“What was he doing with the gun, Mr. Kirsch?” I gestured for Harris to hand me the suspect’s revolver. “Here, look. This is the gun he was carrying. Have you ever seen it before?”
Listlessly Mr. Kirsch glanced at the gun. His hands hung dangling loosely between his knees.
“It looks like Charlie’s gun—Charlie Powell. Leo’s old man.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I don’t know nothing about guns; they all look the same to me.”
“Is Mr. Powell home now?”
“I guesso. I don’t know; I didn’t come from home. I was shopping. Buying some food, up at the corner. But Charlie, he’s probably sleeping it off. He came home last night gassed, like he does about half the time. Then he starts knocking the old lady around, like he does. So he’s probably sleeping it off. I dunno. I left the house about ten o’clock this morning. I thought I heard them arguing, but I wasn’t sure. Usually Charlie, after he gets gassed, he sleeps all morning. Especially Fridays. That’s his day off. Friday. He goes out Thursdays and gets gassed. Then, on Fridays, he sleeps.”
“Was Leo in their apartment this morning, do you know?”
“I guesso. He quit school, I understand, last week. He’s been looking for a job. But—” Mr. Kirsch hesitated, his wayward glance straying back toward the body. “But it’s pretty tough, you know, for someone like Leo to get a job.”
“Why’s that?” Friedman asked.
“Because he’s, you know, deaf and dumb. Has been, all his life. Well—” He gripped the railing, pulling himself upright. “I better get home, see what I can do for Charlie and his old lady. When he’s not drinking, Charlie’s all right.”
Friedman and I exchanged a glance.
“We’ll send someone with you,” Pete said quietly. “A couple of men.”
“Okay.” Mr. Kirsch shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He got to his feet, half turned toward the body, then caught himself. “What’d you suppose Leo was doing with the gun, anyhow?” he asked Friedman. “Robbing someone, or something?”
“Let’s go over to your place, Mr. Kirsch.” Friedman took his arm.
I watched Mr. Kirsch clumping stoop-shouldered down the stairs, followed by Friedman. Then I looked at Lloyd. The handsome patrolman was staring down at the tattered stairway carpeting. He was thoughtfully frowning.
3
“WELL,” CAPTAIN KREIGER SAID, carefully sprinkling Parmesan cheese into his minestrone. “You’ve had a pretty busy morning.”
Not replying, I sipped my coffee.
“Friedman’s taking care of the reports and procedures on that Leo Powell thing,” he said. “All he’ll need from you is a routine report. Any time today. Or tomorrow, for that matter.”
“All right. How’s Blackman doing?”
“Fine. Most of his symptoms were shock, according to the doctor. The bullet didn’t damage anything vital. It was only a .22. Luckily. It nicked a little of the intestine, but nothing else.”
“That’s good.” I was staring off across the restaurant. Then, surprised, I realized that I’d been thinking of absolutely nothing. I blinked, shifted in my chair and focused my attention on Kreiger. He’d been watching me, his eyes speculative.
“It’s too bad,” he said slowly, “about that Powell kid. Still, it almost sounds like he’s better off dead. He’d’ve had to get around being a deaf-mute, and then get around killing his father, no matter which way it went for him in court.”
I still said nothing. I could never measure the depth of Kreiger’s compassion. His expression seldom changed; his face almost never betrayed anger, or pleasure, or pain. He often smiled, but the pleasure was always very private. Yet over the years a single cryptic, dispassionate phrase of Kreiger’s sometimes seemed to sum up everything that was bad about police work, and still leave some of the good.
I’d known Kreiger for more than twenty years, off and on. Our lives in some ways had developed almost identically. Yet the results, for me, had been so different—sometimes so disastrous. We’d both gone to college on football scholarships. We’d both been drafted into the Army in the spring of 1943. We’d both played football in the Army, then become M.P. lieutenants late in the war. We got out of the Army, went back to college—and played football. We’d kept in touch. Kreiger had played tackle for Minnesota; I’d played linebacker for Stanford. We’d both gotten honorable mention in our senior years.
But that’s when it all began to change. After his M.P. experience, Kreiger had changed his major to criminology. He married Nancy in his senior year. They moved to San Francisco, started a family and decided never to leave. At forty-four, Kreiger was still physically squared off. He could press two hundred pounds in the police gym, and I never saw him hit a man more than once. Without a doubt, Kreiger would be the next chief of detectives.
I’d graduated in business administration—still specializing in football—coasting through classes, finding the real meaning of college in sports clippings, fraternity parties and the back seats of convertibles.
After college I’d gone with the Lions, first as a second stringer, next as a third stringer, finally as a free agent, on my own. Out of a job. But by that time I’d made my second mistake. I’d married Carolyn. We’d—
“—don’t look like you’re enjoying that coffee much,” Kreiger was saying.
I lowered the cup into the saucer, shrugging. “Like you say, it’s been a busy day.”
He sipped two spoonfuls of minestrone, allowed perhaps a full half-minute to pass, and then said in a slightly more official tone, “I meant it when I said that Pete’s handling the Leo Powell thing, Frank. Don’t worry about it; don’t waste your time thinking about it. With the Maria Gonzales murder and this new case, you’ll have plenty to do, plenty to think about. But—” He hesitated, eating a deviled egg in one large, precise bite. “But I want your reconstruction of what happened with Leo Powell. Just for my own information—unofficially.”
“Well, unofficially, I’d say that Leo Powell’s father got home last night drunk and started beating up on his wife. Then, this morning, they started in again. To me, just looking at the two of them in their apartment, I’d say they both clobbered each other pretty good—both of them using something to hit the other with. Then I’d say that at some point Leo got the family gun and shot his old man. Maybe he thought his mother was already dead; it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. That’s what I thought when I first looked at her. So then I think Leo ran out of the apartment, with the gun in his hand. And that’s when Harris and Byrnes spotted him, purely by luck. The rest of it, of course, is cut and dried.”
Kreiger ate his second deviled egg, wiped his mouth, then looked at me directly. “Still unofficially, do you think it was necessary for Lloyd to blast the Powell kid?”
I chewed a mouthful of pastrami and rye, swallowed and said, “We didn’t know until afterward that the kid was a deaf-mute. Under the circumstances, I don’t think Lloyd was wrong.”
“Would you have pulled the trigger, Frank?”
I finished my coffee and signaled the waitress for a refill. “Probably not. But it was all happening pretty fast.”
Kreiger nodded, satisfied. He drained his own coffee cup as the waitress approached. He glanced at his watch, then said, “Have you got anything from the coroner or the lab on Maria Gonzales?”
“No. But I’ll probably have the reports when we get back to the office. I told Culligan I’d be out to the Allingham house between three and five this afternoon. What’s this new assignment, by the way? Pete said it was cushy.”
Kreiger allowed a hint of humor to soften his thoughtful stare. “I don’t know whether ‘cushy’ is the right word. But we’ve just inherited the job from Missing Persons, and it’s a job I want done right. I think you should stay on it for two or three days at least. Personally. Use enough men and really dig.”
“All right. What’s the job?”
“The Carol Connoly disappearance.” He looked at me. “You know the case?”
&
nbsp; “Isn’t she the so-called ‘beautiful young society matron’ who disappeared without a trace a few days ago?”
“Right. Tuesday night. The file’s on your desk right now. Why don’t you look it over before you go out to check on the Gonzales thing, then stop by the Connolys’ afterward? Talk to the woman’s husband.” Kreiger paused, frowning down as he toyed with his teaspoon. “The fact is, this Connoly woman’s husband—his name is Victor Connoly—has been making quite a stink ever since his wife disappeared. I talked to him this morning and told him that Missing Persons had jurisdiction during the first seventy-two hours. So he insisted—” Kreiger took a deep breath, tightly clenching a fist and wrapping his knuckles softly on the table. “He insisted that I have my ‘best man’ at his home this evening. After dinner. And an hour later, I got the same word from the boss.”
“Influence.”
“Right.”
“It doesn’t sound so cushy to me. It sounds more like a Friedman dodge, if you really want my opinion.”
Kreiger’s mouth lifted in a frosty Aryan smile. I’d once told him, joking, that he looked like a Hollywood director’s idea of the perfect Gestapo officer, with his clear blue eyes, close-cropped blond hair and thick neck. Kreiger hadn’t seen the humor.
“Friedman’s supposed to be inside this month,” he answered. “He just happened to have a bad tooth this morning.”
“That tooth’s really bothering him.”
Kreiger glanced at his watch. “He’s at the dentist right now. He got a cancellation for one o’clock.”
I ate my last bite of pastrami and drank the last swallow of my coffee. “What about this Connoly woman? All I know is what I’ve read in the papers.”
Kreiger again checked the time, then watched me with obvious disapproval as I lit a cigarette. He’d decided to quit smoking three years ago, suddenly one afternoon. He didn’t understand why others couldn’t do the same.
“First of all,” he said, “Victor Connoly’s father founded the Connoly Savings and Loan Company. Both of Connoly’s parents are dead, I think, and Victor’s running the business, even though he isn’t much more than thirty-five. If that. Personally, I didn’t care for him much.
“Anyhow, it seems that Tuesday morning Connoly left for Los Angeles, on business. His company has a branch down there, and he’s back and forth all the time. His wife stayed home and apparently went through a completely routine day. But that night, about eight P.M., she went out.”
“Where?”
“To a rehearsal of one of those little theater groups. The name of the group is The Dramatists, and it operates out of one of those old firehouses that’s been remodeled. Apparently she just stayed at the rehearsal for a half hour or so. Then she disappeared. And—” Kreiger spread his hands. “And that’s all there is. Period. End of the report.”
“What’d Missing Persons do?”
“The usual: circulated the mug to the big cities and made routine inquiries locally. In this case, since it wasn’t just some hooker who disappeared, they did the best they could on the routine check. But I don’t have to tell you that Missing Persons is short of staff, so that even their best wasn’t much.”
“What’d they think happened to her?”
“They aren’t speculating.”
“What about her husband?”
“He isn’t speculating either. But he sure as hell wants her found.” Kreiger glanced at his check, then reached for his wallet. “What about the Maria Gonzales murder? How’s it look?”
“There wasn’t enough information when I left. If I had to guess, I’d say she was entertaining a gentleman caller and got herself strangled, then stabbed. She had her own private entrance, and she’s supposed to’ve had a boyfriend. Maybe she had more than one. Also, the multiple stab wounds make it look like a sex killing, like the murderer did it in a frenzy, at least subconsciously trying to mutilate the victim.”
“Was there any actual mutilation?”
“No. But Benson said she might’ve been dead before she was stabbed. Which is a little unusual. Anyhow—” I totaled my own check and counted out the money. “Anyhow, I’ll know a lot more when I get the coroner’s report and the lab findings. I’ll see what they say, then go back out to the Allingham house. I’ll look over the Connoly file, too, and interview Mr. Connoly after dinner, to get started. Okay?”
“Fine. By the way, Nancy’s going to have a dinner party a week from tomorrow night. She’s taking up jewelry making, you know, and she’s having her instructor and his wife over, plus some other people from the class. There’ll be eight or nine altogether, I think. Can you come?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I held the door for him, and we went out into the street, walking slowly toward the Hall of Justice, enjoying the warm sun, watching the girls in their thin, short summer dresses. “What time is the party?” I asked.
“Seven, I guess. I’ll let you know. You want to bring someone?”
I shrugged. “Not especially. Nancy might not want me to, anyhow. You know: the unattached bachelor every hostess is supposed to need so desperately.”
He smiled. “I’m afraid Nancy’s about given up on trying to matchmake for you. I keep telling her that someday you’ll call up and announce that you’re getting married. And until then, I tell her, she’ll be the last to know.”
“Tell her not to hold her breath. In three or four more years, you know, I could be a grandfather.”
“What’s that got to do with getting remarried?”
“I don’t know. Except that the last year or so I’ve reluctantly decided that I spend less and less time thinking about the next roll in the hay.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I still remember that Italian girl you stole from me while we were liberating Rome.”
“It wasn’t so much that I stole her; I just outdrank you.”
Realizing that I’d said it, I stopped myself from looking at him, keeping my eyes to the front. It was the first time in years that either of us had spoken of drinking. And even then, that winter afternoon in my apartment, we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words.
How long had it been?
How many years since—
“And then she outdrank you.” His voice was noncommittal, revealing nothing. He glanced with brief annoyance at a passing hot rod, its pipes rapping.
“I was young then,” I muttered. “Three drinks, and I was on my ear.”
He didn’t reply. We were turning into the last block; ahead was the Hall of Justice, an enormous cube of smooth marble, gleaming aluminum and sparkling glass.
Six years, it must have been, since I’d awakened to find Kreiger standing impassively above me. Maybe seven years. We’d still been in the Old Hall, downtown. I’d gone off duty late at night and gone directly home. A girl had called, then come over—a blonde named Kathy. I could still remember her name and her body and her nervous laugh, but I couldn’t remember her face. She’d brought a bottle of bourbon, celebrating, she said, her final decree. I’d refused a drink; she’d insisted, sitting on my lap, squirming, laughing into my face with her boozy breath, twisting to press her eager breasts against my chest.
Again she’d insisted that I have a drink; again I’d refused. And again she’d laughed and urgently kissed me, then tipped her glass to my lips. Something in the combined sensations made me push her aside, slopping her drink down my shirt front. I’d gotten to my feet, stared at her in a mute fury of disgust, then poured myself a drink silently.
Kathy—my faceless friend.
The next afternoon, I’d opened my eyes to see Kreiger staring down at me. He said, very quietly, that he was off duty, acting privately. Then, just as quietly, he told me to turn in my badge and my gun if I ever again took more than one drink. Then he’d turned and—
“—going to take the last week of my vacation this month,” he was saying as we climbed the broad granite steps of the Hall. “I think we might try Carmel. Off-season it shouldn’t be so expensive.”
; I nodded, pushing open the big glass door. “The weather down there’s good this time of year, too,” I answered. “Better than the summer. Just like it is here.”
Silently Kreiger nodded, pressing the elevator’s “up” button.
4
AS I PRESSED THE BELL, I slipped the shield case from my pocket, then stood back to scan the Connoly house. It was a large, elaborate English Tudor, three stories, done in artificial used brick, artificially aged timber and a genuine slate roof. Value: at least a hundred thousand dollars, probably more. The Connolys and the Allinghams were obviously in the same income bracket.
The heavy oak door swung open, revealing a slim Negro girl dressed in gleaming servant white.
“I’m Lieutenant Hastings.” I flipped down the shield. “Mr. Connoly is expecting me.”
“Oh, yes. Come in, Lieutenant.” Her voice was soft, her dark eyes quick and appraising. She walked in front of me to a paneled study—the first room off the wide reception hall. It was a small, ostentatiously understated room dominated by a leather-topped antique desk, two oxblood leather lounge chairs and floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books.
“Sit down, Lieutenant. Mr. Connoly will be with you in a few minutes.” She gestured to one of the leather chairs.
“Thank you.” I watched her trim hips sway as she left the room, closing the door softly. I sighed, settled back in the deep chair and yawned as I allowed my gaze to traverse the study idly. Upstairs the faint note of a child’s voice sounded plaintively. Had the Missing Persons report mentioned a child? I couldn’t remember.
I yawned again, then took my notebook from a side pocket, leafing to the last few pages, where I’d tried to summarize the Maria Gonzales case. Tomorrow, if I went down to the office, I would write a covering report, supplementing Culligan’s.
The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 3