Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Until now, he hadn’t paused long enough to reflect on the day. Barton Sobel, Carolyn Best, and Harold Best—three targets of opportunity all in a row, plink, plink, plink, with none of the problems usually encountered getting through to the rich and the famous.

  Why?

  Why had Carolyn Best and her husband made it so easy?

  Because, probably, they hoped to discover how much he knew—and didn’t know.

  Carolyn, the piranha.

  Harold Best, the figurehead, the front man who mouthed his lines according to whatever script his wife and her father chose for him.

  Carolyn, the cagey one.

  Harold, the short-fused one, the ineffectual one.

  And Carolyn’s father, James Forster—the elusive one.

  Tomorrow, should he try to get through to James Forster? Or should he return to San Francisco and leave them wondering? If he left Los Angeles, mission apparently accomplished, would the suspects begin to suspect one another, would there be a falling-out of co-conspirators?

  He yawned, turned on his side—made his decision. He would sidestep James Forster, the godfather. He would return to San Francisco tomorrow, do whatever it took to find Claude Hubble. They would offer Hubble a deal, begin climbing the chain of evidence, bottom to top: Hubble, Delbert Gay, Bruce Weston—and up and up, in San Francisco. Then, with a solid evidence chain, he would bring Friedman to Los Angeles. Friedman would assume center stage, wheeling and dealing, manipulating, trading half-promises for half-truths—all the while smiling inscrutably.

  He and Friedman …

  And Janet, too?

  Janet …

  He turned on his back, yawned, turned on his left side, yawned again.

  Janet …

  Had he insisted, she could have come to Los Angeles with him. She was, after all, the officer of record on the case. The interview with Sobel, the interrogation of Carolyn Best, then Harold Best, even conceivably an interview with James Forster—it could have been her prerogative to participate in all of it.

  Incredibly, in little more than a week, beginning with a seemingly random street crime, a bashing, the case had mushroomed, and now pointed, amazingly, to the most powerful political overlords in California: Harold Best, his wife, his father-in-law.

  Harold Best, soon to be the junior senator from California.

  Harold Best, bisexual.

  Harold Best, ostensibly so pleasant, so open-faced, so affable—and yet, certainly, so conniving, so devious.

  Would Janet have been more successful with Best than he’d been? As a team, could they have learned more?

  Yes, almost certainly they would have learned more. Already, he and Janet had developed a feel for interrogation, for working efficiently together. He would take the lead, laying it out, setting the tone. She would wait and watch, looking for her opportunity to insert the single question that might throw the suspect off balance, setting him up for Hastings’s next thrust. Good cop, bad cop.

  How would she have reacted, if he’d offered her the chance to go to Los Angeles? How would—?

  On the nightstand close beside his bed, the telephone warbled. Half asleep, he lifted the receiver.

  “It’s not quite eleven,” Friedman’s voice said in his ear. “Okay?”

  “Yeah.” Yawning, he levered himself against the headboard to sit up. “Yeah. No problem.”

  “So. How’d it go?”

  “Who knows? I talked to Best’s campaign manager, a guy named Barton Sobel, who seems to have lots of clout. He shut me out, initially, but then I think he told Best’s wife that she should see me, that’s my guess. Anyhow, she did. She didn’t give me a thing, but I think I shook her up. I think I shook up Harold Best, too.”

  “What about Forster?”

  “I ran out of time. But now I’m thinking maybe it was just as well.”

  “How so?”

  “When I got here, I decided to rent a car at the airport, try to slide into town nice and easy, see how lucky I could get, without contacting LAPD. And I did get lucky—very lucky, I figure. I made three solid connections with no one from LAPD looking over my shoulder. But I don’t think it’ll last. I figure once Carolyn Best and her husband talk to Forster, then sure as hell the LAPD’s going to be all over me. So I’m thinking I should get out of town tomorrow, give Forster time to stew, go back to San Francisco and help find Claude Hubble.”

  “I like it,” Friedman announced. “So, since I’ll see you tomorrow, and since it’s now eleven, I’ll let you get to sleep.”

  “Good. See you tomorrow.” Hastings cradled the phone, switched off the light, settled himself in the bed—and began thinking of Janet Collier, recalling the moment he’d first seen her: a stranger, pulled in at random as backup on an operation that had almost cost Hastings his life. Their attraction had grown over the next few months as they worked together, while their personal lives kept them apart. Two frustrated lovers, both of them trying to make sense of their lives. Meanwhile, tonight, they each slept alone.

  33

  “SO,” FRIEDMAN SAID, EASING himself into Hastings’s visitor’s chair. “Tell me about Los Angeles. I was amazed that you got to Harold Best. How’d you manage it?”

  “I honest to God don’t know. But I think I stirred things up, which is what I wanted to do. Sobel, the campaign manager—Carolyn Best—Harold Best—I think there’s a possibility they’re all involved. But until we collar Claude Hubble and go to work on him, we aren’t going to get anywhere in Los Angeles. It just won’t happen.”

  “The word we’re getting,” Friedman said, “is that Claude Hubble is still in town, in deep cover, very difficult to turn up. Apparently Hubble is very cool, very smart. Very trendy, too, very with it. He doesn’t hang around with other blacks much, likes white girls. He’s a good dresser, but not loud. He’s good-looking, too. He’s also slippery as hell. In his early twenties he was considered a pretty fair boxer, which is how he got in the leg-breaking business. Apart from that, though, he’s done a little of everything. Including six months as a security guard. He keeps moving. All of which is why it’s hard to collar him.”

  “He’s been arrested, though.”

  Friedman shrugged. “Shoplifting, car boosting, a little burglary. Nothing heavy.”

  “Without Hubble,” Hastings said, “we’ve got nothing.”

  “Even with him, we’ve also got nothing—not compared to what there is to get. I mean, Jesus, all we’d have is little fish with Hubble and Delbert Gay. But then there’s this big gap, even with Weston, until we get to the campaign and the Bests.”

  “I know …”

  “Next time you go to LA,” Friedman said, “I’ll go with you. I’d love to see these fat cats squirm.”

  “Great. Let’s do it.”

  “First, we need Hubble. Who, in fact, Canelli and Collier are working on right this minute. Last night it looked like they were just a step behind him. Collier, apparently, connected with Hubble’s girlfriend, who’s nineteen and white and who works in an insurance office and who’s crazy about him even though she’s also very nervous about shacking up with him. Her name is Joyce Trigstadt. She apparently comes from the Midwest somewhere and her parents are very heavy-duty fundamentalists. So, of course, she rebelled, and came to the big city, and ended up in bed with a black guy. So then—”

  Hastings’s phone rang: the dispatcher’s communications circuit. He listened for a moment, then put the call on a speakerphone. It was Canelli, calling from the field:

  “Ah, Lieutenant, I’m glad I got you.”

  “What’s up, Canelli?”

  “Well, it looks like we might’ve made contact with Hubble. Except that it looks like Collier’s radio is shot, so I thought I should call you. I mean, we might have a delicate situation here.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, there’s this girl named Joyce, who’s got a thing going with Hubble. She’s—”

  “I know about her.”

  “Oh
. Good. Well, Collier and I’ve been staking her out, and we got here early this morning, like about eight o’clock. So Collier decided to follow Joyce when she went to work, which is downtown, just to check out whether Joyce really had the job she said she had. So then, when everything looked normal at the subject’s office, Collier came back to Joyce’s apartment building, which is on Third Avenue right near Clement. We were hoping Hubble would show up, see. Which, in fact, I guess he did, when Collier was gone, and I was alone in front, leaving the rear open until Collier got back. I mean, it was one of those surveillance screwups that happen all the time, with just two people. And it looks like Hubble came in the back while I was in the front, alone. I mean, these things happen, you know?”

  “I know, Canelli. So?”

  “Well, maybe a half hour ago, I went to take a leak. So what happened, I guess, was that Joyce must’ve arrived home early from downtown, because when I was around the corner, taking my leak, I heard Collier on the surveillance radio, except that I couldn’t hear what she was saying very well. I think her nicad battery was low. But obviously she was talking to a woman with her mike open, so I could hear. But, like I said, I couldn’t really hear what she was saying from where I was. So I went back to the apartment building. And, Jesus, there’s no one there.”

  Exchanging an alarmed glance with Friedman, Hastings asked, “What d’you mean, Canelli? What about Jan—what about Collier?”

  “Well, jeez, the way I figure it could’ve happened, beginning this morning, Hubble got into the apartment building when I was in front, waiting for Collier to come back from downtown, where she was following Joyce. Maybe Hubble snuck into Joyce’s apartment from the back, and went to sleep, who knows? So when Collier came back from downtown—that was about nine, nine thirty this morning—Hubble was already inside, but we didn’t know it. Quite a coincidence, eh?”

  “Canelli—what about Collier, for God’s sake?”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s what I’m telling you. When I went to take a leak, Collier was watching the front, like I said. And I figure that Joyce Trigstadt came home early from work, while I was around the corner. That was about one thirty, maybe a half hour ago. I figure Collier intercepted Joyce outside her building, that much I got from Collier’s surveillance radio. But then, when I got back, there was no Collier and no Joyce. So I figure Collier went up to Joyce’s place, with her radio transmitting. And I figure that Hubble was there, waiting for them.”

  “You mean he was waiting for Collier? An ambush?”

  Across the desk, Hastings saw Friedman’s eyes widen with alarm. It was a worrisome sight; Friedman never let his misgivings show.

  “I don’t know about an ambush. All I know is that, on my radio, I could hear two women and a man talking. I couldn’t make out many of the words. But, definitely, there’s a man up there.”

  “Where’re you now?”

  “I’m parked in our cruiser, in front. And I’ve got two uniforms at the back. With radios.”

  “How about the roof?”

  “No problem. The building isn’t attached.”

  “How about Collier’s radio? Still putting out?”

  “Not for about the last fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay—I’ll get a couple of people. What’s the address?”

  “Three-twenty-one Third Avenue. Near Clement.”

  “Okay. Keep in touch with Lieutenant Friedman. I’m on my way.” Shaking his head, Hastings cradled the telephone. Saying angrily: “That’s some shitty stakeout.”

  “These things happen,” Friedman said. “You’d better get started.”

  34

  “IS HER NAME ON the mailbox?” Hastings asked.

  “Yessir,” Canelli answered.

  “What about Collier’s radio? Anything?”

  “Nothing. Not even static.”

  “Collier should’ve known better than to go into a building alone, goddammit.”

  “Except that she sure as hell didn’t know Hubble was there. She just met Joyce out in front of the building, and decided to go up to Joyce’s apartment, that’s the way I got it from her radio.”

  “Is Collier on channel B?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, let’s do it.” He picked up his own radio and tuned it to surveillance channel B, the operation’s assigned channel. He checked the net: Sigler and two uniformed officers at the rear, concealed, he and Canelli and Marsten in front, parked in an unmarked car. All five radios came in loud and clear, both transmitting and receiving. From Collier, the sixth radio, there was only static, broken by sounds that might be voices.

  “Canelli and I’ll go in,” Hastings said, speaking into his radio. “Marsten stays in our unit. Understood?”

  Sigler and the two uniformed men acknowledged.

  “Remember, there’re probably three souls: Janet Collier, Claude Hubble, who’s a young black male, about five-ten, one hundred fifty pounds, and Hubble’s girlfriend. Collier is about a hundred twenty, dark hair in a ponytail, slim. She’s wearing beige slacks and a suede jacket.” He looked at Canelli for confirmation. Canelli nodded, then supplied a description of Joyce Trigstadt: young, blond, wearing a sweater and skirt, dressed for business in the financial district. “We don’t know what Hubble is wearing,” Hastings said.

  “Be careful, Lieutenant.” It was Sigler, in the rear. As always, Sigler spoke from the heart, however diffidently. Seated in the rear seat of Hastings’s cruiser, Marsten said nothing. Always the resentful one, Marsten plainly believed he should be going in, not Canelli.

  “Marsten, you handle communications. And you’ll be in command outside the building.”

  Grudgingly, Marsten nodded agreement. Medals weren’t awarded for backup.

  The building was six stories and contained ten apartments plus a full-width garage. It was a fifties-vintage white stucco building, hand-textured and trimmed in fake Spanish colonial: red tiles bordering the flat roof, hand-hewn exterior beams that supported nothing. In the entry there were red floor tiles and white tiles on the walls. The glass door was protected by a wrought-iron grille. Obviously the building was well maintained. The bank of brass mailboxes had been recently polished. Joyce Trigstadt’s apartment was number 5. No mail was visible in apartment 5’s mailbox. At three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, most of the mailboxes contained mail. Hastings glanced at Canelli; yes, Canelli had checked the mailbox. The entrance to the building was set back from the sidewalk; shrubbery grew close to the walkway that led to the lobby, offering cover from prying eyes.

  “Give it a try,” Hastings said as he turned his back on Canelli to face the sidewalk.

  “Yessir.” Canelli drew a set of lock picks from an inside pocket, stooped in front of the glass entry door, and began working the picks. The lock was old and loose, and it quickly yielded. Gratified, Canelli smiled as he pushed the door open. Like the exterior, the interior lobby was clean and orderly, with a figured rug and a mission-style Mexican table and two chairs. Mail and small packages were scattered on the table. At the far end of the lobby, a stairway with a wrought-iron railing led up to the second floor. As Hastings walked to the staircase, he clipped his surveillance radio’s tiny microphone to the lapel of his jacket and fixed the transparent earpiece more firmly in his ear, saying, “Check in.” Sigler, in back, and Marsten, in front, acknowledged the call loud and clear. Canelli made the final call.

  Climbing the stairs, Hastings unbuttoned his tweed sport jacket and loosened his four-inch service revolver in its spring holster. Behind him, Canelli was doing the same.

  Apartments 1 and 2 occupied the second floor, meaning that the entire ground floor was the building’s garage. Apartments 3 and 4 would occupy the next floor. Apartment 5 would be the fourth-floor rear.

  From apartment 1 came the sound of light rock. Two parcels and a folded newspaper were piled in front of apartment 2. Hastings glanced at Canelli, got a nod in return. Canelli was focused on the next floor—and then the next floor, with apartment 5. In Can
elli’s soft brown eyes, Hastings could see a quickening, the avidity of the chase. Once more, they exchanged nods. Then, moving silently, Hastings was ascending the stairs to the third floor. As his head came even with the floor, he looked up and down the deserted third-floor hallway. With Canelli three steps behind, Hastings began another ascent until he was standing in the fourth-floor hallway. Yes, 5 was to his right, at the rear of the building. And, yes, 6 was to his left, at the front of the building. And, yes, he saw a fire door at the rear of the corridor, across from 5. Hubble had used the fire stairs, Canelli believed, to enter the building from the rear.

  As Hastings exchanged a final cautionary look with Canelli, he suddenly heard garbled, static-sizzled voices on the radio. Canelli, too, heard the fragmentary transmission: unmistakably Janet Collier’s voice cutting in and out. There was another voice, too: a man, saying something indistinguishable. Then, once more, the radio went dead.

  Standing side by side in the deserted fourth-floor corridor, the two men were silent, listening. Finally Hastings sighed, gestured to apartment 5’s door. “What d’you think?” he whispered. “Talk our way in, or break our way in?”

  Doubtfully, Canelli shook his head. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. These damn doors look pretty solid. Plus, it’s hard to tell what’s happening. I mean, from what I heard earlier, it didn’t sound like they knew Collier was a cop. It sounded like everything was cool.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, hell, I’m guessing. But that’s the way it sounded to me. It sounded like they were—”

  In Hastings’s ear, the radio crackled, came to life again: most certainly Claude Hubble speaking, confirmed by the soft burr of ghetto patois: “I mean, guns’re for amateurs, the way I see it. Guns’re—” Once more, the radio went dead.

  “Jesus,” Canelli breathed. “That don’t sound so good.” Frowning, he eyed the door to apartment 5.

  Holding the surveillance microphone close to his mouth, Hastings whispered, “We’re going in. Don’t acknowledge.” And to Canelli he whispered, “You’ve got the weight.”