of us shared a moment of awed silence. Then I heard Forbes say, “What is it, exactly, that you think you need? What kind of information?”

  I saw the corner of Friedman’s mouth twitch as he suppressed a smug little smile. He’d won. In his private war against the establishment, he’d won another skirmish.

  Winning, he was always generous. Turning to face Forbes, he spoke somberly and concisely. “We think,” he said, “that Murdock was murdered because of something he discovered in Washington, or something that somebody was afraid he might discover. We suspect that the Mafia might have been involved.”

  “Why do you say that?” Brautigan asked suspiciously.

  “Because the killer was probably Joey Annunzio.”

  Forbes’s eyes sharpened. “Out of Miami?”

  Watching Forbes warily, Friedman nodded. I knew what he was thinking. If Annunzio crossed state lines to commit murder, or to escape prosecution, the FBI could claim jurisdiction.

  “Annunzio—” Forbes looked away, absently watching the slow, inexorable progress of the Enterprise.

  “We also suspect,” Friedman said, “that Baxter Wardell could be involved in a scheme to defraud the Pentagon—the scheme that Murdock was investigating. We think that Murdock came to San Francisco to check out Baxter Wardell. Therefore, we think it’s possible that Murdock was killed to prevent him from exposing Wardell. Which is to say—” For emphasis, he let a beat pass. “Which is to say,” he repeated, “that, logically, Wardell could have hired Annunzio to kill Murdock. Which gets us to Wednesday night, when Murdock was killed.”

  Forbes was shaking his head. But it was a thoughtful gesture, not one of denial, or disagreement. “I don’t see Baxter Wardell hiring a hood. That’s like saying the President would go with a streetwalker. It just wouldn’t happen.”

  “Which isn’t to say that Presidents haven’t been known to play around, though,” I said.

  “Where’s Annunzio now?” Brautigan asked.

  “We think he’s still in San Francisco,” Friedman replied. “We think he’s killed two men here, just yesterday—accomplices in the Murdock murder. Low-level, expendable accomplices.”

  “Why did he kill them?” Forbes asked.

  “To shut them up, probably. His driver, a local hood named Richard Blake, was arrested Wednesday night at the scene. Annunzio was probably afraid he’d talk. And he was right to be afraid. The driver did talk. Unfortunately, he didn’t know much.”

  “How did Annunzio kill him, if he was taken at the scene?” Brautigan asked.

  “He was released yesterday,” Friedman answered briefly. “We made a deal, so we didn’t charge him. We had to release him.”

  “It couldn’t be that you put him out for bait, could it?” Brautigan asked.

  Silently, Friedman and I exchanged a look.

  “Who’s the other victim?” Forbes asked.

  “A Tenderloin-type named Ricco. A bartender. He was probably Annunzio’s local contact.”

  “That’s a pattern,” Forbes said, still following the Enterprise with his eyes. “It’s where these big-shot hit men are vulnerable. They’ve got to contact people on the local scene, to set things up for them—fill them in.”

  Another moment of silence passed, this time thoughtfully—without tension. Somehow the slow, inexorable passage of the Enterprise had put our differences into perspective. Finally clearing the Golden Gate Bridge, the giant warship, seen so close, obscured much of the Marin hills across the bay from the Marina Green. It was as if some of the world had ended at the carrier.

  “That’s really all we’ve got,” Friedman said, a note of finality in his voice. “The rest is speculation.”

  “Have you actually talked to Baxter Wardell?” Brautigan asked.

  “Once,” Friedman said. “Briefly.”

  “And inconclusively,” I added.

  “Did you question him about—” Forbes hesitated. “About any irregularities concerning Pentagon procurement?”

  “Not really,” Friedman answered. “We—hinted at it, to get a reaction.”

  “And what kind of reaction did you get?”

  “He tried to blow us off the track,” Friedman answered. “He gave us a blast, and then left. Quick.”

  “What about you?” I asked Forbes. “Have you interrogated Wardell?”

  “No,” he answered slowly. “No, I haven’t. Not yet. It’s, ah, not that easy, getting through to him. At least, not in Washington.” He looked at me thoughtfully before he said, “I’m surprised you were able to do it.”

  “We caught him by surprise.”

  Forbes shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Maybe he wanted to find out how much we knew,” Friedman mused.

  “I assume that the FBI has intelligence on Wardell,” I said, looking squarely at Forbes. “I assume you’ve got a lot of intelligence.” I saw him nod. Then, plainly reluctant, he began talking. Speaking in a dry, precise voice, as if he were reading from a transcript, he said, “Approximately two years ago, a man named George Simpson got into difficulties with his superiors. Simpson was an efficiency expert at the Pentagon. He’s a—” Forbes hesitated, searching for the right word. “He’s an unpleasant—an egotistical man. But he’s a bright man, too—a genius, some say. When his recommendations for streamlining procurement procedures were ignored, he went over his bosses’ heads—unsuccessfully. After that, his job became harder. His superiors, you see, were trying to force him to resign. And about that time his wife left him. By some accounts he slipped his tether a little—didn’t give a damn what happened to him. Anyhow, the result was that Simpson decided to go public. He talked to reporters about some rather dramatic cost overruns. At first, he didn’t talk about anything illegal. Just inefficiency, and wastefulness, and stupidity. As a result, he found himself down in the documents section, working as a file clerk. He hadn’t been demoted in grade, so he didn’t have an actionable case. He was just reassigned—or so he was told.

  “Matters stayed like that for about six months, during which time it seems that Simpson actually became a little—” Again, Forbes paused, slightly frowning as he searched for the word—“a little paranoid, I’d say. Whether it was his failure on the job or the failure of his marriage isn’t clear. It was probably a combination. In any case, at about that time he decided to contact Eliot Murdock, with whom Simpson had had some dealings in the past. He also contacted the Bureau. I gather that he gave Murdock the same information he gave us. It was entirely hearsay, of course. But it was high-voltage stuff. He said that an undersecretary of defense had entered into a kickback scheme with a so-called international arms cartel.”

  “How did the scheme work?” Friedman asked.

  “It worked very simply,” Forbes answered dryly. “The undersecretary simply declared certain armaments surplus, and put their price floor way below the market. There was an auction—a rigged auction. The buyer was a company called International Procurement Incorporated—I.P.I., for short. I.P.I, began selling the arms all over the world, for an estimated net profit of thirty million dollars, at least. Meanwhile, the undersecretary resigned—and opened a Swiss bank account. So far, we’ve traced carefully laundered deposits to that account totaling more than two million dollars.”

  “And Baxter Wardell owns I.P.I.,” I said.

  “Not wholly,” Forbes said, “but substantially. He followed a formula that’s common in matters like this. In exchange for ‘services rendered,’ so called, he gave away small b
locks of stock in I.P.I. to a few extremely well-placed, prestigious people. That way, if there’s an investigation, they’ll get hurt, too. So, effectively, they act as a shield.” Forbes shook his head. “It’s incredible how often we see that pattern. Perfectly innocent, unsuspecting people lend their names to all kinds of marginal schemes.”

  “They profited, though,” Friedman suggested. “They were a little too greedy, maybe.”

  Reluctantly, Forbes nodded. “It’s the so-called ‘little bit of larceny in all of us,’ I suppose. Without which the pigeon-drop con, for example, could never work. Anyhow, that’s where we are now. We’ve been working on the case for months, tracing that laundered money. And after all that time and effort it’s still doubtful whether Justice will indict. Which is the reason I’m here. We know about those affidavits Murdock had taken. We want to look at them.”

  “I’m afraid,” Friedman said, “that you’ll be disappointed.” He reached down for the manila envelope and passed it back to Forbes. “To me, most of it looks like pretty soft stuff.”

  As Forbes unfastened the clasp and impatiently riffled through the contents, I looked again at the Enterprise. Bound for the Oakland Naval Base, the carrier was entering the narrows between Alcatraz and Fisherman’s Wharf, where less than two hundred yards separated the ship from the shore. With plumes of black smoke streaming from their stacks, gray Navy tugs were nudging at the carrier’s sides, curving high above them. In their dress blues, sailors lined the carrier’s fantail, waving at the escorting pleasure boats. On one of the sailboats I could make out a colorfully dressed group of girls, all waving wildly. As I watched, a sailor took off his white cap and sailed it toward the small boat.

  Seventeen

  SEATED BEHIND A SMALL walnut writing desk, the City Club’s receptionist looked down at my badge, looked me up and down once, then looked a last time at the badge, resigned. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old, but his pale eyes were curiously empty, as if they were incapable of registering pleasure, or pain, or passion. His long patrician nose was fastidiously pinched; his mouth was primly pursed as he asked, “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”