Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Your mom—it sounds like she makes a lot of sense.”

  “She does make a lot of sense. She also knows whereof she speaks. She was divorced twice.”

  “You’re an only child?”

  She nodded. “You, too?”

  He nodded, then asked, “Does your mom live alone?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t like it, and she doesn’t make much money, so she doesn’t have much left for pleasure. But she married once purely for money, and she swore she’d never do it again.”

  “So you help her out.”

  “I help her, and she helps me.”

  “Baby-sitting. Looking after Charlie when you pull extra duty.”

  She nodded.

  “The first two years, did you ever bring men home?”

  “A couple of times, on weekends.”

  “Did Charlie mind?”

  “Yes, he minded. A lot.”

  “Does he ever get to see his father?”

  “His father,” she answered bitterly, “is in Pittsburgh. He married a woman with two children, but they’re divorced. It’s been three years since I heard from him. And then he wanted to borrow money.”

  Because he knew about her marriage, he only shook his head contemptuously. Then he said, “I want to finish telling you about Ann and me.”

  “I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

  “I realize that. But I want to tell you.”

  She made no reply. Allowing him to say, “After almost two years, Ann and I had pretty much settled into a once-a-week rut. We never talked about it, but we knew that’s what it was: a rut. Separately, we wondered what would happen if I moved in with her. But it was never discussed. Not until I made the mistake of getting my skull fractured during an arrest. I was in the hospital for a week, and then I was told to go home and stay in bed for two more weeks.”

  “But you didn’t go home. You went to Ann’s. And you stayed.”

  Surprised, he raised his eyes to hers. “How’d you know?”

  She only smiled. It was a wistful smile, shadowed by vague regret. Then she glanced at her watch. They’d been talking for almost an hour. During that time, a handful of their fellow inspectors had come and gone. Some of them had looked and smiled and nodded; others had looked discreetly away as they passed.

  “You’re right,” he answered. “I stayed. Ann has a big Victorian flat on Green Street, a great place. It’s only two bedrooms, though. For the first week Ann slept on the living room couch. Then she moved into the bedroom. It was something else we never really talked about. She just left her pillow on the bed one night, instead of taking it into the living room.”

  “So you stayed—and stayed.” Once more, she spoke wistfully.

  His sigh, too, was faintly wistful.

  “Right.”

  “Her children—how’d they react?”

  “No problem. They’re boys, fourteen and sixteen. I think they like having me around. Especially since I keep my mouth shut whenever there’s a family argument.”

  “But now you want to leave.”

  “I’ve told you why I—”

  “I think,” she cut in, “that you’d make a mistake leaving. Living alone—it’s no fun.”

  “I wouldn’t be alone, though. There’d be you, sometimes.”

  “Frank …” Involuntarily, she touched his hand. “I can’t give you any promises. You know that. It’s like my mother said. Love is a mystery.”

  “I’m not asking for any promises. I’m just trying to tell you that I want some love in my life—some warmth. Some excitement.”

  This time, her smile was spontaneous. Her laugh was quick, teasing. “I don’t think your life lacks for excitement.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Think about it, before you move out. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “You say you won’t go to bed with me, as long as I’m living with Ann. If I believe you, which I do, and if I want you, which I do, then I’ve got to move out.”

  “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to move out. But that’s not—”

  “You’re not forcing me to do anything. I know that.”

  “Ann—does she know what you’re thinking?”

  “We haven’t talked about it. But I think she knows.”

  “You leave a lot unsaid, you and Ann.”

  “That’s the kind of people we are, when we’re together. With you, I’m different. We talk, you and I.”

  Once more, spontaneously, she touched his hand. She felt him respond. Instantly, the scene that had brought them together came back: the body of a sad little man, her first experience with violent death. And the memory of Frank’s kindness had returned.

  38

  “IN MY OPINION,” FRIEDMAN said, “Forster is anxious to see us. He must know by now through Sobel or Best that we’ve got a suspect in custody, but doesn’t know anything beyond that, all according to plan. So we’ve got them guessing. We—there.” He pointed ahead, to the freeway sign. “There it is—Mulholland Drive. That’s our off-ramp. Go west on Mulholland.” He consulted his Los Angeles map as Hastings signaled for the turn.

  After he’d negotiated the merge onto Mulholland, Hastings asked, “Did you talk to Forster himself when you called yesterday?”

  Friedman nodded. “I had to go through a secretary, but it wasn’t a problem. It’s like I said—I think he wants to see us, decide which way he thinks we’ll jump.”

  “So which way will we jump?”

  “That,” Friedman said, “is why we came to Los Angeles, to figure out which way we jump. If we aren’t sure, then neither is Forster. Which has got to be a plus.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that maybe this trip isn’t really necessary? Why do I think this is sport for you?”

  Friedman’s smile was amiable. “You could have a point. I think golf is silly, and I’m too fat for tennis. I don’t fish, and I don’t collect stamps.”

  “But you love to stick it to fat cats.”

  “That’s true, I do—pompous fat cats. I love to prick them, watch them deflate.”

  “This,” Forster said, “is remarkable. It’s absolutely unprecedented in my experience. And I must tell you, gentlemen, that at my age, with a very full life behind me, there isn’t much left that’s unprecedented.” As if he were thanking them for the pleasure they were giving him, Forster smiled genially. He was a slim, athletic man of medium height and girth. His face glowed with ruddy good health. His hair was thick and white, carefully cut, casually styled. The eyes were a clear, shrewd gray. The mustache, carefully trimmed, was his only suggestion of vanity. Countless lines and wrinkles seamed the face, making a pattern that was the product of consistent good fortune. Seated behind a desk covered with piles of neatly stacked papers, James Forster projected an intense air of engagement. Although the smile came easily and often, the eyes were constantly calculating and recalculating, relentlessly probing. He wore a white knit polo shirt with his initials stitched on the left breast. The open collar revealed a sagging neck that was the only hint of age’s effects. Beneath the desk, Hastings could see white duck trousers and white sneakers, suggesting that Forster meant to go sailing after their interview was concluded. Or could it be tennis?

  Forster’s office was just as full as his desk, and just as functional. Every shelf and tabletop overflowed with books and papers, most of them printouts. One wall of the office was almost entirely glass, offering a prime view of the nearby wooded hills of Coldwater Canyon, with the blue of the Pacific in the background. They were high enough to look down on the yellow layer of smog that covered the Los Angeles Basin’s flatlands to the east.

  Forster turned to Hastings, saying, “I know about your foray last Wednesday. I was surprised that you didn’t try to contact me.”

  Hastings expected the gambit and was ready with a response: “After talking to your daughter and son-in-law, I figured I had to go back to San Francisco for instructions.” He gestured to Friedman, seated beside him. �
��He’s the boss.”

  “Oh?” Genially smiling, Forster turned his attention to Friedman. Then the smile faded, replaced by a slight, polite frown. “But you’re both lieutenants.”

  “We’re co-commanders,” Friedman said. “However, I’m senior. Which means that I sit in my office and theorize, while Lieutenant Hastings is out in the field risking his neck.”

  Forster smiled again, this time appreciatively. “Ah.” He nodded. “Yes, I see.” Then, after a glance at his watch, Forster’s manner hardened. All business now: “I know, of course, why you’re here. I’ve talked to both Harold and my daughter. So we can dispense with the preliminaries.” Seeking confirmation, he looked at each detective in turn. Taking his cue from Friedman, Hastings nodded agreement.

  “In your, ah, profession,” Forster said, “I imagine you’ve often been involved with situations like this, where you come into possession of information that, if it’s made public, could cause considerable damage.” He looked at both detectives. This time neither man reacted. Could this be the prelude to the offer of a bribe?

  “Just so we understand each other,” Forster said, “I’m referring to the unhappy fact that, when they were in college, Harold and Randy Carpenter had a brief homosexual affair. They were discreet about it, though, and there was seemingly no harm done. Harold went on to make a spectacular success of his life. As you know.”

  “The rumors are,” Friedman said, “that you made Harold Best what he is today. He’s your creation. Yours, and your daughter’s.”

  Almost fondly now, Forster smiled benignly at Friedman. “I’m aware of those rumors, and I’m gratified to say that, in general, they’re true. Harold is a type that is not uncommon in politics. He’s suggestible on the one hand, and yet he’s also ego-driven. But it’s an ego that’s a function of vanity, and therefore translates into deep personal insecurities. Unlike the ego one finds in the business world, to take an example. The businessman’s ego is predatory. Fully expressed, the ego-driven businessman would use a broadsword to deal with his rivals. But for people like Harold the ego is a shield, something to hide behind. At bottom, Harold is a cowering child, a weakling lost in a world of ‘let’s pretend.’ It’s a syndrome that often afflicts actors.”

  “On Wednesday,” Hastings said, “he didn’t seem like a weakling. He accused me of extortion, among other things.”

  “Harold can be peevish, certainly, especially when he’s frightened. But he’s not a fighter. On the other hand,” Forster said, “I am a fighter. A predator, if you will. My ego drives me to destroy my enemies, not hide from them. Do you understand the distinction?”

  “Oh, yes.” Hastings nodded. “I understand.”

  “Likewise,” Friedman said. His face, Hastings saw, was utterly inscrutable and absorbed. They were playing Friedman’s favorite game, a one-winner contest of wits.

  “So,” Forster said, “let’s put the cards on the table. Agreed?”

  The two detectives nodded agreement.

  “First, we’ve got the Carpenter problem. If he goes public, then Harold’s career is finished. That’s a given.” Forster’s manner was uninflected, as if he were discussing a mathematical theorem.

  “Have there been other homosexual episodes?” Friedman asked. “Since Carpenter?”

  “I suspect there were. A few, perhaps, but they are not at issue here.” Forster’s voice was calm, revealing nothing of his feelings. His eyes, like Friedman’s, were unreadable. “Carpenter himself is no threat. Even if Harry should leave off paying him, I don’t think Carpenter would call the National Enquirer. He’s got too much pride.”

  “But then,” Hastings said, “there was Charles Hardaway.”

  “Which is,” Friedman joined in, his voice silky, “why we’re here. Your problems with Carpenter are your affair. We came because of Hardaway—because he was murdered.”

  Forster’s reply came smoothly, convincingly: “As far as I can determine, Hardaway found out about Harold and Randy. And, yes, Hardaway decided to try his hand at blackmail. Apparently he simply contacted the campaign with what he called a ‘sensational story.’ That got him all the way up to Barton Sobel. You met Bart.” He looked inquiringly at Hastings, who nodded.

  “Apparently Bart decided he could handle the problem himself. He gave Hardaway twenty-five thousand dollars and told him to get lost.”

  “But he didn’t get lost,” Friedman said. “He came back for more. The closer the election got, the more dangerous he became. Until finally you had to have him killed.”

  With his hands clasped on the desk, head slightly bowed, Forster seemed to consider the accusation, his manner as grave as a magistrate’s. Finally he said, “Since you came to town on Wednesday, Lieutenant Hastings, I’ve made it my business to inform myself on this matter. I’ve spent hours in consultation with my lawyer. And I’m completely satisfied that I know the truth.”

  “Yes,” Hastings said, “I’m sure you’ve worked out a story.”

  Ignoring the other man’s sarcasm, Forster spoke calmly: “It’s true that Hardaway was blackmailing the campaign. And it’s true that Bart Sobel paid him off. It was, of course, a mistake. Blackmailers are voracious. On the other hand, twenty-five thousand dollars was, after all, not much more than petty cash, in a campaign.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Friedman said, “is that Sobel acted on his own when he decided to pay off Hardaway.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Sobel also make the decision to have Hardaway killed?”

  Forster’s response was a shake of the head and a lugubrious sigh, as if he regretted the necessity of dealing with a backward student: “There was no decision to kill Hardaway, Lieutenant, as you should very well know. Neither was there a decision to have him beaten. It was a random gay-bashing that went wrong. From our point of view, admittedly, the timing was fortuitous. But that doesn’t mean we ordered Hardaway killed. It was a coincidence, no more, no less.”

  “We believe,” Friedman said, “that when you decided Charles Hardaway had to be killed, Sobel got in touch with Bruce Weston, a criminal lawyer in San Francisco. You probably don’t know Weston, and I’m sure Sobel didn’t enlighten you. He’d want to keep you ignorant of his plans, to protect you. So they agreed on a fee, and Weston took the job. He contacted a sleazy private investigator who, in turn, hired a professional hit man to kill Hardaway.”

  Forster made no reply. He studied Friedman’s face with an expression that was quizzical, faintly amused.

  “We’ve got confessions from all these people.” Hastings pressed. “We’ve got a suspect in custody. He’s confessed. He’s confessed, and he’s implicated the others.”

  Forster touched a button on his desktop communications console. Moments later, one of the office’s two doors opened. Carrying electronic equipment, a young woman entered the room. Ignoring the three men, she placed two black boxes on Forster’s desk, one at either end. She flicked two switches, saw two tiny red lights glow. She nodded to Forster, who nodded in return. Moments later, the woman was gone.

  “These,” Forster said, “as I’m sure you know, are white-noise machines. Jamming devices, in other words, should any of us be wearing a wire. Fair enough?”

  “We’re not wearing wires,” Hastings said.

  “Then you won’t mind the jamming.”

  “Not in the least,” Friedman answered cheerfully.

  “Good.” Forster nodded benignly. Then, as formally as if he were speaking from a prepared text, he began:

  “It’s a phrase that I’m sure you’ve heard thousands of times. ‘You can’t do this to me,’ the line goes. ‘I’m a very important person. I’ll have your job if you don’t get off my back.’”

  The two detectives exchanged knowing glances.

  “First,” Forster said, “as to the assertion that you’ve got evidence implicating me in the death of Charles Hardaway, well, I can only conclude that someone paid the assailant to accuse me. To be followed, of course, by the assa
ilant’s offer to recant, assuming I’m willing to pay him off. Another blackmail attempt, in other words.”

  “You don’t expect us to respond to that, of course,” Friedman said.

  “Certainly not. I only bring it up to make the point that I don’t pay blackmail. To anyone, even if they’re sponsored by the police.”

  “We should stipulate, though, that Mr. Best is paying off Randy Carpenter. Regularly.”

  “True,” Forster admitted. “But that isn’t blackmail under duress. It’s Harold’s desire that Carpenter receive the money—that Carpenter be provided for.”

  Friedman decided not to respond.

  “Actually,” Forster said, “this whole matter comes down to a very simple question: either you investigate Hardaway’s death as a random gay-bashing, or you investigate it as a paid attack. Correct?”

  The two detectives nodded cautiously.

  “If you choose to investigate it as a paid attack, then you’ll obviously proceed from the bottom up—from the actual murderer right up to the top. Me, in other words. In the process, my son-in-law’s campaign would be a casualty, even if—when—the court throws out the case.

  “If, however, you investigate the case as a gay-bashing that went wrong, then there’s no reason to involve the Best campaign. You say you have a suspect in custody. I assume he has a lawyer.” Expectantly, Forster looked at Friedman, who nodded.

  “That lawyer will be authorized to tell the suspect that if he pleads guilty to random gay-bashing, two things would happen. First, he’ll receive enhanced legal representation—a first-class lawyer, in other words, available at no expense to the suspect. And, secondly, he’ll receive cash in the amount of, say, fifty thousand dollars.”

  Friedman smiled derisively. “I wondered whether we’d get around to bribery. Don’t you think threats will do the job?”

  “I’ve only touched on the threats. However, Lieutenant, my threats are very real, and you should never believe otherwise. One five-minute phone call, and both your careers would be over. Finished. I’ve no idea how it would be accomplished, or how long it would take. I don’t descend to that level. But believe me, it would happen.”