Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  Long Way Down

  A Lt. Hastings Mystery

  Collin Wilcox

  This book is dedicated to

  Jean Muir,

  in partial payment of a

  big creative debt

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Preview: Aftershock

  One

  “DO YOU WANT TO flip for it?” I pointed to the lunch check.

  Friedman shook his head. “I couldn’t afford to lose. My wife, the family treasurer, has me on a budget. For the first time since I’ve been married—twenty years, for God’s sake—I’m on a budget.”

  “Then we’d better have thirds on the coffee. There’s no charge.”

  He snorted ruefully, at the same time signaling for the waitress.

  “What’s the reason for the budget?” I asked.

  “The reason,” he answered, “is that my number one son has suddenly decided that he’s no longer interested in retreating to the hills and building a sod hut and raising organic food. Instead, he’s going to be a big-time agronomist. So he wants to go to college. This is February third. College begins September seventeenth. The tab, I figure, is almost six grand a year, everything in. So I’m on a budget.”

  “Can’t he work?”

  Again he snorted. “Last summer, when it looked like he was going to turn hippie for sure, we promised him that if he went to college, he wouldn’t have to work his way through. Or, more like it, Clara promised. I just went along.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  We watched the waitress pour our coffee. Friedman’s large, swarthy face was sunk deep into his jowl-mashed collar. His eyes were pensive, his full lips thoughtfully pursed.

  “You know,” he said, “I’m just now—at age forty-six—finally beginning to figure out what it really means to be a Jew. Like, it’s a Jewish thing that the oldest son’s got to have the best. He’s got to amount to something. So to Clara, there’s no question about Bernie going to college if he wants to go. No question at all. Literally, she’d wash floors, if that’s what it took. And she wouldn’t think she was making a sacrifice, either. It’s just something that you do, that’s all. It’s expected. It’s a—a cultural reflex.” He was staring down into his coffee, blinking pensively. For the first time since I’d known him, Friedman seemed unaccountably diffident, telling me what it meant to be Jewish. Normally, Friedman coasted easily above most men’s frailties. On the job, I’d often seen him make life-or-death decisions without the slightest hesitation. If something went wrong—if someone died—he didn’t flinch from the decision’s responsibility. Friedman always managed to seem imperturbably right, even if he wasn’t. Yet now, talking about his family and his religion, he seemed strangely vulnerable.

  I didn’t want to probe too deeply, but neither did I want to slight his confidence by changing the subject completely. I decided on a compromise. “Were you the oldest son?” I asked.

  He sipped the coffee, grimaced at the taste, and put the cup down. “No, I was number two. My older brother, Leonard, went to dental school. He now makes about seventy-five grand a year. In Beverly Hills, naturally.”

  “So you got aced out of college.”

  “Well—” He hesitated, then looked up, measuring me with a shrewd sidelong glance. His deceptively soft brown eyes were once more inscrutable: seeing everything, revealing nothing. His voice settled into its accustomed accents—lightly bantering, ironic, dry. “Well, the fact is that I went to a seminary for a couple of years.”

  “You mean you …” In spite of myself, I realized that my mouth was hanging slightly open.

  “That’s right, poopsie. I was meant to be a rabbi. By your stupefied expression, I can see that I never told you.”

  “But what—I mean”—I shook my head, frowning as I lamely framed the question—“what happened, anyhow?”

  “What happened,” he answered, “was that I got stage-struck. Which is something I know I never told you. I got hooked on amateur theatricals while I was in the seminary, and my studies suffered—considerably.”

  “I’ll be damned.” I gulped down the last of the coffee, staring at him over the cup rim.

  “I guess,” he continued on the same wry, breezy note, “that I must be in a confiding mood. It’s probably the shock of that six-grand bite for college. My life is passing in front of me. And after all, we’re co-lieutenants. So if I’ve got to confide in someone, it might as well be someone of equal rank. I can’t very well bare my—”

  “What happened when you got stage-struck?”

  “I dropped out of the seminary and went to Hollywood, of course. In those days, however, I was slim and suave and eager. Or, anyhow, I thought I was suave. But my agent touted me as a character type, which I suppose I was, since agents are always right. Anyhow, I probably had as much talent as the next guy. But talent isn’t nearly as important as the pure and simple thick-skinned tenacity it takes to keep your eight-by-ten glossy in circulation long enough for some jerk in a casting office to remember your face when a part comes up. Which is to say years.”

  “Were you in any movies?”

  “As an extra, sure. And I had five words in a Gary Cooper Western. Six words, if you count articles. ‘Look out!’ I shouted. ‘He’s got a gun.’ Whereupon I dived behind the bar—and into showbiz oblivion.”

  “You quit?”

  “I faced facts. It was in the early fifties, and Hollywood was suffering through one of its numerous recessions. I spent two years floundering around in that recession, plus the year and a half I spent getting my six-word speaking part. Most of the time I was a short-order cook. So finally one day I just gave up. I just said screw it, and I came to San Francisco and got a job—as a short-order cook, naturally. But I knew what I wanted, after three and a half years of those Hollywood unemployment lines.”

  “What did you want?”

  “I wanted the dullsville security of Civil Service,” he answered promptly. “I didn’t ever want to apply for another job. So when the police exam came up, I took it, even though I never actually could see myself putting the arm on anyone. But I passed the exam, by God. Brilliantly. So it came down to a choice of either cooking some more, or becoming a cop—or maybe a life-insurance salesman, or something. So I became a cop. Whereupon I got married and started to put on weight. My agent, it turned out, was right: I was a character type. Which for a homicide cop is the only type to be.” He glanced at his watch, grunted, then signaled the waitress. “I’ve got to get back. The governor’s going to speak in less than an hour.”

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? No. I’ve been put in charge of his security. For today, you are in sole charge of the homicide squad. You and the captain, that is.”

  “Is the governor in town?”

  “Of course he’s in town, you noodlehead. He’s speaking at the Civic Center on welfare reform. That’s his newest gimmick, you know: welfare malingerers. The campus radicals have served their purpose, headline-wise. And coming down on the hippies isn’t a very good political move, because almost everyone has a hippie or two at home, as who should know better than me
. So now his eminence is bearing down on welfare chiselers.”

  “I hope you enjoy the speech.” I counted out my share of the check.

  “Christ, I’m not going to the Civic Center, if that’s what you mean. I can’t stand all that political mumbo jumbo.”

  “I thought you were in charge of his security.”

  “This is the age of electronics, Lieutenant. For the entire day, I’ve got Tach Seven, clear channel. Nothing is too good for the governor.”

  “So you’ll be in the office all day.” I smiled as I got to my feet. Friedman’s fondness for settling his impressive bulk into his oversize swivel chair was well known. As the junior homicide lieutenant, with less than a year on the job, I normally went out into the field while Friedman stayed in the office, calling the shots, hassling with the reporters, and placating the brass. It was an arrangement that suited both of us.

  As we approached the checkstand, the cashier beckoned to me, holding up a telephone. I gave the check and my share of the money to Friedman, then took the call.

  “This is Culligan, Lieutenant. I didn’t get you up from the lunch table, did I?”

  “No, we’re just finishing. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’ve got an unidentified Caucasian male. Looks like he’s about forty or forty-five. He was well dressed. He was killed last night, probably—knifed. The location is a real run-down apartment, one of those storefront jobs. I’ve been here about an hour. Sigler is here, too, and the lab crew and the M.E. Everything is under control, but I thought I should check with you before they move the body. I mean—” He hesitated. “I mean, the victim’s well dressed, like I said. He didn’t live here, and he doesn’t look like he belongs here. So I thought I’d call you.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “436 Hoffman. Right near Elizabeth.”

  “All right. I’ll get Canelli, and we’ll be there in twenty minutes. Do you need anything?”

  “No, sir. Everything’s under control, like I said.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  Two

  I SNAPPED MY SAFETY belt, turned on the radio and nodded for Canelli to get under way. Typically, he narrowly avoided our first potential hazard: a huge reinforced concrete pillar that helped support the Hall of Justice. Canelli had been driving for me about three months. My purpose in choosing him was to shape him up, if possible. Canelli’s work habits resembled his driving habits. He seemed to skirt disaster constantly, yet never actually collided with anything. Friedman had been right when he’d observed that Canelli was an Italian schlemiel. Canelli would never shape up. He’d never look like a cop or act like a cop or think like a cop. He would always be a slob, Friedman contended—always a bumbler. Still, a cop who doesn’t look like a cop can be a valuable tool, properly used. And Canelli was content to be used. He was both amiable and willing. He was also lucky—incredibly, invariably lucky. Maybe his luck derived from his improbable appearance. He weighed two hundred and forty pounds, shambled when he walked and blinked when he was puzzled. He perspired profusely and frequently sucked at his teeth while he searched for a word. His suit was always wrinkled and he never crushed his hat the same way twice. His face was round and swarthy, like Friedman’s. And his eyes, in fact, also resembled Friedman’s: soft, brown, and guileless. Yet there the similarity ended. Friedman’s innocence was carefully contrived: a deceptively wide-eyed mask that had served him well for many years. Canelli’s innocence was genuine. He was the only cop I’d ever known who could get his feelings hurt.

  “Where to, Lieutenant?” Canelli asked, slowing for the first traffic light.

  “Hoffman near Elizabeth. Go out Howard to Twenty-fourth, and turn right.”

  “Yessir.” We were under way again.

  “You’d better get in the right lane,” I said. “You have to go right at the next corner, or you’ll end up on the freeway.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He glanced over his shoulder, at the same time turning. An orange Datsun protested.

  “Those damn foreign cars are so small you can’t see them,” Canelli muttered.

  I didn’t reply.

  “That’s a Datsun,” Canelli offered, studying his late antagonist in the mirror. “My brother has one, and he likes it real well. Of course, he’s only got five thousand miles on it.”

  “What kind of car have you got, Canelli?”

  “Oh, I’ve got an old Ford station wagon. It’s about ready to fall apart, but I’m going to drive it till it drops.”

  “That’s the cheapest way.”

  “I know it. See, Gracie and I, we’re saving up, you know. To get married. So that’s why I—”

  “Inspectors Eleven.” I recognized Rayburn’s voice, in Communications. I picked up the mike and acknowledged the call.

  “We have a 307, Lieutenant Hastings. Repeat: a 307. Can I have your position, please?”

  307—Homicide in Progress.

  I heard Canelli’s low whistle as I spoke into the mike: “We’re at Fourteenth Street, proceeding west on Howard.”

  “Will you please hold your position, sir, and switch your radio to Tach Seven?”

  As I changed channels, I frowned. Friedman, I remembered, had said that he …

  “Frank?” It was Friedman’s voice, static-blurred.

  As I acknowledged the call, I motioned for Canelli to pull to the curb.

  “Just a second, Frank.” The radio crackled silently for a moment. Then Friedman’s voice came back, all business: “There’s a shooting in progress at the Civic Center. The governor’s been hit. Can you take charge?”

  “Roger. On our way.” I urgently motioned to Canelli, who was grinding the starter. Lately, the car had been flooding. I’d been meaning to have it checked. Canelli was sweating, muttering at the dashboard.

  “Handle code three,” Friedman was saying. “I’ll advise Inspector Culligan of your situation. Remain on Tach Seven.”

  “Roger. Which side of Civic Center?” As I asked the question, our engine caught laboriously. We were lurching away from the curb. I leaned forward to clip the red light to the dashboard and flick the siren switch.

  “The east side—the plaza that goes from the library to the city hall.”

  “We’re on our way.” I braced myself for the first corner, coming up fast. Canelli’s hands, I saw, were white-knuckled on the wheel. He was frowning intently, concentrating on the road. “Are there units on the scene?” I asked. It was an automatic question. If you were going to be the first unit on the scene of a 307, you wanted to know before you got there.

  “Affirmative.” And as if on cue, reports from the scene began to come over the air, advising Friedman of the situation. Since it was an open channel, reserved for Friedman, the terse voices were jumbled together, like air-to-air chatter during a dogfight.

  As I turned up the radio against the siren’s wail, I heard: “The ambulances are arriving now, Lieutenant. Three of them. Is that enough?”

  “No,” Friedman answered. “You’ll need at least four. Maybe five. They’ll be coming.”

  “Roger. We’re—”

  “Spread out,” a high-pitched voice cut in. “It didn’t come from the crowd, for God’s sake.”

  “It did come from the crowd. From the side closest to the library.”

  “No, it came from the library itself.”

  “We need more crowd control here. The stewards can’t get through. We’ve got to have—”

  “Get sharpshooters. He could start shooting again. He—”

  “Let’s get tear gas ready. We’ll need it any minute, here, if he’s in the library.”

  “What about the customers—the people inside?”

  A slow, calm voice said, “I’ve got what looks like a cardiac case, an elderly woman. Right at the corner of Larkin and McAllister.”

  I braced myself as we careened into Van Ness. An ambulance was just ahead of us. Farther along, two motorcycle patrolmen were weaving rhythmically through the h
eavy traffic. I pointed up ahead. “Fall in behind that ambulance, Canelli.”

  “Right. We’ll be there in a half-minute.”

  “Go up Polk Street—up and around, and down Larkin. Get as close to the library as possible.”

  “Yessir.”

  On the radio I could hear Friedman saying, “Lieutenant Hastings is arriving on the scene any minute now. He’ll take over. Repeat, Lieutenant Hastings, from Homicide, will take over.”

  I clicked the mike to “transmit,” at the same time pinning my badge to my topcoat. I tossed my hat into the back seat as I said, “This is Lieutenant Hastings. We’ll be arriving on Larkin Street, proceeding south. I want a way cleared. I want to get as close to the scene as possible. My car is a green Plymouth sedan. Repeat, a green Plymouth.” I grabbed for my sectional scan map. “Any traffic units responding, let’s seal off the area bounded by Polk and Hyde, McAllister and Grove Street.” More slowly, I repeated the coordinates. As I did, we turned the last corner into Larkin. The traffic was massed solid. We were a block and a half from the scene.

  “Park,” I said to Canelli. “We’ll have to walk.”

  “Shall I take the shotgun?”

  “No, just the walkie-talkie.” And into the radio I said, “We have the scene in view, and are proceeding down Larkin on foot. I want all traffic stopped cold in that two-block area. Nobody in, nobody out, except for official vehicles. Nobody moves. I’ll be on the scene in one minute. Clear.”

  I flipped off the radio and got out of the car, carefully locking the door and checking the windows. As I walked, with Canelli puffing beside me, I unbuttoned my topcoat and jacket, then loosened my revolver in its spring holster. Canelli was doing the same.

  “Jesus,” Canelli breathed. “This is a real mess. I wonder if the governor’s dead?”

  Three

  “I WANT YOU TO stay right with me,” I said to Canelli. “You handle the walkie-talkie net. Let’s use channel two.”

  “Yessir. Right.” Half trotting beside me as we crossed Golden Gate Avenue against the light, he switched on his walkie-talkie, awkwardly turning the channel selector and extending the antenna as he walked.