“That’s about it,” I admitted.
“And Baxter Wardell—” Dwyer winced, as if the name caused him pain. “There’s no hard evidence connecting Wardell with Murdock’s murder. Is that right?”
I looked at Friedman who said, “Except for Murdock’s notes, that’s right.”
“The I.P.I. connection is something else, though,” I said. “If the FBI has I.P.I. tied to an arms-fraud scheme at the Pentagon, and if Wardell really controls I.P.I., then there’s a connection.”
“Forget the goddamn Pentagon,” Dwyer snapped. “I’m talking about San Francisco—about Murdock’s murder. That’s all I care about. And I’m telling you—warning both of you—that I don’t want Wardell questioned again about that murder unless it’s with my specific approval. Is that clear?”
It was clear, we said.
“We should tell you,” Friedman said, “that Wardell plans to leave for Los Angeles this afternoon or evening.”
“So?” Dwyer said sarcastically.
“So,” Friedman answered gently, “if a connection to the murder should develop, he’ll be out of town.”
“Is he coming back?”
“We don’t know.”
“Did you ask him?”
“No. But, if we had asked him, he wouldn’t’ve answered. He was, ah, pretty uncommunicative, the last we saw of him.”
For a moment Dwyer didn’t reply. Then: “Let’s get back to the notes,” he said. “I want you to give copies to Jeffrey Sheppard. Clear?”
Friedman and I exchanged a quick glance. “If you say so,” Friedman answered with plain reluctance. “But I don’t think that—”
“I want you to give them to him,” Dwyer said. “They’re his property. I want him to have them. I want him and Avery Rich and the mayor off my back. I want Sheppard to get his goddamn notes, and get on a goddamn airplane and get back to New York.” For a long, hard moment Dwyer stared at Friedman before he said, “You gave Forbes copies, without my authorization. Now I want you to give Sheppard copies—with my authorization. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” Friedman answered, holding Dwyer’s eye. This time the “sir” had been satirically accented.
“And, after you do that,” Dwyer continued, “I want you to find Barbara Murdock. I want you to put a muzzle on her. She’s making us look silly with all that crap she’s handing out.”
“Still,” Friedman said, “she could be helping. The stuff she’s giving out makes it seem like we’ve got more information than we’ve actually got. Which could be a plus, if it puts pressure on whoever’s giving Annunzio his orders.”
“What you’re missing, though,” Dwyer countered, “is that it’s putting pressure on me, which is what this session is all about, in case you’ve forgotten. It’s also putting pressure on Sheppard. It’s making him look silly. Which is why, incidentally, he’s hired a private detective.”
“A private detective?” I echoed.
Dwyer nodded. “Sheppard suspected all along that Barbara Murdock had copies of Murdock’s notes. So he’s had a private detective following her.” Dwyer paused, looking at me closely. Then, “Are you sure—absolutely sure—that she doesn’t have copies?”
I stared him straight in the eye and let a beat pass before I said, “If she has copies, she didn’t get them from me.”
“Good,” Dwyer said heavily. “At least, that’s something. Incidentally, that phone call I took was about Sheppard. He’s just arrived here—with his lawyer. I want you to talk to him. I want you to hand copies of Murdock’s notes to him, personally. And I want you to apologize. For the Department. Do you understand?” Slowly and reluctantly—still staring squarely at him—I nodded. I’d never liked Dwyer—never admired him. In that moment I could have hit him with my fist. I hoped he could see it all in my face.
He didn’t. He suddenly got to his feet, and waited for us to rise. The session was over. After a final warning not to conceal anything more from him, he curtly dismissed us.
Savagely, Friedman punched the “coffee, double-sugar” button and glared at the paper cup as it fell in its holder and began to fill. “For the first time since I made detective,” he grated, “I feel like quitting. I feel like going right back down that hallway and knocking on his door and cramming my goddamn badge down his throat. I really do.” He snatched the cup from the machine, spilling coffee on the floor.
Watching my own cup fill, I said nothing. I was thinking that Friedman had always called me a “long, slow burner.” Until that moment, waiting for my cup of coffee, I’d never realized how right he’d been. It would be a long time before I’d forget the anger I’d felt, listening to Dwyer.
Friedman downed half his coffee in one noisy gulp, then said, “You know what Dwyer’s really saying, don’t you?”
“He’s saying that I’ve got to get down on my knees and kiss Sheppard’s ass.”
Fervently, he nodded. “I know. It—it’s a goddamn obscenity. But that’s not the worst of it. What he’s really saying—what that was really all about—is that he wants us to lay off Wardell. Dwyer figures that if we connect Wardell to the murder, it could cost him his job. That’s what it’s all about. Even if Wardell should be convicted, Dwyer would be a casualty. There’d be bodies all over the street. And he knows. He’s got a—a rat’s instinct for survival.”
For a moment I sipped my coffee in silence, grimly imagining my coming confrontation with Jeffrey Sheppard.
“You should’ve told him about our first talk with Wardell,” I said quietly. “That’s what started him off. When Wardell’s lawyers called, he wasn’t prepared.”
“Wardell’s only part of it,” he snapped. “Sheppard and Avery Rich and Tempo magazine are the rest of it. He’s afraid of them. All of them.”
I dropped my empty cup in a trash basket. “I’d better get those copies, and find Sheppard and get it over with. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Don’t kiss his ass,” Friedman said earnestly. “Don’t do it.”
“I won’t.”
Nineteen
I FLIPPED MY INTERCOM switch. “All right, send Mr. Sheppard in.”
With my jacket buttoned and my tie freshly knotted, I stood behind my desk, waiting. Sheppard knocked once and opened the door without being invited. As he’d done two days before, he entered the office as a general might enter a briefing room, ready to take command. I handed him a bulging manila envelope.
“There’s Murdock’s notes, Mr. Sheppard. And copies of affidavits, too. Everything that Murdock had with him.”
Standing on the other side of my desk, he took the envelope, turned it over once, then dropped it on the desk. He sat down in my visitors’ chair, crossed his legs, leaned back in the chair and sat silently for a moment, eyeing me coldly. Finally he said, “How’d you find them?”
“They were in the hotel safe at the Beresford.” Reluctantly, I sat down behind the desk. I’d hoped to hand him the copies politely and watch him leave. I should have known better—should have realized he wouldn’t forgo his pound of flesh.
He studied me for another long, brutal moment before he said, “I’m not going to ask when you found them, Lieutenant. I’m going to assume that you found them after we talked, not before.”
Hoping he could sense the contempt I felt for his bully-boy bad manners, I didn’t reply, didn’t allow my eyes to drop.
“Who else besides you has seen these?” he asked, pointing to the envelope.
“Lieutenant Friedman has seen them. And Chief Dwyer. And two men from the FBI.”
“Who from the FBI?” he asked intently.
I hesitated, then decided to say, “The local agent in charge has copies—one set of copies. His name is Brautigan. He’s shown them to other agents, I imagine. But I’m not sure. You’d have to ask him.”
“What about Barbara Murdock? Does she have copies?”
“No, she doesn’t.” I was aware of the relief I felt, truthfully denying it.
“
Has she seen them? Read them?”
I let a beat pass before I said slowly, “Yes, she’s seen them. Most of them. The notes, anyhow. And maybe one or two of the affidavits.”
“You let her see them? A—a civilian?”
“She helped me find them. We found them together. I felt she was entitled to see them.”
“And I feel you exceeded your authority.”
“That’s your privilege, Mr. Sheppard.”
“Chief Dwyer thinks so, too. Very definitely. As you’ll discover—if you haven’t already.”
Instead of responding, I countered with a question. “You’ve hired private detectives to follow her. Why?”
“You didn’t seem to be making much progress finding the notes. I decided to take matters into my own hands. And incidentally, you aren’t making much progress shutting her up, Lieutenant.”
I suddenly realized that within the space of a few hours, Wardell, Dwyer and now Sheppard had all addressed me by accenting the single word “Lieutenant” with an identical note of casual contempt.
“Is that what your private detectives are doing? Shutting her up?”
Picking up the manila envelope and lightly hefting it, still casually contemptuous, he smiled at me. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ll take them off the case.”
“What agency did you hire?”
“Babcock and Penziner.” He turned, strode to the door and stood for a moment with his back to me. Then he turned to face me. For another moment he looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read—a thoughtful, speculative expression. Finally, speaking calmly, he said, “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, Lieutenant. But, now that I’ve got what I want, I’ll tell you something that you might find instructive—and surprising, perhaps.” He waited until he had my full, reluctant attention before he went on. It was, I knew, an inquisitor’s trick. I’d used it myself, often. And the trick was working. I wanted to hear what he’d say. So, facing him fully, I gave him the attention he demanded.
“You’re the kind of tough, stubborn man that I like and respect,” Sheppard said. “Which is more than I can say for your boss. I deal with people like him constantly. They’re the kind of people who make the commercial world turn, unfortunately. And the political world, too. But that doesn’t mean that I respect them.” He pointed to my desk. “I’ve left my card. When you find out who murdered Eliot Murdock, give me a call. I’ll see what I can do about giving you credit.” He nodded once, turned and left the office.
I was looking at Sheppard’s card, running my thumb lightly across the richly embossed letters, when my phone rang.
“It’s Walter Babcock, Lieutenant. Babcock and Penziner. Are you busy? Am I interrupting anything? If you’re busy, I can—” He let it go, anxiously unfinished. He spoke quickly and apologetically in a low, colorless voice. Babcock was a small, nervous man with an ulcer, assorted tics and a damp handshake. He could hardly complete a sentence without apologizing for it.
“It’s all right.” I opened my center desk drawer and dropped Jeffrey Sheppard’s card in a small section designed for business cards. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to locate Mr. Sheppard. Jeffrey Sheppard. I understand he’s with you.”
“He just left, Babcock.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ll try his hotel, then. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“You’ve been tailing Barbara Murdock, I understand.”
“That’s—ah—yes. That’s right, Lieutenant. I have. Yes.”
“Where is she now? Still at the Beresford?”
“You mean now? Right now? Or do you mean registered?”
“I mean now.”
“Right now, as far as I know, she’s on her way out of town. She’s going up to Marin County. Or, at least, that’s where I think she’s going. Which is why I’m calling, you see. Or, at least, that’s why I’m trying to call Mr. Sheppard. To get travel authorization, I mean. I figured I should—” His voice trailed off into uncertain silence. He was wondering whether he’d said too much—or not enough.
Marin County…
“Is she on Wardell’s trail?” I asked. “Baxter Wardell? Is that it?”
“That—ah—” Again, his voice faded. “That’s—ah—”
“That’s it. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he answered uncomfortably. “I mean, I guess that’s it. I’m not sure, though. Not positive. I—”
My intercom buzzed. “I’ve got another call, Babcock,” I said. “If you find her, I’d like you to call me. If I’m not here, leave a message. Will you do that?”
“I—ah—”
“Do it, Babcock.” I switched to the intercom.
“It’s Canelli, Lieutenant. Can I see you for a couple of minutes? I just got in from the field, and I think I might have something.”
“Come on in, Canelli.” I cradled the phone, looked at it for a moment, then dialed Friedman’s interoffice number.
“Cooled down yet?” I asked.
“No.”
“Anything new?”
“I’m trying to find Annunzio—to take my mind off Dwyer.”
“Any luck?”
“No. Any more questions? I’ve got the Highway Patrol on the other line. A lady tolltaker on the Bay Bridge thinks she saw Annunzio. Which is the fourteenth time, by actual count, that he’s been sighted today. Not to mention yesterday. Twenty-seven times. What about you? Anything?”
In a few words I described my conversation with Babcock. As I was speaking, Canelli came in. I gestured him to a chair.
“Babcock is a nebbish,” Friedman said. “But he usually has his facts straight.”
“I think she’s going after Wardell.”
“But why?”
“To confront him—shake him up. Who knows?”
“Wardell’s on his way to Los Angeles,” Friedman said.
“In his P-51. Which he keeps in Marin County.”
“So?”
“So why don’t you call Mrs. Wardell and get the location of Wardell’s airstrip? Maybe I’ll take a run up there, if it’s not too far.”
“Dwyer told you—both of us—to stay away from Wardell. We aren’t supposed to contact him without Dwyer’s permission. What’re you doing? Considering a new career?”
“Dwyer also told us to find Barbara,” I said. “Remember?”
“I remember,” he said sourly. “I’ll get back to you. Maybe I’ll also call the FAA, and see whether Wardell filed a flight plan.” As the line clicked dead, I turned to Canelli. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, looking at me with his soft, anxious eyes. I could see perspiration glistening on his forehead. Whenever Canelli came to my office, he perspired.
“What can I do for you, Canelli? What’ve you got?” Trying to put him at ease, I leaned back in my chair, smiling.
“Well, ah, I’m not sure, Lieutenant,” he said, earnestly frowning—and still perspiring. “But I thought I should tell you about it, anyhow.”
“All right—” I spread my hands. “Tell me.” As I spoke, my stomach rumbled. I glanced at my watch. The time was almost four-thirty. Except for the cup of coffee I’d had with Friedman, I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast.
“Well,” he said, “after I finished my report this morning, I went out and did a little checking on Walter Frazer, like you told me. That was about ten o’clock. Or maybe ten-thirty. I forget. Anyhow, I started with Frazer—but I didn’t get anywhere. I mean, he just gave me a lot of double talk about how important he was, and how much he had to do, and everything. So then, I thought I’d do a little checking around the neighborhood, about his car. I mean, I remembered what you said about his car keys. Or key, I mean. One key, when there should’ve been a whole ringful. So, anyhow, I started checking around. And about the fourth place I went I found this guy named Simcich. He was at home Wednesday night, but he had to leave town Thursday morning, for New York. On business. He’s in advertising. Which is why nobody else interviewed him. So, anyhow—” As my stomach
continued to rumble, Canelli caught his breath. “So, anyhow, it turns out that on Wednesday night, about eight o’clock, Simcich was upstairs in his bedroom, packing for his trip to New York. Well, he was by his front window, and he happened to look across the street, toward Walter Frazer’s place. And he sees someone—a man—come walking down the street and turn in at Frazer’s garage. According to Simcich, the guy walks right up to the service door of the garage and goes right inside—which struck Simcich as a little odd. Not real odd. But a little odd.”
“Did he have a key to the service door?”
“Simcich couldn’t tell.”
“All right. Go ahead.”
“Well,” Canelli said, “the next thing that Simcich knows, the big garage door comes open, and the guy drives out in Frazer’s Buick. Or at least someone drives out in the Buick. Simcich couldn’t see the guy, inside the car.”
“Did Simcich get a good look at him before he went into the garage?”
Regretfully, Canelli shook his head. “Not really, Lieutenant. I mean, he gave a general description of the guy. But it could’ve fitted a thousand guys—including Annunzio, and Blake, and God knows who else. You know—the old story.”
“All right. What happened then?”
“Well, Simcich finished his packing, but he kept thinking about Frazer’s car. Apparently they had several thefts in the neighborhood, the way I understand it. So anyhow, after he’s packed he decides he’ll go across the street and tell Frazer that someone just drove away in his Buick. Which he did. Tell Frazer, I mean.”
I realized that I was leaning forward in my chair, intently waiting for what came next.
“And Frazer, according to Simcich, acted pretty strange about the whole thing.”
“How do you mean, ‘strange’?”
“Well, first of all, he took a long time to come to the door, Simcich said. And then, when he heard what Simcich had to say, he acted like—” Canelli’s brow furrowed. “He acted like he didn’t want to be there, or something. I mean, Simcich says that he seemed kind of—” Canelli broke off, searching for the word. “Kind of out of it, sort of. Like he was spaced out, or in shock, or something. That lasted for maybe a minute, Simcich said—until Frazer got a hold on himself, you might say. So then, Simcich says that Frazer said everything was all right—that he knew all along that someone was going to come and get his car, but he’d just forgotten, temporarily. So then, he brushed Simcich off.”
Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 16