The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “He’d agree with you,” I said shortly. “I’ve already mentioned it.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “He says that the chief wants it this way. Public relations. Part of the new departmental image.”

  He grimaced. “And the chief, no doubt, has been talking to our brand-new mayor-elect. Mr. Public Relations himself.”

  I shrugged, abruptly dropping a paperweight on a stack of miscellaneous unclassified documents and letters.

  “You’re not going off duty after all,” Friedman said, examining his cigar’s precarious ash. “You’re going to tough it out—dig up a news item. With three hours’ sleep.”

  “I’m going to tough it out until five o’clock. Just like you are.”

  “How’s your case look?”

  “Not as good as yours. All you’ve got to do is find the Moresco girl’s pimp, and you’ll come up a hero.”

  “You don’t have any leads on that housewife thing, eh?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What was her name, anyhow?”

  “Draper. Susan Draper.” I got to my feet. “Which is where I’m going: the Draper house. Are you going to sit there and smoke, or do you want to walk down to the elevator?”

  Not bothering to reply, Friedman heaved himself to his feet and followed me out of the office, trailing cigar ashes.

  2

  I PULLED TO A stop, set the brake, then checked my watch. The time was 3:50 P.M. I had exactly an hour in which to concoct a news item for the captain’s news conference.

  I sat behind the wheel for a moment, surveying the scene of the Draper murder: a narrow one-story stucco row house, one of thousands built during the late thirties and early forties. I’d lived my first seventeen years in San Francisco. I could remember watching those row houses slowly, inexorably propagating themselves like long, segmented worms, finally covering the wide, rolling sand dunes, my own private wonderland. As a small child, I’d chased howling, war-painted Indians across those dunes. As a teenager, parked on a freshly paved, sand-dusted street, surrounded by the bare nighttime skeletons of half-finished houses, I’d first touched the warm, secret flesh of Jacqueline Grant. We’d been fifteen. Earlier in the day—a Sunday—I’d first seen my name in print. As a sophomore fullback, I’d made the varsity squad, second string. Derek Rawlings had come by for me in his wheezing, chugging Model A. Both wearing our letter sweaters—mine two days old—we’d picked up Derek’s girl friend, then Jacqueline. The four of us had spent the long, sunny Sunday together, riding in the Model A, sprawling on the beach, chasing each other, prancing through the surf. Later, as we awkwardly, ardently strained together in the anonymous darkness of the car’s rear seat, I’d been conscious of the smell of salt water and sweat and the urgent musk of love—Jacqueline’s and mine, mingled.

  I sighed, blinking my eyes against the burning of last night’s fatigue—and against the unexpected sharpness of sensations remembered almost thirty years later.

  She’d be forty-three now. My age.

  I got out of the cruiser, locking the door. I’d parked across the street from the Draper house, and I stood for a moment surveying the scene. Daylight made a difference. Daylight, and the muted shouts of playing children, and the endless row of look-alike houses, each of them built on a twenty-five-foot lot, a hundred feet deep, each with precisely three inches of air space separating it from its neighbor, according to the city code. Most of the houses were fussily well kept, with elaborate drapery at the front windows. The Draper house, though, didn’t quite match up. The small front lawn was pale green, splotched with brown. The border plantings were only half tended. A small pane of glass in the garage door was broken.

  A patrol car was parked directly in front of the house, a patrolman slumped behind the wheel. When he recognized me, he sat up abruptly. He was a young, lean, serious-looking cop, and I saw him swallowing as he half saluted, tentatively smiling.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  “Hi. Anything doing?”

  “Nothing, Lieutenant. They haven’t left the house, either the husband or the little girl. Haven’t peeped out, either. Not since I came on, anyhow.”

  “When was that?”

  “One P.M.”

  “Anyone try to get inside?”

  “A couple of reporters and one neighbor. A few kids, too, and a paperboy. None of them gave me any trouble, though.”

  “Did the neighbor look all right?”

  “As far as I could see—just a woman. I mean—” He cleared his throat, glancing sideways at me, then shrugging uncertainly. “I mean, she was a little fat, wearing a housedress and run-over shoes. And she went back to her house, three doors down, there. So—” Again he shrugged, raising his hand from the steering wheel, gesturing down the block.

  I nodded. “Okay. Good. Where’s Inspector Markham?”

  He pointed across the street, indicating a pink stucco house trimmed in gleaming white. “Inspector Markham’s been over there for about forty-five minutes or so. Inspector Sigler went down to the Welfare Department, where the victim works. Worked, I mean.”

  I nodded again. “Tell Inspector Markham I’m going to talk to Mr. Draper. Do you happen to know the little girl’s name—the victim’s daughter?”

  “Gee, I don’t, Lieutenant. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. Is the back covered?”

  “Yessir. My partner’s back there. I mean, he’s actually in the basement, where he can see the back door.”

  “Okay. See you in a few minutes.”

  I walked around the car, heading for the Drapers’ front door. As I walked, I was recalling the details of last night’s preliminary investigation: She’d apparently been an ordinary, average housewife, age thirty-two, comfortably married, a working mother. Name, Susan Draper. Medium build, medium features. Brunette. She’d gone out about eight-thirty P.M., heading for a Sunday night movie, leaving-her husband home to mind the only child, a daughter. The husband put the daughter to bed at about nine, then watched TV until approximately midnight, when he retired. He read for a few minutes, then slipped off to sleep, still with the bedroom light on. He awoke at approximately 1:15 A.M. He didn’t know whether anything had awakened him, or whether he’d just opened his eyes. His wife wasn’t there. He decided to check on her, and went to the garage, using an inside stairway to the ground-level basement-garage, which extended the full width and length of the house. He discovered that he’d neglected to unbolt the inside access door to the garage, so that his wife had to enter the house by the front door, passing through the narrow, thickly planted tunnel entrance, then climbing the outside stairs to the front door.

  Entering the garage, Mr. Draper found the car parked, the overhead garage door closed and locked. He’d slid the door up and left it open, intending to reenter the house as he’d left it, locking up behind. He’d walked to his right a few paces, then turned into the tunnel entrance leading up to the front door. The entrance was planted with large, broad-leafed plants, growing thickly. Mr. Draper had immediately seen his wife’s feet protruding from the shrubbery. She’d been lying on her back, eyes open, staring straight up. Her purse had been torn from her arm, its strap broken. The wallet from the purse had been taken; the purse had been discarded at the scene. Mrs. Draper had been hit repeatedly on the head, probably with an iron pipe. Her husband had phoned Taraval Station a little after one-thirty.

  Now, standing in the tunnel entrance, I saw the six-inch bloodstain on the sidewalk and the brown spatterings on the nearby foliage. According to the coroner, she’d probably been hit first on the right side of the skull as she was preparing to ascend the first step leading up to the front door. Her assailant, then, had been hiding in the shrubbery, waiting—the familiar mugger’s M.O.

  Except that muggings, statistically, seldom end in murder.

  Perhaps she’d struggled, or cried out. Perhaps he’d hit her first to quiet her down—then lost control of himself. Either way, considering the close quarters of the
entryway, the murderer must have spattered himself with blood.

  I knelt down to examine the planting area’s soft earth, now completely reproduced in interlocking plaster casts. Markham’s preliminary report indicated that Mr. Draper’s footprints had probably obliterated any meaningful evidence.

  As I climbed the stairs my legs were heavy, my feet lagged. With three hours’ sleep, I owed myself an evening in pajamas, watching an hour of TV, then going to bed for ten hours.

  Mr. Draper answered the door on my second ring. He was a stocky man of medium height, dressed in slippers, casual slacks and a pullover fisherman’s sweater. He was probably in his middle thirties, with blond hair thinning in front, worn long over his ears and thick at the back of his neck. He was a handsome, restless-looking man. His eyes were brown and wide-set. His mouth was wide and firm, but somehow too perfect: an actor’s mouth. His manner, I’d decided last night, was petty and self-indulgent. He probably had a quick, unpredictable temper and an inflated idea of his own importance—a vain, hollow man, essentially weak. Last night he’d done little more than stare down at his toes, slowly shaking his head, constantly mumbling that he must be dreaming.

  Now he was frowning at me, as if he was trying to focus his eyes. He seemed puzzled, vague—in delayed shock. He didn’t recognize me.

  I took off my hat, then introduced myself, apologizing for the intrusion. Still, I said, there were questions that must be asked, the sooner the better.

  Sighing deeply, raggedly, he abruptly turned away, walking into the living room, leaving me to close the front door. He slumped down on a sofa, gesturing me to a facing chair. Shakily he took a cigarette from a crumpled pack lying on the cluttered, glass-ringed coffee table.

  “I’ll be as brief as I can, Mr. Draper,” I began. “Last night—this morning, really—you weren’t up to answering any questions for us. And for that matter, we weren’t really sure what we needed to ask. Now, though, if you’re willing, I’d like to ask you a few things.”

  As I’d been talking, he’d stared fixedly into my eyes, but I had the impression that he wasn’t really listening. Now, as soon as I stopped speaking, his head dropped, as if it had been held erect by my words alone.

  “Have you found him yet?” he mumbled, sucking on the cigarette. “Have you found out who did it?”

  “Not yet, Mr. Draper.”

  “Do you think you will?”

  “I can’t really answer that, except to say that it may depend on how much you can help us.”

  He raised his head slowly, meeting my eyes. The process seemed to require great effort.

  “How can I help?” As he said it, his handsome face seemed to be shrinking on itself. The eyes were suddenly more prominent; the actor’s mouth distended. For a moment I thought of Dorian Grey: instant, incredible aging.

  “Inspector Markham showed you her purse, didn’t he?” I asked quietly.

  He nodded.

  “Was anything missing—anything but the wallet?”

  “Not—” He cleared his throat. “Not that I could see. Is—is that important?”

  “It could be important. A lot of these crimes, you see, are committed by narcotics addicts—people desperate for money. They steal whatever they can find, and turn it into money, usually by pawning whatever they steal. So if your wife had a valuable ring, for instance, that had been stolen, it might’ve been a lead for us, because it could turn up in a pawnshop.”

  “Yes. I—I see.”

  “But you can’t recall anything that was missing,” I pressed.

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Have you given Inspector Markham a complete list of her credit cards and charge-a-plate accounts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I allowed a moment to pass, then said, “Her wrist-watch, I noticed, was still on her wrist.”

  Not replying, he abruptly stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, then sat staring sightlessly down at the floor. His hands, resting on his knees, were clenched knuckle-white.

  “The way she was lying,” I said slowly, “the wristwatch was in plain view. I especially noticed it last night, because the angle of light from the street lamp in front of your house made the watch very obvious.”

  His only reaction was to catch his breath sharply, then slowly exhale in a long, ragged sigh.

  “Did your wife have any enemies, Mr. Draper?”

  He slowly, doggedly shook his head. His hands were still tightly clenched.

  “Answer me, please,” I said quietly. “I know it’s a tough time for you. But we need answers. And time may be important.”

  Still shaking his head, he said indistinctly, “No. No enemies.”

  “Your wife worked at the Welfare Department, I understand.”

  “Y—yes.”

  “Was she a social worker?”

  He nodded.

  “And where do you work, Mr. Draper?”

  “I’m a photographer.”

  “Are you employed by anyone?”

  “No. I—I’m self-employed.”

  “Do you work out of your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of photography do you do?”

  He unclenched one fist, vaguely waving a soft, pale hand. “Anything I can get. Portraits, advertising shots. Anything.”

  “Are you reasonably successful, would you say?”

  As if puzzled, he frowned petulantly. “Wh—what’s that got to do with it—whether I’m successful or not?”

  “It’s what we call background information, Mr. Draper. We try to find out everything about a victim—everything about his life, his family situation, his work. Sometimes, when we add it all up, we get a picture that means something.”

  “But—” His puckered, perplexed face now seemed to reflect an almost childlike disappointment. “But you should be out trying to—to find the man. The one who killed her.”

  Ignoring the remark, I sat looking at him steadily, until he finally dropped his eyes. Then, deliberately, I asked, “Were you and your wife on good terms, Mr. Draper?”

  Slowly, wonderingly, he raised his eyes, frowning and blinking, as if he couldn’t comprehend. Then the muscles of his face began to bunch together in a twitching imitation of righteous, outraged anger.

  “Of course we were on good terms.” He hesitated, then: “We—we were married. For ten years.”

  I suppressed a smile. As a motive for murder, marriage topped the list. I said, “You were on good terms with your wife, then. You never fought.”

  “Well—” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But we—”

  “What about yesterday, Mr. Draper? Was it a usual day? A normal Sunday?”

  For a moment he simply looked at me as if he hadn’t heard. Then, allowing his head to sink, he mumbled, “Perfectly normal.”

  “Did you stay home all day? The family, I mean.”

  “Yes. It—it was raining. Besides, we were wrapping Christmas presents. Susan—my wife—wanted to get some presents off today. To her folks, in St. Louis.”

  “So nothing unusual happened yesterday? Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nobody left the house until about eight-thirty, when your wife went to the movies.”

  He nodded.

  “I was wondering,” I said slowly, “why your wife went to the movies alone.”

  “To save on baby-sitting,” he said dully. “We took turns.”

  I nodded, studying him silently—until he again dropped his eyes, fumbling for another cigarette. Then I reached for my hat, perched on a corner of the coffee table.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll be on my way. If we discover anything, we’ll be sure and let you know. I suppose you’re going to be here in the house.”

  “Yes, I—I guess so. I—I really can’t—” He didn’t finish it, shakily lighting the cigarette.

  I fingered the crease in my hat, watching him as he sucked ravenously at the cigarette, drawing a glowing quarter-inch,
deeply exhaling. Then, taking the cigarette from his mouth, he studied the burning end intently, oblivious to me. I saw him begin to swallow rapidly, at the same time blinking and frowning, his face and forehead glistening with sweat.

  “If I hadn’t bolted that door when she left,” he said indistinctly, still staring at the cigarette, “she’d be alive right now. It was my fault—all my fault.”

  I looked at him a moment, then rose to my feet. “Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Draper. Everyone in the world. I’ll be going now. We’ll be in touch with you whenever we find out anything.”

  He nodded loosely, then shook his head, and slowly, mechanically, raised the cigarette up to his mouth, as if the process required all his concentration and most of his strength.

  I let myself out, closing the door softly behind me. As I was descending the front steps, I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask about the little girl, whose name I still didn’t know.

  3

  MARKHAM WAS SITTING IN the back seat of my car, listening to the radio. I slid into the front seat, twisting to face him.

  “Anything?” I asked, nodding to the radio as I turned down the volume.

  “No.”

  I glanced at my watch: 4:25 P.M. Twenty minutes, and I’d have to find a phone, report to Kreiger. I put my hat on the seat beside me, then slowly massaged my closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. Markham, I knew, hadn’t had any more sleep than I’d had. But at twenty-eight he looked alert and clear-eyed, on top of the job. Which was another reason, I thought wryly, for not liking Markham. That, and his cold, vicious temper. He’d been on report twice during the past three years for using unnecessary force subduing suspects in custody. Both the suspects had been black. One had gone to the hospital with a ruptured spleen. The other eventually died.