Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “How soon does your plane leave?” I asked.

  “Thirty-five minutes.”

  I pointed to a coffee-and-doughnut counter. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink coffee after four o’clock.”

  Silently, Barbara walked to a row of plastic chairs and sat down, crossing her legs. She moved with the same calm, controlled precision that I’d first admired when she’d come to my office on Thursday, beginning her ordeal. She wore the same clothing: a leather jacket, twill slacks and an orange scarf knotted at her throat. Since Thursday, neither her appearance nor her manner had changed.

  But I could see a change in her eyes. Four days of shock and anger and sorrow and, finally, terror had left a shadow deep behind her handsome brown eyes. I knew that shadow. I knew its origins; I knew the damage it did. I knew how to watch for it and how to measure it. I’d learned how it could sometimes be turned to my advantage.

  “If you’d like to,” she said, “you can come to the memorial service. It’ll probably be Wednesday.” She spoke very softly. She didn’t look at me as she spoke.

  “Thanks, but I doubt whether I could get away.”

  She let a moment pass before she said, “I’d like to have you come.”

  “I know that.”

  And I knew why she wanted me with her at the service. As death connected her finally to her father, death had also connected her to me. Together we’d almost died.

  “I haven’t thanked you,” she said. “I haven’t thanked you for anything.”

  I smiled at her. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Besides, you told me where to find the notes. They were the key.”

  “You saved my life.”

  Still smiling, I said, “I also saved my life.”

  Gravely, she returned my smile. Then she reached out to touch my arm, just below the shoulder. It was a gesture both simple and complex, signaling both sadness and hope, both courage and fear. But most of all it signaled a lost, desperate longing—a yearning for someone she didn’t have, and might never have.

  As her hand lingered on my arm, she tried to smile—and failed.

  “It’s all so—” She blinked against sudden tears, shook her head, bit her lip. Her hand ran down my arm, hesitated, finally fell away. I didn’t touch her in return.

  “It’s all so—so goddamn pointless,” she said. “His whole life was pointless, and so was his death. It wasn’t even tragic. That would count for something, at least—make a splash. But it wasn’t a tragedy. It was all just a waste. A sad, pointless waste,” For a moment she paused, still blinking against the tears. Then: “He never liked who he was or where he was. Not really. He was born in Chillicothe. He had a hometown that sounded like a hometown should sound—like picnics, and parades, and senior proms. But he always wanted to—to be someone. So he was always ashamed of Chillicothe. So he went to Washington—and finally was someone. But Washington is nobody’s hometown. I should know. I was born there. It’s a place for winners only—a place to stay until your luck changes or your money runs out or your party loses an election. And then you leave. If you don’t leave voluntarily, you’re asked to leave—in a thousand small, subtle, brutal ways.

  “So when his luck ran out and nobody returned his calls, he left town. And finally he came to Los Angeles—another town that’s nobody’s hometown. This—” Slowly, hopelessly, she shook her head. Her cheeks were wet. “This is a savage country,” she said finally. “America is a place where you can’t win, even if you’re a winner. Because the winners always want more. That’s how they get to be winners. And so they’re never happy. And unhappy people can turn into savages. They—”

  A woman’s voice was announcing United Flight 603 to Los Angeles. The voice was low and throaty, a seductive-sounding voice. Barbara turned to look toward the loudspeaker. Then, slowly, she turned back to me. For a moment she looked me full in the face.

  “That’s my flight.”

  “Yes.” I waited for her to rise, then rose to stand beside her. Slowly, gravely, she extended her hand.

  “You’re a kind man, Lieutenant. I like you. And I admire you, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Can I ask you a question? One last question?”

  “You can ask. But I’m not sure I can answer. Especially if it’s about Baxter Wardell.”

  “He’s in South America, isn’t he?”

  Holding her gaze, I said, “That’s a question I can’t answer. And you know it.”

  But I knew she could see it in my eyes: that, yes, Wardell was gone. I meant for her to see it.

  Releasing my hand, she wiped at her tears, digging her knuckles hard into her eyes. It was the dogged, determined gesture of a child who won’t be beaten. Finally she said, “It’s good that you won’t be coming to the memorial service, I guess. Because just now—just this minute—I decided that I’m going to use my father’s funeral to tell the truth about why he died, and who ordered him killed. That’s the only way his death will mean anything. There’ll be a hundred reporters there. And I’m going to tell them.” She tried to smile. “It’s something that Dad would have approved of—media hype.”

  I returned her smile. “I’m glad it’s Wardell you’re out to get this time—not the San Francisco Police Department.”

  For a moment she didn’t reply. Then, suddenly, she came close, gripped my shoulders and kissed me on the mouth, hard.

  “Goodbye, Lieutenant,” she whispered. “I’ll remember you.”

  She turned and walked toward the boarding gate. Her shoulders were squared, her strides long and straight. She went through the gate without looking back.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  One

  “IN MY WHOLE LIFE,” Canelli said, “I never been inside the Stanford Court. Not once.” He pulled our cruiser into the Stanford Court’s curbside passenger zone, and watched a uniformed doorman ceremoniously approaching a Rolls that preceded us. Canelli’s eyes were round and somber, staring first at the doorman, then at the high-fashion occupants of the Rolls and finally at the hotel’s impressively understated entryway. At age twenty-seven, with a full, swarthy moon face, a hulking, suety body and a perpetually bemused manner, Canelli existed in a state of permanently perplexed innocence. For Canelli, every new experience was a source of wonder, and usually the subject of a long, rambling commentary. When I’d chosen him for my squad, taking him out of uniform, some of my superiors thought I’d made a mistake. They’d been wrong. Precisely because he didn’t look like a cop, or act like a cop or think like a cop, Canelli often succeeded where other detectives failed.

  “Have you ever, Lieutenant?” Canelli asked. “Been inside, I mean.”

  “Once or twice,” I answered, at the same time swinging my door open. I’d decided to spare the doorman the pain of attending a police vehicle, even though it was unmarked. “Thanks, Canelli. I’ll check with you in the morning. Take the car home, why don’t you?”

  “Well, Jeeze, thanks, Lieutenant. I’m a whole lot closer to home than to the Hall. So maybe I will, then. Take the car home, I mean. Thanks.”

  I said goodnight, and walked quickly beside the long, reflecting pool that led to the Stanford Court’s lobby. Behind the lobby’s floor-to-ceiling glass walls, I saw Ann and her father sitting side by side on a tufted velvet love seat. As the glass door slid smoothly open before me, I saw Ann’s father glance impatiently at his watch. The time was seven-thirty. I was a half hour late.

  As I saw Ann get to her feet, smiling, I suddenly realized how much I’d been dreading the next few hours. Wearing a gold brocade dress and a single strand of pearls, holding a small embroidered evening bag, she looked like a beautifully poised stranger. During the year we’d been together, I’d never seen the brocade gown, or the evening bag, or the pearls.

  I’d never seen her father, either. He was a small, wiry-looking man in his vigorous middle sixties. His body was slim, but his face was
improbably round and ruddy, with rosy cheeks, lively eyes and a fringe of impeccably trimmed gray beard. Except for a pair of stylish silver-and-Lucite glasses, the face somehow recalled one of Disney’s seven dwarfs. His suit was a conservative pin stripe, but a paisley-printed red silk tie struck an independent note. Except for tufts of gray hair over the ears, his head was totally bald.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, speaking to Ann. “I just couldn’t get away. Something—came up.” I stopped a single step short of Ann, momentarily uncertain whether this was the time or the place to kiss her. Solving my problem, she took the last step and kissed me on the lips. It was a brief, businesslike kiss, exactly right.

  “Dad,” she said, turning to her father with her arm linked through mine, “this is Frank Hastings. Frank, this is my father, Clyde Briscoe.”

  His small hand was muscular, his grip firm but not aggressive. “The name is Clyde,” he said. “Just plain Clyde. Come on. I’ve got a table reserved.” He turned and led the way through the lobby to a door marked The West Room. He walked with a sprightly, bouncy stride that didn’t quite conceal a slight limp. As we walked behind him, I put my arm around Ann’s waist, hugged her quickly, then self-consciously released her as a maitre d’ stepped forward, bowing over the three menus he held ceremoniously before him.

  “It’s been some time, Mr. Briscoe,” the maitre d’ murmured, speaking with an accent that could have been French. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Clyde Briscoe said briskly, exchanging nods with the maitre d’. “Paul, isn’t it?”

  “Pierre.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Clyde glanced pointedly toward the dining room, signifying that the pleasantries were over. Instantly picking up the cue, Pierre turned and led us toward a window table set for three. Beyond the window, the lights of San Francisco’s skyline looked like countless multicolored jewels scattered across the black velvet of the night sky.

  “What’re we drinking?” Clyde asked, settling himself across the table from me, with Ann between us. Ann asked for a martini and Clyde decided on a bourbon-and-water. When I ordered plain tonic water, Clyde’s quick glance appraised me as he asked:

  “You’re not a drinking man, Frank?”

  “Not any more,” I answered. Then, meeting his eyes, I decided to add: “I used to drink—too much. So I had to quit.”

  He studied me for a long, shrewd moment before he said, “You’re a person with willpower, then.”

  I shrugged. “That depends on what you mean by willpower. For years, I drank too much. It finally got to the point where I had to choose between working and drinking.” As I said it, I watched him covertly, looking for a reaction. I saw only a momentary flicker in his shrewd gray eyes. He would think about what I’d said, then pick his time to probe deeper. Meanwhile, speaking crisply, he began the inevitable questions:

  “Ann tells me you’re a detective.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “What division?”

  “Homicide. I’m a lieutenant.” Watching him nod, I realized that he’d been anticipating the answer. Ann, of course, had told him about me.

  “You played professional football, too.”

  “I played three seasons for the Lions.”

  “I don’t follow football. Is that Detroit?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He waited while a blonde waitress brought our drinks, smiled politely all around and left us with a pleasant nod and a graceful switch of hip and thigh. Admiringly, Clyde watched the waitress walk away from us, his gaze fixed frankly on the provocative movement of her buttocks. Then, raising his glass, he toasted: “Here’s to the two of you. You’re a good-looking couple. A better-looking couple, I suspect, than you might realize.”

  Over her glass, Ann smiled at him before she turned to me, playfully explaining, “Dad’s a philosopher—or so he thinks. Except that he’s very cryptic about it.”

  To keep the conversation in balance, I asked, “What do you do, Clyde?”

  “I’m a self-made millionaire,” he said, speaking with bright, straightforward self-satisfaction. “In fact, what with inflation, I’m a multimillionaire. Most of my life, though, I didn’t amount to a damn thing. Or, at least, so most people thought—including my wife.” As he said it, he glanced quickly at Ann, measuring her reaction. Except for an almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth, warning her father not to press his luck, she didn’t respond. To myself, I smiled. I knew that look of subtle, stubborn warning.

  “I started out thinking I was an artist,” he continued. “And I was pretty good, too. I was a good draftsman, and I guess I would’ve made a passable illustrator. But, of course, I was an idealist. I was going to do something significant. And eventually I did. Or, to be more precise, I had a few showings at a few good galleries—and one showing at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. By then I’d turned into a sculptor. I worked in metal, and also in plastic, which was an innovation at that time. As it turned out, though, it was the high point of my career. I got good reviews, but not much else—not many sales, and therefore not much money. The taste-makers agreed that I was an innovator. But then they found an innovator they liked better.

  “By that time”—he glanced again at Ann—“by that time, I was married—to one of the taste-makers, in fact. And we had a child. And suddenly I wasn’t selling anything. I’d gone out of vogue, you see. To make ends meet, I started making things out of plastic—which I knew something about. I eventually started making small boats. But, unfortunately, the plastics available weren’t up to the job. They couldn’t be laminated in large enough pieces, because the cure was too quick. So the business folded—and so did I.”

  For a moment he paused, briefly looking off across the opulent candlelit dining room. A shadow of sadness appeared in his eyes; his voice dropped to a lower, more somber note as he continued: “As the years went by, I became accustomed to thinking of myself as a failure, I’m afraid. My wife, meanwhile, met a stockbroker, and decided to make a change for the better.” Once more he looked at Ann, mutely challenging her to contest the bitterness of his memories. This time, her eyes fell before his. I couldn’t hear her sigh, but I felt it.

  With the hardest part of his story behind him, Clyde’s eyes brightened again. His voice quickened as he said, “We were divorced in 1956, when Ann started college. I drifted around the world for a while after that. I’d decided to go back to painting, which was just another way of feeling sorry for myself. But then”—he was smiling now, remembering—“then I got my million-dollar idea. I was back in the plastic business, working for wages—and still feeling pretty sorry for myself. I got together with a chemist, and we figured out how to make a catalyst that would make fiberglass behave on long-radius laminates. We formed our own company, to make the catalyst. The first year, we grossed a million dollars. Five years later, a conglomerate bought us out, after accepting a very generous licensing agreement. So—” He spread his hands cheerfully. “I was rich. Filthily, wonderfully rich.” He drank half his bourbon-and-water, his shrewd gray eyes looking at me over the rim of the glass.

  “That’s my story,” he said, setting the glass down decisively on the table and shifting in his chair to face me squarely. “What’s yours, Frank?”

  Deliberately, I matched his bit of business, drinking from my own glass and setting it down firmly, all the while holding his eyes. If he knew a few tricks, so did I.

  “My story isn’t as long as yours,” I began. “And, so far at least, it doesn’t have the—” I hesitated, searching for the phrase. “It doesn’t have the spectacular ending. I grew up here, in San Francisco. I played football in high school, and when I graduated I got a football scholarship to Stanford. I studied just enough to get a degree, no more. I don’t think I learned much. But when I graduated, I got drafted by the Lions. So I went to Detroit, and played three seasons as a second-string halfback. I had three knee operations, and the third one finished me. At the end of the first season, I
met a woman named Carolyn Bates. She was good-looking, and her father was rich. We made a beautiful couple, according to the society columns. So we decided to get married. But then my knees gave out, and I found myself living in a fancy house with no money coming in. My wife didn’t worry about it, because she had her own money. But I worried—a lot. So I made the mistake of going to work for my father-in-law. I was supposed to do PR. Which, translated, meant entertaining VIPs. Before I knew it—before I realized how unhappy I’d become—I was drinking too much. At first, I drank in the line of duty, entertaining the customers. Then I started drinking on my own time. Once in a while—” I paused, stole a look at Ann. “Once in a while, I was given to understand that a VIP wanted a girl for the night, and that I was expected to arrange it. Which translated, I finally figured out, to pimping. So, after a few years, it all blew up. Everything. First it was my marriage. Then, naturally, it was my job. Finally, I—I just left town. I came back to San Francisco with my tail between my legs. An old friend got me into the police academy. I was the oldest rookie in the class, and without my athletic background I wouldn’t’ve survived the training. But I did survive, after a fashion. I quit drinking—eventually. I got my shield and I started climbing the ladder. So here I am.” I forced a smile, raising my glass to him. “Here I am, having dinner with a self-made millionaire.”

  “What about children?” he asked quietly, holding my gaze.

  “I have two. The girl is seventeen. The boy is almost fifteen. They live in Detroit. I see them once a year.” As I said it, I dropped my voice to a hard note of finality. About the children, I wouldn’t say any more. Catching the cue, he said:

  “That’s your past. What’s the future?” Asking the question, he moved his eyes toward Ann, then back to me. To each of us, his meaning was clear. He was a father inquiring after my intentions concerning his daughter.