“Yes. But—”
“Wait.” Hastings’s voice was sharp, edged with authority. “Just answer the question.”
“The answer is yes. I put them in the bank.”
“This was your own individual account. It wasn’t a joint account, you and Hardaway.” Once more, Hastings’s voice was heavily weighted with authority, the full force of the law.
“No …” It was a slow, cautious answer. Repeating: “No. Just mine. We always had separate accounts.”
“When you deposited the money in your account, did your bank ask you where you got the money?”
“No. I just deposited the checks by mail, no questions asked. It’s not like I was depositing huge amounts, after all. Ten thousand or less, that really isn’t much money.”
“The checks you got,” Hastings said. “Were they personal checks?”
Carpenter shook his head. “No. They were company checks—a real estate development company in LA. It was a front, John said.”
Hastings took out his notebook. “Which company?”
“I—” Apologetically, Carpenter broke off. “I’d rather not say.”
“We can find out, you know. You deposited the checks in your account. That’s all we need to know.”
Doggedly, despairingly, Carpenter silently shook his head. He was staring down at the floor.
“Are you still getting money from John?”
Carpenter nodded. “Yes, I am.” There was an air of quiet defiance in the answer.
“In what amounts?”
“Between five and ten thousand.”
Hastings switched tacks, hoping to catch Carpenter off guard. “In the past six months,” he pressed, “did you ever see Hardaway receive any of the fifty thousand I told you about?”
“I—” Carpenter broke off, began to shake his head. Was it denial? Or a gesture of lost hope, of surrender? “I—” Once more, he broke off.
Hastings was aware of a deep visceral tightening. The trail had suddenly gotten warm. “You did. I can see it in your face.”
With great reluctance, plainly deciding to gamble on the truth, Carpenter spoke slowly, gravely: “There was one time months ago—three months, at least. There was a messenger. He delivered a packet to Charles. And it was money—lots of money. I just caught a glimpse of it. But it was one of those big padded envelopes. And it was stuffed with money.”
“And it was delivered by messenger, you say.” At the center of himself, Hastings felt the excitement of the chase.
Carpenter nodded.
“You mean like a bike messenger?”
“He had a car. I was standing by the window, and I saw him get into his car and leave.”
“Was there a sign on the car? A logo?”
“I think so. But I couldn’t make it out. It was dark.”
“But it was a regular messenger service. You’re sure of that.”
Again, Carpenter nodded. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Were there other deliveries by messenger that you saw?”
“One, about a month later.”
“Was it the same messenger service?”
“I think so. But I’m not sure. Both of them came at night. Or, rather, evening, just after dinner.”
Hastings nodded, took a long moment to study the other man. Were Carpenter’s answers truthful? Could Carpenter be trusted?
Hastings decided to spar, shift his ground, watching for a revealing response. “Did Hardaway know John?”
Instantly, Carpenter stiffened. Saying sharply: “No. Absolutely not.”
“You’re very positive about that, Mr. Carpenter. You didn’t have to think about it, not even for a second.”
Defiantly, almost panting with suppressed anger, Carpenter refused to answer. His eyes moved evasively.
“They did know each other, didn’t they? They—”
“If you persist with this, Lieutenant—if you keep poking around—you’ll ruin whatever life I’ve got left. Do you understand me?”
“I can understand,” Hastings said, “how you’d say that. But if you think I’m trying to ruin your life, you’re wrong. I’m trying to find out who killed your lover. That’s all I’m trying to do. So if—”
“Charles is dead and buried. If you really want to help me, you’ll leave it at that.”
“The thing is, I can’t leave it at that. I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
“Your job.” In the two words, spoken almost in a whisper, Hastings could hear the echoes of a lifetime lived in the shadow of society’s contempt.
19
“THIS,” HASTINGS SAID, “IS absolute bullshit.”
Aggrieved, Canelli nodded, then said, “With all the calling I did this weekend, this was one of the few services that wasn’t helpful. I’ll sure go out there to their office and lean on them, but—”
“Have you got their number?”
“Yessir.” Canelli slid a sheet of paper across the desk, pointing with a pudgy forefinger. “It’s Hermes Messages, and that’s the number. And that’s the manager. Carter, something. I never did get the first name.”
Hastings touch-toned the number, waited for a woman’s voice to say simply, “Hermes,” then asked for the manager. In the process of being put on a routine, bored-sounding hold, Hastings cut in sharply:
“I’m a lieutenant in Homicide, and I’m calling in the line of duty. I want to talk to Mr. Carter. Now. Right now.”
“Well, if you’ll just hold on, I’ll see wheth—”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s Millie. But I—”
“If I don’t talk to Mr. Carter in exactly thirty seconds, Millie, then I’m sending one of my detectives out there. And I guarantee he’s going to make life very, very difficult for you people. Beginning with you. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Millie?”
Except for a click as the phone went on hold, there was no response. But only moments later:
“This is Carter speaking.”
“I’m Frank Hastings, and I’m co-commander of the homicide squad.” He recited his shield number. “I’m conducting a homicide investigation, and we’re contacting every messenger service in town in the course of that investigation. Are you with me?”
“I’m with you.”
“If we can get the information we need over the phone, it’ll be very helpful, save us a lot of time. But when Inspector Canelli asked for your cooperation he didn’t get anywhere—except to get put on hold. Are you still with me?”
No response.
“What I want,” Hastings said, “is for you to tell me whether, in the past six months, you picked up any small packages and delivered them to Two-thirty-four Collingwood, apartment C.”
“Do you have a name for the consignee?”
“Charles Hardaway.”
“How soon do you need this information?”
“As soon as possible. An hour, let’s say.”
Grudgingly: “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Are your files computerized?”
“Naturally.”
“Then we’ll be calling you in an hour. And we’ll be expecting some answers.”
“Then you’d better let me get to it, Lieutenant.” The line clicked, went dead.
Hastings cradled the phone as he asked, “How’s Jan—” He broke off, began again: “How’s Collier doing with the phone calls?”
“She’s working her ass—” Canelli, too, broke off. Saying: “She’s working like hell. I guess she’s got a computer at home. Anyhow, she worked last night on the telephone calls.”
“She’s got a teenage kid, and she got a computer for him. So all she has to do is take a disk home with her.”
“Yeah, well …” Canelli nodded approval. “Well, that’s great. She—”
Hastings’s telephone warbled, the interoffice line.
“It’s Janet Collier. I’ve got the phone calls almost finished. I thought I should tell you.”
“Ah.” Spontaneously, he smiled, looked
through the glass wall of his office out into the squadroom. At her desk, phone to her ear, Janet was smiling at him, nodding a greeting.
“Come on in,” he said. “You and Canelli need to work out a plan.”
“The phone-calls log—shall I bring it?”
“Certainly.” He broke the connection, summarized the call to Canelli, who began to button his collar and draw up his tie.
“Never mind your tie,” Hastings said. It was an order. “This is work, not dress-up.”
“Oh. Well. Sure.” Canelli’s soft brown eyes were chastened. Hastings had hurt his feelings.
Overcoming the reflex to rise when a woman entered the room, Hastings gestured for Collier to take one of the two visitors’ chairs, and find a spot on his desk for her file folders. There were two folders, one for printouts, one for notes taken on legal tablets in Collier’s neat, even handwriting.
“So,” he said, “what’ve you got?”
“The phone is in Hardaway’s name,” she said, “but they both used it. I went back six months, which was easier for the way the phone company keeps its records. The first thing, I entered all the numbers called. It came to almost three calls a day—two point eight, actually. Which, I guess, is probably about average. Then I eliminated the duplications, obviously. I gave the numbers back to the phone company, and they gave me the subscribers’ names. If it was the corner grocery, or a ticket agency, whatever, I didn’t contact them. The name was all I needed. That brought down the number I actually called to about sixty-five. So then I just started at the beginning, and tried to call every one of the sixty-five.”
“Whew!” Canelli breathed. “It sounds like it’d take a week.”
“I got pretty tired going through the whole spiel.” She mimicked herself: “‘This is Inspector Janet Collier, San Francisco Police Department.’ Half the people got defensive, and half thought it was a joke, or a scam. Several thought I was selling tickets to the Cops and Kids games. One guy came on to me, claimed he had a thing for lady cops. But eventually I got through the list, got their connections to Hardaway or Carpenter. I got a lot of answering machines, of course, so there’re still some loose ends. Lots of loose ends, actually.”
“How about unlisted numbers?” Hastings asked.
Anticipating the question, she nodded, consulted the legal pad. “There were three unlisted numbers called. One was a plumber, don’t ask me why. The other two, all I got was their machines.” She flipped a page of the legal pad. “One was to a woman named Nancy Sloss, who lives in Arizona. The other was to a man named Delbert Gay, who’s in San Francisco. I decided to—”
At the last name, Hastings’s head had come up sharply; his gaze focused intently on Collier.
“‘Gay,’ did you say? ‘Delbert Gay’?”
“Right.” Just as intently, her gaze focused on him. Now Canelli was avidly nodding in reaction to the name. Collier looked from one man to the other, saying: “Are you guys going to tell me?”
“Delbert Gay,” Hastings said, “is a sleazy private eye.” He swiveled his chair, took the San Francisco phone book from a narrow table behind his desk, turned to the Yellow Pages, turned to “Private Investigators.” He found the two-line listing for “Delbert Gay, Since 1972.” He looked at Collier, then read off the phone number in the ad. Promptly, she shook her head. The numbers didn’t match.
“So the question is,” Canelli said, “why would Hardaway or Carpenter call Delbert Gay on his private line?”
“How many times was the number called?” Hastings asked as he swiveled back to face the two inspectors.
“Just once,” Collier answered.
“Did you check the numbers called against Hardaway’s address book?” Hastings asked.
“Most of them.”
“Was Delbert Gay in Hardaway’s address book?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Maybe he’d memorized the number. Or written it on a calendar, or something.” She shrugged. The lift of her shoulders elevated the swell of her breasts. Hastings looked away, then looked covertly at Canelli. Yes, Canelli had been admiring Janet Collier’s bosom.
To Canelli, Hastings said, “You’d better go back to those messenger services. And you,” he turned to Collier, “unless something else turns up with those phone numbers, you’d better work with Canelli. He’ll fill you in.”
“What about Delbert Gay?”
“I’ll deal with Delbert Gay. We understand each other.” Hastings looked at each of them in turn, then flipped up his hands. Staff dismissed. As he watched Canelli trying unsuccessfully to let Collier precede him out into the corridor, Hastings touch-toned the unlisted number for Delbert Gay. After four rings, Gay’s voice said he was unavailable, leave a message. Next Hastings consulted Gay’s listing in the Yellow Pages. He touch-toned the number, got another message. As Hastings was leaving his message, Gay’s voice came on the line.
“Lieutenant Hastings? How’s it going?”
“Fine, Delbert. How’s business?”
“Steady, I’d say. Not bad, but not great. What can I do for you?”
“That homicide in the Castro last Tuesday. Ring a bell?”
“I heard about it, yeah.”
“The victim was Charles Hardaway.”
“Yeah …” It was a cautious response.
“Know him?”
“Not that I remember, Lieutenant. Why?”
“He lived with a guy named Randy Carpenter. Two gay guys. They shared the same phone. About three months ago, a call was made from their phone to your unlisted number. Remember that?”
“Would you give me those names again?”
Speaking slowly, deliberately, Hastings repeated the names.
“No,” Gay answered, this time speaking decisively. “No. Sorry.”
Hastings consulted the copy of the phone bill that Janet Collier had left him. “The date of the call was February fifteenth, at ten thirty at night.”
“How long did the call last?”
Once more, Hastings scanned the bill. “Less than a minute.”
“Sounds like it could’ve been a wrong number. Someone got the machine, and then hung up. Happens all the time.”
“The billing address for your unlisted number is on Twenty-sixth Street. Is that your home?”
“Yeah—an apartment.”
“In the Yellow Pages, there’s only a phone number, no street address. Does that mean you’re working out of your home?”
“You got it,” Gay answered casually. “Keep down the overhead, it’s the only way.”
“So the billing address for your office phone would also be for your home.”
“Right.”
“And you’re sure—absolutely sure—that you’ve never had anything to do with either Hardaway or Carpenter.”
“Absolutely.”
“This is a murder investigation, Delbert. If you lie to me, it’s your ass.”
“Have I ever lied to you, Lieutenant?”
“Definitely, Delbert. You know it, and I know it.”
“I gotta protect my clients, you know. I’ve got to—”
“Remember what I said, Delbert. You lie to me, that’s when your troubles start.” He broke the connection.
20
DELBERT GAY DROPPED A quarter in the slot, punched out the number, let the phone ring through eight times. At the ninth ring, a sleep-blurred voice said, “Hello?”
“Are you awake enough to listen to what I’m going to tell you?”
“Sure. What time is it?”
“Almost 10:00 A.M.”
“So. I was up late.”
“You know who this is.”
“Sure,” Hubble said.
“Okay. I’ll only say this once. I want you to leave town. Go to Portland, or Seattle. Not Los Angeles. Remember, not Los Angeles. In a week, better two weeks, call me from a pay phone. Call me at the office.”
“So there’s a problem.”
“I’m not sure.
I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.”
“Two weeks—that’ll take two thousand.”
“Two thousand—okay.”
“What about my stuff?” Hubble asked. “Stereos, like that. CDs. What about my CDs?”
“Make sure your rent’s paid a month ahead, and leave your fucking CDs in the apartment. Pack a bag and split. Jesus.” He slammed the phone onto its hook, looked quickly but carefully around the busy streetcorner. He’d chosen a phone booth at the intersection of Market Street and Dolores, only a few blocks from the Castro.
Gay took a slip of paper from an inside pocket, moved his lips as he memorized the number. He dropped another quarter in the phone, touch-toned the number. Waiting for an answer, he checked the time: ten minutes after ten on a bright, clear morning in May.
“Mr. Weston’s office,” a woman’s voice said. The three words were smoothly modulated, an evocation of success, of muted power.
“My name is Robert Brown,” Gay said. “Mr. Weston is expecting me to call.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Almost a full minute passed before Bruce Weston came on the line.
Because the name Robert Brown was a code word that meant possible trouble, condition yellow, Weston had only to acknowledge the message: “Yes. I understand. Robert Brown.” Then, with a forefinger that trembled slightly, Weston broke the connection. He remained seated behind his desk.
Never did he feel more secure, more in control, than when he was as he was now, in his quilted leather executive chair, both hands resting lightly on the exquisitely joined, variegated woods of his desk. He noted with satisfaction that, in this position, the cuffs of his gleaming white shirt extended a precise inch, enough to show the gold medallion cufflinks that were replicas of ancient Roman coins.
It was important, he knew, absolutely vital, that he not surrender to fear. In the chain of command, he was perfectly positioned, insulated both from the top down and also from the bottom up. If the police should call, he had only to say that he was following orders handed down by a client. However, lawyer-client privilege constrained him from revealing the identity of his client.
His sole mission had been to recruit Delbert Gay. He’d talked to Gay for less than a half hour. Then he’d handed over an envelope stuffed with money. He’d hailed a cab, and returned to his office. Safe. Until now, safe. And gratified by the certainty that he’d gotten his foot through the door and entered the world of Harold Best, and therefore of James Forster. For years—decades—Weston had aspired to Forster’s world—and this was finally his opening. It was a milieu of pure power, a world so influential that money was never exchanged. Only favors, many of them discussed over hundred-dollar lunches that were never paid for directly, only signed for. Some men never carried cash, only credit cards. Men like Forster carried neither.
Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 8