Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “And then, afterwards, they do the autopsy.”

  “It’s the law. If someone dies without a doctor signing a death certificate, then the law says that—”

  “I know all that.” For the first time, Carpenter spoke sharply, a quick flare of temper. “I know all that,” he repeated. “I live in the Castro, don’t forget. So I know about that.”

  6

  FOR ALMOST A HALF hour, talking steadily, in great detail, Hastings had been recapping the Carpenter interrogation. During that whole time Collier had hardly interrupted him. They were standing together outside the circle of bright white light cast by battery-powered floodlamps that were focused on the body. Floyd Gregg, one of three assistant MEs, was consulting his clipboard with an air of finality. Speaking to Hastings, Janet Collier said, “I think the techs are almost finished.”

  Hastings moved closer to the yellow tape, for a final look at Charles Hardaway’s face. Even in death, it was handsome. The blood-soaked hair was dark blond, worn earlobe-long. Improbably, the hair was hardly mussed. The eyes, half open, were brown. The features were pleasingly proportioned. In life, with his slim, trim body and his beautifully styled hair and his narcissist’s good looks, Charles Hardaway would have attracted second looks from either sex.

  Returning to Janet Collier, Hastings asked, “Any more witnesses?”

  She shook her head. “Not so far. No weapon, either. Nothing.”

  While he watched two police lab technicians at work, one of them taking pictures, one of them searching methodically for evidence in the quadrants he’d chalked off on the sidewalk and the gutter where the body lay, Hastings continued to summarize his interview with Randall Carpenter. As he talked, Hastings was physically aware of Janet Collier’s presence as she stood beside him. She wore a leather bomber jacket, slacks, and lugged high-top hiking boots. In the last two hours, the fog from the ocean had crept through the valleys of the city closest to the water, and a chill had settled on the Castro district, where two valleys converged. Against the fog, Collier had zipped her jacket up to her chin; her hands were tucked into the jacket’s slash pockets. She wore her dark brown hair in a ponytail, her standard on-duty solution to the hair problem. She was a small woman with an oval face, quick hazel eyes, and a small, determined chin. Her manner was straightforward. In the squadroom, she seldom smiled at casual banter, never engaged in sexual innuendo. Neither did she frequent the two cop bars near the Hall of Justice. The single mother of a teenage boy, Janet Collier spent most evenings either helping her son with his homework or reading departmental training manuals.

  When Hastings had finished describing the Carpenter interrogation, Collier shook her head sympathetically. “Poor guy. It sounds like he’s scared to death. He’s got AIDS, and he’s afraid he’ll die alone. God, it must be terrible.”

  Still staring at the men working over the body, Hastings decided to say, “He should’ve been more careful. It’s not like he has pneumonia, or cancer—things he can’t help. AIDS is behavior-based.”

  “Except that the incubation time can be ten years, at least. A lot of the guys who’re dying now never heard of AIDS when they contracted it.”

  “I don’t think your arithmetic is right.” He spoke in a flat, uncompromising voice.

  For a moment she made no reply. Then, speaking with the quiet, purposeful stubbornness that Hastings was learning to predict, she said, “You blame them.”

  He realized that, either now or later, this was a matter that must be settled between them. Drawing a deep, reluctant breath, he said, “If they’re acquainted with the risk—death—and they still choose to indulge in high-risk sexual behavior, then they’re taking their chances.”

  “You’re prejudiced against gays.” She said it softly; the words were shaded by something that might be regret.

  “I suppose that, if I’m honest, then—yes—I’m prejudiced against men who have sex with other men. It …” He spread his hands as he searched for the words. “It’s unnatural.”

  “Lieutenant.” It was Floyd Gregg, who was standing beside the body.

  Hastings turned to face Janet directly as he said, “Time out?” He made the T sign with his hands. She was answering his conciliatory smile, nodding.

  “Time out.”

  “Right back.” He stepped over the tape.

  “I’m finished. Want us to move him, wrap it up?” As he spoke, Gregg stifled a yawn, glanced at his watch.

  “What about the weapon? What was it?”

  Gregg used a rubber-gloved hand to draw back the victim’s woolen shirt, which had been unbuttoned, and lifted up the white T-shirt. On the pale flesh of the torso Hastings saw two welts, both about six inches long. The welts were parallel, one across the stomach, one across the chest.

  “Looks like a club,” Gregg said. “Maybe an iron pipe, something like that. We’ll know more when we get him on the table.”

  “What about the head wound? That’s what killed him, probably.”

  “I agree. But, again, we got to get him on the table, tomorrow, if you want something definite.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, sir.” Gregg handed over a clipboard with a coroner’s on-site release form attached. Hastings scanned the document, signed, dated, and timed it, and returned it to Gregg, with thanks. He stepped back over the yellow tape to stand beside Janet Collier. As he did, he realized that he should have allowed her to examine the body before it was signed off. He glanced at her face, but saw nothing that suggested displeasure. Instead, she spoke matter-of-factly:

  “Anything significant?”

  “It looks like—” Hastings glanced over his shoulder, broke off as a lab technician came close, then moved away. According to protocol, the information discussed by inspectors on the scene of a homicide was privileged. “It looks like a club, maybe a pipe, or a blackjack. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “One of the witnesses—the young woman walking up the hill—she said she saw the assailant swing his arm wide, like a roundhouse punch.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said it was very quick. And very quiet, too. I already told you that.”

  “I get the feeling that this was planned, maybe by someone who saw Hardaway in Toby’s. I don’t think it was a random gay-bashing. That’s not the feeling I’m getting.”

  “I agree,” Collier said. “Except that I don’t think the victim was followed from Toby’s. I think the assailant was waiting for him. Hiding.”

  “Meaning,” Hastings mused, “that the assailant knew where Hardaway was going—and when.”

  For a moment neither of them spoke as they watched Gregg and two others straighten the body, put it on a gurney, cover it with a green tarpaulin, and strap it down. As the body was loaded into the coroner’s van, Janet said, “What about Hardaway’s lover? Randall Carpenter? Did he know Hardaway was going to Toby’s?”

  “I think so,” Hastings answered.

  “Maybe they had a lovers’ quarrel. Maybe they were breaking up. Maybe Hardaway had just told Carpenter that he was leaving him. Maybe Carpenter couldn’t handle it. He’s got AIDS. Who else would take care of him, if Hardaway leaves? The more Carpenter thinks about it, the more furious he gets. He knows Hardaway’s going to Toby’s, and he knows what route he’ll take, coming back. So he gets a baseball bat, or a pipe, whatever, and he goes down the block. And he waits. He conceals the club in the shrubbery.” She gestured to a thick hedge nearby. “When Hardaway appears, they talk for a minute. Then, when they’re standing just a couple of feet from each other, out comes the club. It—”

  “Hey.” Smiling, moving a whimsical step closer, he raised his hand, a traffic cop’s command to stop. “Hey, slow down. You’ve got Carpenter convicted before you even lay eyes on him.” Widening the smile, a suggestion of intimacy, he moved another step closer.

  Instantly—reflexively—she backed away. Meaning that he, too, must back off, neutral corners. To signify that he understood, he spo
ke now in clipped officialese, the lieutenant addressing a subordinate:

  “Everything’s done here, practically, and it’s two o’clock in the morning. Carpenter isn’t going anywhere tonight, I’ll guarantee that. So I’ll go home. The lab guys shouldn’t be too much longer. You sign them off, then you go home, too. Tomorrow morning, I want you to pick up Carpenter and take him to the morgue, for the identification. He’ll be at his most vulnerable, so keep your eyes open. Plan on picking him up about nine o’clock. By ten o’clock, you should be back at Carpenter’s apartment. I’ve asked him to give us access to Hardaway’s papers. Get them, and bring them down to the Hall. Get them copied; five sets should be enough.”

  “What about Carpenter? How should I handle him?”

  “Get as much information as you can, but keep him calm. For now, we’ll handle this as a random killing that might’ve been a gay-bashing—some skinhead creep doing the Castro.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said it doesn’t feel like a gay-bashing. But that’s just a hunch. The evidence points the other way.”

  “But we don’t have any evidence. No weapon, no discarded clothing, nothing. All we have’re the witnesses’ statements, plus Carpenter’s statements. We don’t—”

  “Jesus, Janet, the guy’s only been dead for three hours. Let’s take it one step at a time. Tomorrow, you’ll help Carpenter make the identification. In the process, you get whatever information you can on the victim, the more you get the better. You also get Carpenter’s life story. Then let’s meet at the Hall at two o’clock, see what we’ve got. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They stood facing each other for a long, tentative moment as Hastings considered what next to say—and what not to say. Was the wee hour on a fog-swept hill in a quiet residential neighborhood the time for a commander’s lecture on proper police procedure?

  Was this the time for another man-to-woman overture, one more try?

  As the technicians began dismantling their equipment, Hastings made his decision: “This is your first homicide, Janet—the first one you’ve been in on from the beginning. Everyone, that first time, does exactly what you’re doing. They spend a lot of time theorizing. That’s understandable. From my point of view it’s desirable. I happen to enjoy sorting through a lot of theories. But that’s me. The DAs, on the other hand, only deal in facts. And, bottom line, the DAs call the shots.”

  “So what’re you saying?” In the question Hastings could clearly hear a defensive edge. Janet was slow to take criticism—and sometimes quick to take offense. She was a quick-thinking woman with an incredibly exciting body and a mind all her own. Janet couldn’t—wouldn’t—be pushed around.

  “What I’m saying is let’s go slow on this. Let’s make damn sure we’re on solid ground, with evidence. I don’t have to tell you that in San Francisco gays have a lot of political clout. They’re smart, and they’re organized. They’re also hated by a lot of people. Which is why we want to go right down the middle on this. Because if we aren’t down the middle, the first person I’ll hear from, sure as hell, will be our beloved Chief Dwyer. And the first person you’ll hear from, sure as hell, will be me.” Hastings smiled, touched her forearm in a gesture that could mean anything. “See you tomorrow.” He spoke softly. “Two o’clock. Right?”

  “Right.” She watched him turn away and walk down the hill to his car. For a big man, he moved with remarkable grace. She was aware of the pleasure she felt watching him. It was all there: the economy of movement that fitted perfectly with his slow, thoughtful speech, his reputation for thinking before he acted. And, yes, his reputation for calm, cool courage.

  For months, she’d watched him. Many times, she could have contrived to speak to him, but then she’d faltered. It was the irrational, painfully confused shyness of the teenager. She’d even felt herself blush when she was near him.

  And then, four months ago, in the incredible luck of the draw, she’d been assigned at random to help with the apprehension of a murder suspect: a slight, self-effacing waiter named Rivak who’d murdered five men. The confrontation became a stalemate, with Hastings and the suspect alone in the suspect’s apartment. The door had been bolted from the inside. The suspect had been holding a semiautomatic pistol on Hastings. She’d been ordered to wait in the hallway outside the suspect’s apartment. Just wait. She’d heard the shot. But then, instantly, Hastings had called out: it was all right. Moments later, she and three other officers were inside the apartment. They were surrounding the suspect’s body as he sat in an easy chair. Because the bullet had entered the brain and hadn’t exited, the suspect’s eyes had been bulging. Everywhere, there was blood.

  It had been her first dead body, and she’d felt her stomach contract as the periphery of her vision began to darken. Hastings had gestured for her to join him in the bedroom. He’d told her to sit on the bed. He’d used the bedside telephone to call the lab and the coroner. They’d been sitting side by side on the bed. From the living room, she’d heard a detective and two uniformed men making jokes, to ease the tension.

  Then she had realized that Hastings was holding her hand.

  And so it had started between them.

  7

  OBJECTIVELY, HE REALIZED THAT his hand was trembling slightly as he took the pay phone from its hook. At midnight, the hotel lobby was somnolent. Several overdressed tourists and a few jaded refugees from the banquet circuit were traversing the lobby, some in the direction of the bar, some making for the elevators. Behind the desk, two young women eyed their guests with obvious indifference. The women were dressed in identical uniforms. Their hair was the same shade of tawny blond, their coiffures were modified Farrah Fawcett styles. One of them was yawning, delicately covering her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. On the customers’ side of the desk, also discreetly yawning, a bellhop was dressed in the same gold-piped beige uniform.

  Would they remember him?

  Could they, therefore, identify him?

  At the thought, he shifted in the phone cubicle, turned his back on the registration desk. If he drew a deep breath just before he placed the call, would it steady him? Or, like his trembling hands, would a deep breath turn tremulous and betray him?

  It was, he decided, a risk that must be taken. Never must she suspect the depth of his fear.

  With an unsteady forefinger, he touch-toned her number. She answered on the second ring:

  “Yes?”

  But at that same instant he realized that, incredibly, he hadn’t rehearsed what he meant to say.

  “Yes?”

  “I—ah—” Suddenly his throat closed. Desperately, he tried again to speak, but failed.

  “Is it done?” she asked. “Is that it?”

  He realized that he was nodding at the phone. “Y—yes. It’s—yes—it’s—” Once more, his voice failed. But now it no longer mattered.

  Because this was murder.

  Murder.

  “It—it’s done. But there was a—a problem.”

  “A problem.” Her voice was totally uninflected.

  “He—he died. It was—”

  “Don’t call me again on this line. Later today, I’ll call you with another number. Understood?”

  “Y—yes. Understood.”

  The line clicked, went dead.

  8

  “DAMMIT!” HASTINGS THUMPED THE wristwatch with his middle finger.

  Seated across the lunch table, Friedman drank the last of his coffee before he asked, “Battery shot?”

  “I guess so.” Hastings shook his wrist, looked ruefully at the watch. “What time is it?”

  “Twenty to two.” Friedman signaled the waitress for their check. “When’re you meeting Janet?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “Want me to sit in? I don’t have to be in court till three.”

  “Fine.” Hastings pointed to the waitress approaching with their check. “Odd? Even?”

  “Even,” Friedman answered p
romptly. But the number of their check ended in 5. Friedman groaned, produced a credit card. At almost two hundred forty pounds, the unofficial departmental upper limit, Friedman was at least twenty-five pounds overweight. He was an amiable, elliptical, often inscrutable man: cops and criminals, he chose to keep both sides guessing. When Captain Kreiger, commander of Homicide, had died of a heart attack as he was urinating in the department’s fourth-floor men’s room, Friedman had been offered command of Homicide. First he’d declined. Then he’d countered. He would share the job with Hastings: two lieutenants, co-commanding a squad that averaged a dozen inspectors, currently eleven men and one woman. When Friedman had offered the deal to Hastings, the junior lieutenant had also declined. He knew he couldn’t handle the departmental politics that went with the job. “Hell,” Friedman had said, “I can’t handle them either. But if we don’t take the job, sure as hell, they’ll move Jeffries over, from Vice. And Jeffries is an asshole, it’s an established fact.”

  Hastings had conceded the point, and accepted the offer. Friedman, they’d agreed, would be the inside man, the tactician. Hastings would work in the field—away from deputy chiefs and other job-related problems.

  “So what’ve we got,” Friedman said, “on the Collingwood thing?”

  “What we’ve got is someone who got clubbed to death as he was walking home from a gay bar. Period. No weapon, no apparent motive. No robbery. No fuss, no muss. Thirty seconds, and the assailant was walking away.”

  As Friedman signed the check and retrieved his credit card, he said, “I hate cases like this. There’s nothing there—no place to start, no handle. Odds are, it’s a random killing, no motive, except for the kick some creep got when he was committing murder.”

  “Let’s see what Janet found when she talked to Carpenter.”

  Friedman flicked a glance at Hastings’s face, but for the moment said nothing. Hastings knew that mannerism. Friedman was about to render a judgment. Friedman’s face was broad and swarthy; his dark eyes were unrevealing. His thick brown hair, generously streaked with gray, was never quite combed. His mouth was habitually pursed. It was a poker player’s face—a winner’s face, slightly smug.