Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Big deal.” I lifted the dragon’s head knocker and let it fall. The blood-red door was opened by a girl wearing a long black gown, cut very low. Her dark hair fell almost to her waist. Her face and shoulders were chalky white; her eyes were deeply shadowed. Standing in the gloom of the candlelit foyer, she looked like a character from a late-late horror movie.

  The girl skillfully negotiated a ten-dollar “contribution” from me without raising her voice above a sepulchral whisper—and without blinking. Then as she ushered us to the archway and ceremoniously parted the black velvet curtain, she whispered that the revel would only last another twenty minutes.

  We found seats in the last of six rows of folding chairs. A quick head count put the audience at thirty-two, with several empty chairs. At five dollars a head, Zeda’s gross for the week was only a hundred and sixty dollars.

  Zeda had changed his white toga for a long black robe with a red Satan’s head emblazoned across the chest. He stood on a low, black-draped stage that filled the far end of the huge room. Behind Zeda was a catafalque, also draped in black. A girl lay on the catafalque. Dressed in a chiffon-sheer gown, she lay motionless, in perfect profile. Her long blond hair fell almost to the floor. Her eyes were closed. As she breathed, her breasts rose and fell in a slow, subdued rhythm. The scene was lit by the pale light-cone of a single spotlight, set in the ceiling. Two braziers were placed at either end of the catafalque, each filled with a guttering circle of orange and yellow flames dancing above a pool of scented oil. Behind the girl, dressed in a studded headsman’s jerkin and black leather hood, a medieval figure stood with arms impassively crossed. The executioner held a huge curved scimitar in one hand, a cat-o’-nine-tails in the other. But somehow the menacing image of a hulking headsman was flawed. The oiled muscles were stringy. The neck was scrawny. The thigh-length jerkin revealed frail, knobby-kneed legs. And then I recognized Leonard Hawley. The single spotlight clearly caught the zealot’s glitter in Leonard’s eyes. A muscle was quivering spasmodically in Leonard’s shoulder. He’d been holding the same position too long.

  Zeda was speaking slowly and compellingly, in a low, resonant voice. “We see hypocrisy all around us,” he was saying. “We see sin, but we realize that others can’t see it—won’t see it. Refuse to see it. It is we who can recognize the face of temptation, because we are followers of the master of temptation. And this is why we are persecuted. Because we know of secret rites and rituals, we are feared. We know the dark side of the soul. We realize that the priest must have his bottle, the pastor his libertine. We know it because we do not condemn it. Therefore, we are privy to the black secrets of all the ages. We seek out these secrets—embrace them—yes, practice them. Because we realize that only in hedonism can truth be found. Others go to church on Sunday, and to pornographic films a day later. Contemporary man is therefore unclean—because he denies hedonism. He conceals it, blames it on his brother. And so each time he embraces Satan, he poisons his psyche with guilt. Therefore we say that to embrace Satan is to cleanse ourselves of the poison of hypocrisy and guilt. To preach the passion of Satan, therefore, is to cleanse society. So let us probe within ourselves for our most primitive instincts, and make of them a ceremony. Let us purge ourselves—release ourselves. And let us invite others to our revels—so that soon our revels will no longer be secret, but will be shared with all.”

  As Zeda bowed his head over the last solemn words, a low murmur of anticipation passed through the audience. Chairs squeaked surreptitiously as bodies moved unconsciously forward. The overhead spotlight was dimming as Zeda turned with slow, grave ceremony to the catafalque. Leonard was stepping back—one step, two steps, three. Zeda was in Leonard’s place, just behind the gauze-draped girl. With the spotlight dark, the brazier flames revealed only the pale shape of the girl and the demonic face of Zeda, suspended above the iridescent red-embroidered Satan’s head. Everything else was black—deep, velvet black. I felt Ann’s fingers slowly tightening on my arm.

  As Zeda began speaking, I saw his hands rising slowly: to disembodied claw shapes, just above the girl’s pale body.

  “Tonight,” Zeda intoned, “our sister Gail has come to us for awakening. She has been prepared. She is ready. She has learned Satan’s sacraments, she has studied the teachings of hedonism. And so—tonight—she has placed herself before you, that she may share with you the affirmation she makes. For as she acknowledges my touch, she accepts Satan, promising herself to the eternal mysteries of darkness and delight.”

  As he spoke, the shape of the claw hands changed as they hovered delicately just above the girl’s body, forming themselves to the contours of her torso. Now Zeda raised his head slowly up toward the ceiling. His lips were parted; the two gold teeth caught the faint light of the braziers. His scar was outlined in jagged, angry shadow. His eyes were closed. The girl’s eyes, too, were closed. As the tempo of her breathing quickened, her breasts rapidly rose and fell.

  Zeda touched the girl, one hand on her breast, the other hand just above the pubis. At the touch, her body arched in a sudden, sensuous spasm. As he began to caress her, the urgency of her response quickened. Her body and his hands moved together, swelling to a wild, abandoned rhythm. Then, deliberately, Zeda slowly lifted his hands until they were once more suspended just above the girl’s passion-arched body. As if she were responding to the urging of invisible wires, the girl began to rise with Zeda’s hands. Her eyes were still closed; her lips were drawn back from tight-clenched teeth. Slowly, somnambulantly, she was sitting up, swinging her legs to the floor on the far side of the catafalque. Now she sat on the edge of the catafalque, facing Zeda. Her back was to the audience, her arms were braced wide. Then as Zeda’s hands returned to her body, she slowly rose to stand before him, motionless. Her head was thrown back. The gauze of her gown clung to her straining thighs. For a moment, the erotic tableau was frozen. Zeda towered above the girl. From behind the two figures, a third shape emerged. It was Leonard, moving to one of the two braziers. As he passed a hand over the brazier, the low, lingering orange flame sprang suddenly into bright crimson. At the same moment, Zeda’s hands began to move. His fingers crept up the girl’s arms, finding her shoulders. Then, gripping the gossamer gown, he drew it down—first to her waist, then over the swell of her flanks, finally allowing the gown to fall from his hands, disdainfully. In the fading light of the crimson flame, the girl moved to Zeda, lifting her arms to embrace him. As Zeda stood motionless, head raised haughtily, hands once more at his sides, the girl pressed her pale body against the black silk robe. Her flanks began to move rhythmically. As the red light flickered out, she writhed with one last, frenzied thrusting, then shuddered, satiated. As she slumped, Zeda raised his right arm to support her. Her torso arched back across his arm, inert. Her blond hair fell straight down over pink-crested breasts. Now Zeda moved his left arm behind her knees, lifting the limp body, holding it displayed, just above the black-on-black catafalque.

  At that instant, the second brazier erupted with a sudden flare of white light, blinding bright, limning the girl’s body with a harsh, obscene brilliance.

  Leonard had slipped behind the second brazier, scattering his magic powder into the guttering orange flames.

  Only magnesium could produce that quick, blinding glare. Aluminum oxide had probably accounted for the crimson flame.

  As the audience gasped, then began to murmur, I turned to Ann. “Let’s go.”

  “Go?” she whispered incredulously.

  “Yes. Now. Right now.”

  “But—”

  “Come on, Ann. This is business. I want to get out of here while the lights are still down.” I got to my feet and walked to the black velvet curtain, parting it for Ann. The foyer was deserted; the girl with the ghoulish eyes had disappeared. I opened the heavy front door, waited for Ann, and finally closed the door behind us. I took her arm, turning her toward my car, parked at the end of the block.

  “What is it, Frank?” she demanded. “What’s wro
ng?”

  “I don’t have time to explain,” I answered, gripping her arm and hurrying her along, “but you’re going to have to help me.” At the car, I opened the passenger’s door. A frown was gathering between Ann’s eyes as she turned toward me. Her small chin was stubbornly set.

  I drew a deep, exasperated sigh. “I told you this was partly business, tonight,” I said sharply, “and now it turns out that Zeda is a murder suspect. I don’t have time now to explain it to you. But I want you to do exactly as I say. And I don’t want to argue with you about it. Now—” I pointed to the car’s interior. I want you to get in there and lock yourself in. I’ve got to find a phone, quick. I’m going to call in for assistance. It’ll take me five minutes. Maybe ten. While I’m gone, I want you to keep track of how many people come out of Zeda’s. I want you to count them. Carefully. Is that clear?”

  I saw her swallow. Contritely, she nodded.

  “All right. Now, as I say, I won’t be gone for more than ten minutes, at the outside. And, while I’m gone, there won’t be any danger to you—none. Otherwise, I wouldn’t leave you. But, just to be safe, I want to make this clear: You aren’t to leave the car. You aren’t to unlock the doors or roll down the windows. Now, do you understand?”

  “Y—” She swallowed again. “Yes.” Then, with pixy-lit eyes, she said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on, get in the car.” I gripped her arm, intending to push her inside. But instead I drew her quickly to me, kissing her lightly on the forehead, then shoving her inside. As I straightened, I heard the door lock click.

  “If anyone bothers you,” I said through the window, “blow the horn. Don’t open the door. Just blow the horn.”

  She nodded.

  The thirty-six-hundred block of Sacramento was a polyglot neighborhood, residential and commercial. Some of the stores were on the way up, some on the way down. The houses followed the same pattern. All the buildings were attached, each sharing a common wall with its neighbor. At nine o’clock, the only lighted sign I could see nearby was a bar, a block and a half away. Walking as fast as I could, I covered the distance in less than a minute. The small tavern was jammed with a noisy neighborhood crowd, celebrating Friday night. A bleary-eyed man was propped inside the single phone booth, gesturing broadly as he talked. I turned to the crowded bar, impatiently waiting for the bartender to look in my direction. I caught his eye, beckoned to him, and showed him the shield, asking for his phone. Reluctantly, he motioned me behind the bar, setting the telephone on a water-pooled drain counter, half covered with inverted glasses. I dialed Communications, and was put through to Homicide. But Friday night was taking its usual toll: we’d had two barroom knifings and a streetcorner shooting. Only Sigler was on duty, catching the calls.

  “Want me to round up a crew?” he asked.

  “Where’s Lieutenant Friedman?”

  “He’s at home. He—” Sigler hesitated. “He’s playing bridge.”

  “I’ll call him. Keep your line clear until you hear back from Friedman.”

  “Yessir.”

  I broke the connection and dialed Friedman’s home. As I listened to the phone ringing, I checked the time. Seven minutes had elapsed.

  “Hello?” It was Pete’s voice,

  In thirty seconds, speaking in a low voice, I explained the situation. “I’ve got Ann in the car, watching the front door,” I finished. “I’ve got to get back.”

  “I’ll send you a crew. What’d you want?”

  “Three inspectors and two black-and-white backup units. Tell the black-and-white units to park at either end of the thirty-six-hundred block of Sacramento Street, lights out. Zeda’s house is in the center of the block. Tell the inspectors to meet me at”—I hesitated, thinking of Ann—“at my car, I guess. I’m at the east end of the block.”

  “Roger. Do you want me to come out?”

  “No. But stand by. And call Sigler. He’s catching.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded to the hard-eyed bartender, and walked outside. On the sidewalk I paused momentarily, fearful that a patron of the bar might have overheard my conversation and would follow me, rubbernecking. A single rubbernecker miraculously attracts a dozen. But no one came out. As I walked toward my car, I checked the time again. Twelve minutes had passed. The street was almost deserted. The neighborhood was marginal. A woman alone in a car was taking a risk.

  As I passed Zeda’s house, I saw his front door open. Three members of his audience came out, all well dressed. The girl with the ghoulish eyes was closing the blood-red door behind the trio. Chatting quietly, the two men and one woman turned toward me, walking slowly. I passed them with eyes averted, making for my car, parked at the far end of the block. Ann was seated on the passenger’s side. In the half darkness, her eyes were wide.

  “Those three make twenty-nine,” she whispered timidly.

  “Good.” I looked at her, smiling suddenly. Whispering playfully, I hissed, “You don’t have to whisper. We’ve got ’em cornered now.”

  “Well, she said primly, “the way you were manhandling me, I didn’t know what was happening.”

  Still smiling, I turned my gaze toward the still-darkened house. “Maybe I can get you one of those medals for civilian heroism. If you can think of some way to butter me up, that is.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “I’ll let you know. Maybe you can—”

  Again Zeda’s door opened. Two women came out, both middle-aged.

  “There’s one more left,” I said. “There were thirty-two spectators, all together.”

  “Frank, what’s happening? What’s it all about?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Not now. All you’ve got to do is follow instructions. It’ll all be over in a few minutes. With luck.”

  At that moment, a black-and-white car turned into the block, proceeding slowly. I rolled down my window, and surreptitiously nodded as the two patrolmen passed. I didn’t recognize them, but they knew me. In the mirror, I watched them swing a U-turn in the next block, so that they could park facing Zeda’s house. They switched off their lights. As the second black-and-white car cruised by, heading for our end of the block, I saw the last member of Zeda’s audience leave. With luck, only four people remained inside: Zeda, Leonard, the girl with the ghoulish eyes and the girl on the catafalque. As the second car took up its position directly across the street from us, I turned to Ann.

  “All you have to do is stay here,” I said. “Just sit tight, like you did just now. There’s absolutely no danger. None at all. You’re safer right here, with that squad car, than you’d be anywhere else in the city. But to make certain nothing goes wrong, I want you to lock the door and keep the windows up. Clear?”

  “Yes.” She nodded impatiently. “I will. I promise. But it’s not fair for you not to tell me what’s—”

  “We’re going to take Zeda and the headsman into custody.” With my gaze on the blood-red door, I spoke brusquely over my shoulder. “That’s all—repeat, all—that I’m going to tell you, at least for now. If there aren’t any hitches, we can still have a nightcap, maybe.”

  As I spoke, Canelli’s decrepit Ford station wagon turned into the block. I motioned for him to park, then come to our car. Seeing Ann, he grinned, transparently surprised and pleased. Canelli liked Ann.

  “Hi,” he said, slipping in beside her.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He looked across at me. “What’s doing, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.” I pointed ahead. A cruiser with two figures was pulling to a stop just ahead of us. “There’s the last two men. Come on, Canelli. Let’s get in the back seat of the cruiser.”

  “Oh. Right.” He clambered hastily to the sidewalk, smiled a last shy smile at Ann, and went to the unmarked car.

  I followed him into the rear seat. I recognized Vasconcelles, from Bunco, but not his partner, who was introduced as Greer. As I continued to watch the red door, I quickly outli
ned the situation, carefully explaining that I was acting on suspicion, not proof. Felons weren’t involved—or as far as we knew, guns.

  “Still,” I said, “there’s a possibility we’ve got a murderer in there, so don’t take any chances. But I don’t think we want to go busting in with shotguns.” I looked inquiringly at Vasconcelles, who nodded in judicious agreement. Vasconcelles was almost ready for retirement. His judgment was sound.

  “Okay,” I said. “Canelli and I will take the front. We know the layout. You two take the back.” I consulted my watch. “We’ll wait two minutes.”

  Agreeing, the two Bunco men got out of the car and crossed the street, walking with affected nonchalance. By the time I’d gotten a Communications radio hookup with Friedman, checking in, the two minutes had passed. I motioned for Canelli to get out of the car.

  Twenty-two

  AS THE DOOR OPENED, Canelli and I separated, unbuttoning our raincoats and jackets, easing our hands between the folds of clothing toward our guns.

  The girl with the ghoulish eyes stood before us, frowning now.

  “We’d like to see Zeda, please.” I stepped forward.

  “Sorry, the revel’s over. Write a note.”

  I showed her my shield. “This is police business.” I pointed to a baroque hallway chair. “Sit down. Stay put.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ. Not again.” She flounced to the chair, deeply aggrieved.

  “Where’s Zeda?” Canelli asked her.

  She gestured irritably to the door leading back to the rear of the house. “He’s probably already in bed. He’s pretty pooped, you know, after one of these things.” She frowned. “Pretty exhausted.”

  “Where’s Leonard?”

  Her eyes moved to the black velvet curtain. The curtain was closed.

  “He’s in there.” Her voice was hushed. “But—” She decided not to finish it.