Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Shakespeare, again.

  Randy, alone …

  Randy, soon to die.

  Was Randy, now, the danger? Surely he would be questioned by the police. And Randy was fragile, delicate as the most exquisite flower. Even when he’d been young, laughing, so wonderful, Randy had been fragile. It was, after all, his charm. Delicate things were meant to be admired, not feared.

  Until now, not feared.

  17

  “I’VE GOT TO ADMIT,” Friedman said, “that, even though I still consider her a squadroom distraction because of that body of hers, the fact is that this Janet Collier does good work.” He gestured to the printouts that covered much of Hastings’s desk. “Look at that. This lady can make a computer talk to her.”

  Having learned long ago never to respond when Friedman admitted to a mistake, however benign, Hastings concentrated on a printout of the telephone numbers. For the past two hours, since 9:00 A.M., with the bank records already computerized, Janet Collier had been working with Canelli on calls made by either Carpenter or Hardaway. The printout listed the number called in the first column, and the name of the party called in the second column. The third column listed how frequently a given number had been called during the previous six months.

  “I think,” Friedman said, “that we should call her Collier. Not Janet, but Collier. I think that’d help.”

  For a moment Hastings was unable to make the connection. Then, when Friedman’s meaning came clear, grateful for the thought, Hastings nodded. Saying: “I was thinking the same thing, exactly.”

  “Okay, then, let’s do it. I’m not going to post a bulletin, obviously. But if you and I start calling her Collier, everyone else will fall into line. Hopefully.”

  “I agree.”

  “What you call her off duty, that’s up to you.”

  Hastings frowned, hardened his expression, once more decided to remain silent.

  “Okay.” Friedman raised both hands, acknowledging another mistake. “Scratch that.” He swept one hand over the printouts. “How’re we going to proceed with all this? What’d Jan—what’d Collier find out at the bank? How’d Canelli do, on Castro Street? How’d you do, with Carpenter?”

  “Jan—” Like Friedman, Hastings caught himself, began again: “Collier went back through a whole year of Hardaway’s bank statements, but she didn’t find any more big cash deposits.”

  “So what we’ve got,” Friedman said, “is fifty thousand plus Hardaway’s salary checks over a six-month period that ended with Hardaway’s death. Period.” He took off his heavy black-rimmed reading glasses, tapped them reflectively on Hastings’s desk.

  “Right.”

  “And your theory is that Hardaway got involved in some kind of a hustle that provided money to buy AZT for Carpenter.”

  “I’m not so sure it’s a theory. Call it a possibility.”

  “But when you talked to Carpenter yesterday,” Friedman insisted, “you had the feeling that he knew about Hardaway and the fifty thousand. He knew, but he wasn’t telling.”

  “That was my impression.”

  “So the question is, why isn’t Carpenter talking?”

  Hastings nodded agreement. “Why indeed.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “It’s this afternoon. Four o’clock.”

  “I’ll bet,” Friedman said, “that after the funeral, Carpenter will talk to you. This happens all the time, you know, after funerals. All the deceased’s nasty little secrets come out. Closure is the with-it word. I well remember my uncle Morris. Not only was my uncle Morris able to stay out of jail despite the fact that he was an embezzler many times over, but he was also a world-class philanderer. Of course, none of this came out in Uncle Morris’s lifetime, at least not in the full light of day. But then Uncle Morris died. And no sooner was he in the ground than everyone—everyone, including the grieving widow—unloaded. The point being that, once somebody’s dead and gone, what’s the point of making him look good? It’s a relief to let it all hang out, tell the truth, for once.”

  “Okay, I’ll question him.”

  Friedman shrugged. “What can you lose?”

  “Nothing, except that talking to Carpenter depresses me. The poor guy’s dying, and I don’t think anyone really cares.”

  Friedman favored Hastings with a quizzical stare. “Since when do homicide investigators get to feel sorry for people?”

  Resigned, Hastings nodded, gestured to the printouts. “Let’s have Jan—Collier check out the phone calls.”

  “Jesus.” Friedman riffled through the printouts. “That’ll keep her busy.”

  “She can probably design a program—eliminate duplications and meaningless calls to the grocer and the auto mechanic, like that.”

  “Is the phone in Carpenter’s name?”

  Hastings shook his head. “Hardaway’s, I think.”

  “How’d Canelli do frolicking among the gay guys on Castro?” At the image, Friedman smiled with pixie pleasure. “That, I would like to’ve seen.”

  “He put in a chit for almost thirty dollars this morning. Apparently he bought a round at Toby’s.”

  “But no results.”

  “Not really. Everyone he talked to was very cooperative, he says, very glad to see the police on the job. But he didn’t really get anything new. He—”

  Hastings’s outside line warbled. He excused himself, took the call.

  “This is Farber, in the coroner’s office. I’m new. Gregg told me to call you about the Hardaway homicide. We just finished him, but Gregg is running a little behind, and he asked me to call you.”

  “Fine. What’ve you got?”

  “What we’ve got,” Farber said, “is that Hardaway was HIV-positive.”

  Hastings nodded, told Friedman the news. Then: “Anything else? What about the murder weapon?”

  “It was a club. A narrow club—a half-inch iron pipe, if I had to guess. The victim was hit hard enough in the stomach and again across the chest to break four ribs on the left side, plus the ulna of the left forearm, which was almost certainly a fending-off injury. He was also struck hard enough on the left side of the head to fracture the temporal bones.”

  “Was that the mortal blow?”

  “No, sir, I don’t think so. The mortal injury was a massive fracture at the back of the skull. That wasn’t made by the weapon, we don’t think. Gregg thinks the victim fell and hit his head on the curb. Gregg says the position of the body supports that supposition.”

  “So it sounds like a right-handed man wielding an iron pipe as he faced his victim. The victim fell backward, and hit his head on the curb.”

  “That’s about it, Lieutenant,” Farber answered cheerfully.

  “Which,” Hastings said, “corresponds with eyewitness accounts.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “What about toxicology?”

  “Point four percent alcohol in the blood. Just legally intoxicated, in other words. No evidence of other drugs, no needle marks. In general, we’ve got a healthy, well-nourished, all-American male. If you don’t count the HIV, that is.”

  “Okay, Farber. Tell Gregg thanks for the quick work. Send the report to my attention.”

  “It’ll take a week at least, Lieutenant.”

  “No problem. And thanks again.” Hastings broke the connection and reported the details to Friedman, whose response was mild exasperation.

  “So what we’ve got,” Friedman said, “is essentially nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “Except that Hardaway had HIV.”

  “Hmmm.” Friedman glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon. Lunch?”

  Hastings shook his head. “I got on the scales this morning.”

  Friedman dismissed this with a snort and an affectionate caress of his considerable paunch. Then he heaved himself to his feet as he said, “Remember, after the funeral, go back to Carpenter. Results guaranteed.”

  Hmmm.

  18

  WEARING THE S
OMBER BLUE suit, white starched shirt, and black tie he’d worn for the funeral, sitting on his favorite vintage sofa, Carpenter had been speaking softly, with subdued precision, all animation drained away, all hope forsaken. Leaving only exhaustion. Once more, Hastings conceded, Friedman had been right. Randy Carpenter was vulnerable now. Vulnerable, and therefore compelled to talk, to unburden himself:

  “When you know you’re going to die,” Carpenter was saying, “when you know you’ve got less than a year, then everything changes. Especially when you live in the Castro. Every time I go out, walk down to Castro, see the faces, it’s like I see myself a few months from now in the various stages of my own disintegration.” He paused, drew a deep, tremulous breath. “At the funeral, all the faces were there. I saw Dick Carroll, who could hardly stand up. Then there was Jack McCarville, who just found out he’s got the virus. And then—” Suddenly he choked, sharply shook his head, fell silent again. As if begging for mercy, for release from the horror that only he could see, Carpenter raised both hands, a gesture of both desperation and supplication.

  Even though he was aware of the pain it would cause, Hastings nevertheless had no choice but to inflict more pain. “They’ve done the autopsy,” he said. “I just got the results this morning.” He waited until Carpenter managed to raise his eyes. “Did you know that Charles had the HIV antibodies?”

  “Ah—” As if he experienced a spasm of acute pain, Carpenter drew a sharp breath. His eyes were momentarily blanked out, as if he’d lost consciousness.

  “I’m sorry,” Hastings said. “I thought you would’ve known.”

  “I suspected,” Carpenter whispered. “But I didn’t know.”

  “You suspected but didn’t ask. Is that it?”

  “Yes …” Infinitely weary, Carpenter nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Do you think Charles knew?”

  There was no reply.

  Studying the other man’s face, sensing that this was the moment when Carpenter was most vulnerable, the make-or-break moment, Hastings leaned forward in his chair, softened his voice as he said, “You and I know that, the three times we’ve talked, there’s always been something you’ve held back. Yesterday, especially, I got the feeling that you weren’t telling me something about Charles that’d help me find his killer. Am I wrong?”

  “No, Lieutenant, you’re not wrong.” It was hardly more than a whisper. Carpenter was sitting slack, his eyes closed, his head hanging loose, chin on his chest. For a long, silent interval the moment held, ever more taut between them. Then, still with his head low, eyes still closed, Carpenter began:

  “It’s been about nine months since I knew I had AIDS. I’d known I had the antibodies for about a year. In fact, Charles and I hadn’t been together for much more than a year when I found out.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  Deeply shamed, Carpenter shook his head. “No, not at first. I was afraid he’d leave me if I told him.”

  Hastings considered, then decided to risk asking, “Does that mean that Charles got HIV from you?”

  Briefly, Carpenter roused himself, focused sharply on Hastings. “Not at all. The incubation period can be ten years, some say even longer. We were together for only three years.”

  “Ah.” Apologetically, Hastings nodded. “Yes, I see. Sorry.” He gestured placatingly. Repeating: “Sorry.”

  Acknowledging the apology, Carpenter nodded. Continuing: “You mentioned AZT when we talked yesterday. You seemed to feel that Charles had committed some crime so I could have AZT. Well …” A wan smile touched one corner of Carpenter’s mouth. “Well, that’s not the way it went, I’m afraid. It would be nice to think Charles was that altruistic. But it would never happen. Charles was sorry I’d gotten the virus, but that’s as far as it went.”

  “But you did get AZT.”

  Carpenter nodded. “Yes, I got it. But it wasn’t Charles who got the money. It was me.”

  “Ah …” Hastings nodded silently. This was the time to listen, not the time to talk.

  “I worked for an art service—very nice people. I still do some illustrating for them occasionally. And they were as generous as they could afford to be, with a series of cash bonuses, over the past year. Unfortunately …” The small smile returned. “Unfortunately, the bonuses generated just enough income to make it impossible to qualify for AZT under welfare.”

  “What about your parents? Your family?”

  The wan smile turned bitter. “My parents—they’re divorced, and each remarried. They’ve turned their backs on me. At Charles’s funeral, there were his mother and his sister Helen. I’m sure I won’t be that fortunate.”

  “Your parents are rich.”

  “Yes, very rich. Self-centered, utterly vain. But rich.”

  “But they wouldn’t help with AZT.”

  “If I asked them, I’m sure they’d help. But I would never—never—ask. I’d go without first.”

  “But you did get the money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  The smile began to widen. Slyly, Carpenter was enjoying the turnabout. Saying: “Yes, I’ll tell you about it—to a point.”

  “Fine.” Hastings returned the smile. And waited.

  “As I’ve said, I was raised among the rich and the powerful. There was the waterfront mansion in Connecticut, the prep school in Massachusetts, an Ivy League college.”

  “Which college was that?”

  Ignoring the question, Carpenter went on: “When I was in college, I acknowledged to myself that I was gay. I was very cautious, though. Back then, twenty-five years ago, Ivy League colleges weren’t very accepting of homosexuality. I only had one very discreet affair. But that was enough. It put me in touch with myself, and I saw very clearly what I must do—come to San Francisco, live among people who understood. And it was wonderful not to feel I had to conceal my sexuality. San Francisco’s meant everything to me.” Reflecting, he paused, momentarily lost in memories of happier days. Finally: “But then, a year ago, it all began to end. The only hope was AZT. Maybe AZT would buy time, enough time for a cure to be found. Wishful thinking, of course. They know now that AZT doesn’t prolong—” He faltered. But, having begun the story, Carpenter was plainly determined to finish: “It doesn’t prolong life. What it does, though, is make living easier.”

  “How long do you think you have, Mr. Carpenter? Can I ask?”

  “I probably have three or four months.” Carpenter spoke calmly, with dignity. His eyes were clear. From the effort the story cost him to tell, Carpenter was drawing strength.

  “Ah …” With sympathy, and now a new respect, Hastings nodded. “Four months.”

  “When I tested positive for the virus,” Carpenter said, “I had maybe five thousand in the bank, maybe less. I’ve never been good about saving, I’m afraid. But I wanted AZT. It was all I could think about. I was obsessed. But, as I’ve said, I was determined not to tell my parents. They’d hurt me too badly. So I started to think about alternatives.” He smiled ruefully. “I even checked out the possibility of selling my body to a lab. Unfortunately, there’s not much demand for AIDS sufferers. And the supply is increasing all the time.” Once more, pain tore at Carpenter’s desolate smile. “It’s basic economics, you see. Supply and demand.”

  Hastings made no reply.

  “So,” Carpenter continued, “I had a problem. I wanted the AZT—needed it, I thought—but I couldn’t pay for it. Charles didn’t have the money—then. My parents were out of the question. So it was up to me. You can’t imagine how desperate I was. In my mind, AZT represented life itself. It was a fallacy, of course, grasping at straws. But this is now, that was then. I was determined to do whatever it took to start on AZT. Once I’d decided, strangely enough, the solution was obvious.” As if he were a teacher waiting for a student to respond, he broke off, eyeing Hastings expectantly. Again, Hastings decided to let silence work for him. Finally, with an air of finality, deeply resigned, Car
penter said:

  “I suppose blackmail is the only word for it. Discreet, low-key blackmail.”

  When Hastings deliberately made no response to what was plainly meant as a revelation, Carpenter said, “Years ago—I won’t tell you where or when—I had a brief affair with someone who, in later years, became very well known—and very, very wealthy. In his position, the nature of his work, it would be devastating to his career if the word got out that he’d had a homosexual relationship, never mind that it had been long ago and very brief. So I approached him—let’s call him John. I explained my situation, and asked him to meet me.”

  “How long ago was it, that you approached John?”

  “As soon as I knew I had AIDS. About nine months.”

  Hastings nodded, gestured for the other man to go on:

  “Two days later, John came to San Francisco. We had lunch, and I laid it out for him. And he was …” Now Carpenter’s smile was wistful, misty-eyed. “He was wonderful about it. Really wonderful. I hadn’t seen him since—” He caught himself, then said, “It’s been decades. Literally. But, God, it was one of those rare moments in life that works out wonderfully. I told him I had AIDS. He asked me if I had anyone to look after me. I said yes, even though …” He broke off. Plainly, the end of the sentence would have been, “even though Charles wasn’t really reliable.”

  “John’s next question,” Carpenter said, “was money. Did I have enough? I told him I could squeeze by, probably, if I stayed close to home and didn’t take AZT. For a minute or two, he didn’t say anything. But then, Christ, he took out his checkbook, and wrote out a check for ten thousand. He’d take it out of petty cash, he said. And, since then, every month or two, there’s a check in the mail.”

  “Before you go on,” Hastings interrupted, “I’d like to know how you handled the checks.”

  Carpenter frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Did you deposit them in the bank?”

  Still frowning, Carpenter said, “I put them in the bank, of course. In my checking account.”

  “And you wrote checks against them.”