Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

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Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 17

by Collin Wilcox


  “Brushed him off?”

  “Yeah. You know—thanked him for his trouble, and closed the door in his face.”

  “How do you rate Simcich? As a witness?”

  Still frowning earnestly—still perspiring—Canelli said, “I rate him pretty high, Lieutenant. I mean, he’s obviously a guy with class. He’s smart, and he’s—you know—he’s aware of what’s happening.”

  “Did Simcich say whether or not the garage door was closed after the subject left in the Buick?”

  “Jeeze—” Exasperated with himself, Canelli shook his head. “I forgot to ask him. But I can see what you mean. If the guy closed it manually, he probably wasn’t a thief. And if it closed automatically, then he must’ve had an opener.”

  “And, either way, garage doors make noise when they close.”

  Somberly, Canelli nodded.

  “Did you talk to Walter Frazer after you talked to Simcich?”

  “No,” he answered earnestly. “No, I didn’t, Lieutenant. I mean, I figured I should talk to you first. You know?”

  “I know, Canelli. And you were right.” I got to my feet and locked up my desk. “Get the car. I’ll meet you out in front.”

  I braced myself as Canelli swung the cruiser awkwardly into a corner, entering the intersection too fast, and coming out too slowly. With Canelli driving, my cruiser never performed as expected. Canelli was constantly wrestling with the car—and the car fought back. It was all part of Canelli’s long, losing battle with the machine. Automobiles were his primary foe, but he was also the helpless victim of coffee machines, tape recorders, typewriter ribbons and walkie-talkie controls. Yet, before he’d wandered into law enforcement, Canelli had been a journeyman electrician. Electricity, he said, made sense.

  “What’d we get on Frazer’s background check?” I asked. “Did you do it?”

  “Culligan did most of it,” he answered. “He says that he didn’t find out anything very damaging or suspicious. Except that Frazer seems to make a lot of money, considering that he’s only thirty-six years old and operates on his own. I mean, he isn’t part of a big, high-powered law firm, or anything. He just has a secretary and a research assistant, that’s all.”

  “What kind of law does he practice?”

  “Just general stuff. Nothing special. That’s what I mean—it’s hard to see where his money comes from.”

  “How much money does he make?”

  “His bank says that almost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars went through his commercial account last year.”

  “For a lawyer and two assistants, that’s a lot of money.”

  “I know. I saw his office. It’s nice, but nothing spectacular—just two rooms. The rent is three hundred a month. That’s thirty-six hundred a year. Say the phone and stationery and like that costs another three thousand. And say he pays his secretary and his researcher fifteen thousand each, which I doubt. That still leaves—” Canelli frowned, calculating.

  “It leaves a lot.” I pointed ahead. “The next corner is Jackson. You’d better get in the right lane.”

  “Oh. Right.” Canelli looked hurriedly over his shoulder and swung to the right—too quickly. Behind us, a horn bleated angrily.

  “Those goddamn sports cars,” he muttered.

  We turned into Jackson Street, drove three blocks and parked directly in front of Walter Frazer’s building. Across the street, Canelli had stationed a General Works team, on stakeout. I nodded to the two detectives, and raised three fingers as I switched my walkie-talkie to channel three.

  “Is he inside?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right, we’ll take it. You’re relieved. Thanks.”

  “Thank you.”

  Out of long habit, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my revolver in its holster as we walked between tall privet hedges to Frazer’s front door. The building had been built soon after the turn of the century, originally designed as a rambling, elegant Victorian town house. Its generously curved bay windows overlooked the peaceful, tree-lined street. The building’s original gingerbread trim had been meticulously maintained, and was now painted in subtly contrasting colors, accenting the spindles and scrolls and cornices that decorated the three-story façade. On appearance, the overhead garage door was the only concession to contemporary design.

  Beside the ornate front door, a thick brass plate was inscribed with the names of three tenants. I pushed the button beside Frazer’s name and stepped back from the door, giving myself room. It was another habit I’d learned over the years. Like early aviators who constantly flew with an eye out for an emergency landing spot in case of engine failure, a detective knocking on a strange door has already decided which way he’ll jump in case of trouble.

  Frazer opened the door the second time I rang the bell. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe and slippers. His thinning sandy hair was wet and uncombed, plastered to his skull. In the robe, with his hair in disarray and a day’s growth of beard stubbling his face, he no longer resembled the carefully groomed model of the fast-rising executive that I’d seen in my office the morning after Murdock’s murder.

  “Oh—Lieutenant.” Behind his modish gold-framed glasses, Frazer’s eyes seemed to contract. He looked at Canelli, frowned, and looked back at me. “What—” He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Frazer.” I moved forward. “May we come in?” I took another purposeful step, forcing him back.

  “Well—yes. For a few minutes, anyhow. But I’m going out for dinner, I’m afraid, in less than an hour.”

  Not replying, I followed him down a short common hallway and into a small, luxuriously furnished ground-floor apartment. The apartment was furnished with antiques, oriental rugs, paintings and floor-to-ceiling shelves that held collections of vases, glassware and statuary. In the living room Frazer went to a brass-studded leather wing chair and immediately sat down without waiting for us to be seated. As we sat side by side on a matching leather sofa, I saw Frazer cross his legs and begin fussily gathering the folds of the terry-cloth robe across his thighs and around his calves. Watching him fidget uncomfortably, I was secretly pleased. In Germany the Nazis often stripped their victims before interrogation, to demoralize them.

  Then I remembered my own discomfort when Forbes and Brautigan had surprised me in my bathrobe and bare feet.

  “This is Inspector Canelli, Mr. Frazer.”

  He threw an annoyed glance at Canelli. “Yes. We talked this morning. Briefly.”

  “Before we start,” I said, taking out my Miranda card, “I want to read your rights to you.”

  “My—my rights? But why?”

  Ignoring the question, I repeated the familiar, stilted phrases. When I finished, he stared at me with a puzzled frown. “But I still don’t—”

  “After Inspector Canelli talked to you, he talked to Mr. Simcich. Your neighbor, across the street.”

  The V at the neck of Frazer’s terry-cloth robe revealed an Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively. “Yes,” he answered finally, speaking in a low, constricted voice. Then, clearing his throat, he spoke more loudly, more authoritatively: “Yes. Simcich. Wh—” Again, he was forced to clear his throat. “What is it that you want to know?”

  “I want to know,” I said, “why you told Simcich, on Wednesday night, that your car wasn’t stolen—and then told me, on Thursday, that it was stolen.” With my gaze locked hard into his, I spoke softly, distinctly—ominously. I saw him flinch, saw his eyes flick toward Canelli before they faltered and finally fell. At the same time, the terry-cloth parted to reveal thick fleshy thighs.

  “Is—” The tip of his tongue circled his lips. “Is that wh-what Simcich said?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Mr. Frazer. That’s what he said.”

  Frazer tried to meet my gaze—and failed. Still licking at his lips, he muttered, “Simcich’s back, t
hen. From New York.”

  I decided not to reply—decided to let a harsh, lengthening silence work for me. Now a muscle high on Frazer’s cheek began to twitch. At his temple a vein was throbbing. Behind the gold-framed glasses, his eyes were circling the richly furnished room, involuntarily seeking escape.

  “Maybe Annunzio should have killed Simcich, too,” Canelli said. “Like he did Blake and Ricco.”

  “You work for Baxter Wardell, don’t you?” I said. “You’re his front man. His man in San Francisco.”

  Frazer transferred his fugitive stare to me. When he answered it was in a voice that had suddenly gone dead. “I don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant. But—” He plucked at the robe, drawing it across his pudgy thighs. “But I’ve got to get dressed. I’m sorry, but—”

  “When Wardell found out that Murdock could send him to prison for what I.P.I. had done—when he found out that Murdock was coming here, to find him—he told you to arrange Murdock’s murder.” Deliberately, I spoke in a low, resigned monotone, as if Frazer’s complicity and subsequent conviction were already an accomplished fact—regrettable, but unavoidable. “You contacted Annunzio, in Miami. You told him to fly to San Francisco. You probably worked through Ricco. You gave Ricco two keys—one to your garage, the other to your car. For a hit man, a car’s always a problem. If it’s stolen, it’s on a hot sheet. If it’s his—or if he rents it—he’s stuck with it. So. your idea made sense. It minimized the risk all around. If the murder went as planned, Annunzio would take your car and pick up Blake, on Polk Street, for his driver. Together, they’d pick up Murdock, who probably thought he was meeting an informant, or maybe one of Wardell’s representatives, trying to make a deal—trying to buy him off, maybe. And it went down just like you’d planned it, too—at first. Annunzio killed Murdock, no sweat. Afterward—after they’d dumped the body—Annunzio would’ve dropped Blake off. Then he would’ve parked your car somewhere, in a prearranged spot. Everything would’ve been cool. By midnight Annunzio would’ve been on a plane. But then there was a traffic accident. So you had to go to a fall-back plan. You reported the car stolen. It was a gamble—a terrible gamble, since you’d already told Simcich the car wasn’t stolen. But you didn’t have a choice. You had to—”

  “No. Jesus Christ, you—you’ve got it all wrong. You—Christ—you’ve—” Slowly, doggedly, he began to shake his head. Once more the robe parted across his thighs, this time unheeded. Frazer’s eyes were fixed on the center of my chest, staring hard. “You’ve got it wrong,” he repeated dully. “All wrong.”

  “Then tell me how it happened,” I said softly. “This is your chance—your first chance, and your last chance. You’re a lawyer. You know how it works. You help us, we help you. Right now we need you. You’re the one with the pieces to the puzzle. You’ve got something to trade. We need you, so you can help yourself. But if you don’t cooperate, and somebody else does cooperate, you’re screwed. We’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks, to teach the next guy a lesson. That’s how the game goes.”

  “We know how much money you make, Frazer,” Canelli said. “And we know where it comes from. We’ve got that part all figured out.”

  As Canelli spoke, Frazer’s beard-stubbled face had lost its color. The pulsebeat at his forehead was hammering now. The muscles on his cheek had gone wild. But still he wouldn’t speak.

  “You’re going to spend the night in jail, Frazer,” I said. “You’re not going to a dinner party. You’re going to jail. And Wardell’s not going to help—not even from behind the scenes. He’s gone. Split. He’s left it all to you. Everything.”

  He blinked. “Gone?” With obvious effort he raised his eyes to meet mine. “Gone?”

  “He’s gone, and we don’t think he’ll be back,” Canelli lied. “He could be in Mexico by now. Or South America. And he’s not coming back. Not until he’s off the hook, anyhow.”

  “Not until he’s off the hook, and you’re on the hook,” I said.

  “For murder,” Canelli said softly. “For murder one. And all because a little old lady in a Mercedes ran a red light.”

  “No—” Frazer began to shake his head. “No. You—you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Then tell us,” I prompted quietly. “Tell us how it went.”

  “There’s—” He closed his eyes. Suddenly his pale, haggard face was glazed with sweat. “There’s another man, in New York. He did it all—the whole thing. He made the plans. I just—just did what he told me, that’s all.”

  “Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “It’s—” Again, his eyes closed. Then, speaking in a hoarse whisper: “It’s Casanza. John Casanza.”

  “What plans did he make? When? How?”

  “He—he called me about three weeks ago. First Mr. Wardell called and said Casanza would be calling. And then, a few days later, Casanza called.”

  “Did Wardell tell you to do what Casanza said to do?”

  He nodded—a slow, defeated bobbing of his head.

  “Answer that question, Mr. Frazer. Don’t just nod.”

  “The—” He licked at his lips. “The answer is—yes.” He spoke in a low, toneless voice. With a single word, barely audible, he’d connected Baxter Wardell to murder. For Frazer, it was all over. We were his only hope now.

  “What’s the rest of it?” I asked. “What happened after that?”

  “For a while,” he said, “nothing happened. Then, eight days ago, Casanza flew here, to San Francisco. He said that the thing was going critical. That’s the way he talks.” As he tried to smile, Frazer’s lips twisted grotesquely. “He talks like a scientist.”

  “Describe him,” I ordered.

  “He’s about thirty years old. Maybe thirty-five. He’s very—very glib. Very smooth. He’s very plausible, too. And very—” Frazer paused, frowning. “Very viable. He could’ve been a Harvard graduate—a corporate officer. Anything. He was very businesslike. He even carried an attaché case. We had a drink at the Carnelian Room. He told me, very concisely, that he was flying a man out from the East Coast to ‘put things back in sync,’ as he said. He told me to stay close to my phone Monday and Tuesday. He’d call me, he said, and give me a phone number. I was to take the number, and go to a pay phone, and call him back. Which I did. I was told to put my car key and the key to my garage in an envelope, and leave the envelope with a bartender named Ricco, down in the Tenderloin. My car would be “used” during the next few days. Later, it would be left somewhere, and I’d be told where I could pick it up.” With an effort he looked directly into my eyes. “It—it happened just like you said.” He blinked at me. His mouth twitched hopefully, as if we might share a smile. When I didn’t respond, he quickly looked away, ashamed of the overture. It was happening to Frazer the way I’d seen it happen to countless others. His life had changed. He was a different man than he’d been just moments before. He was a criminal now, and an object of contempt: a lost, broken man. So we couldn’t smile together.

  Finally, shaking his head and sighing, he said, “I didn’t know it would be Wednesday night. I didn’t know it until Simcich came over and told me the car was gone. And then, my God, it suddenly came over me that it was happening. Whatever it was, it was happening. I—somehow—I didn’t think anything would happen. Nothing serious, I mean. I’d deluded myself, you see. Closed my eyes.”

  “Did you know about Wardell’s problems with Murdock? With the FBI?”

  “No. Nothing. I swear to God.”

  “Did you ever hear of a man named Simpson?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the exact nature of the work you do for Wardell?”

  Again, his mouth twitched grotesquely, imitating a smile. With one hand he made a small, wry gesture. “I’m a go-fer, really. I do what he tells me to do—what he pays me to do. He’s got a half dozen like me.”

  “Do you function as a lawyer?”

  “Sometimes, but not often. He operates from three cities—New York, Washington and San Fr
ancisco. New York is where the deals are made. Washington is where the strings are pulled. And San Francisco—” He hesitated. “San Francisco’s where a lot of people come for money.”

  “Payoffs, you mean? Under-the-table money?”

  He nodded. “If I’ve got a specialty, I suppose it’s laundering money. Then, once it’s clean I drive out to the airport and wait. I spend a lot of time at the airport. Sometimes I fly to other airports, and wait. I meet a lot of important people. You’d be surprised.”

  “I doubt it.” I studied him for a moment before I said, “When Casanza said that things were ‘going critical,’ what did you think he meant?”

  “I thought that Mr. Wardell had a problem that could only be resolved—” He hesitated. “By someone like Casanza.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that Casanza was obviously a—” Again he hesitated, choosing a word: “A thug. A high-level thug.”

  “Does Wardell use people like Casanza often?”

  “No, not often.”

  “But he does use them.”

  Frazer nodded. “Sometimes it becomes necessary. Force is a part of life—and business, too. A lot of people don’t realize it but it’s true. A contract is breached, security is threatened—force is required. It’s like countries, using armies. It’s the same principle. It’s regrettable but necessary. Mr. Wardell is a very rich, very powerful man. He’s an—an institution unto himself, like a king. And he makes enemies. So he needs an enforcement arm, just like a king does, or a government. It’s that simple.”

  “Has there ever been a murder before this happened?”

  “No. Not that I know anything about. I—” He blinked. “I’d heard of broken legs and arms. But that’s all.”

  “Murder was threatened, though. For an enforcer, death is always the bottom line.”

 

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