Seeing Canelli’s eyes sharpen and shift, Hastings turned, saw Jason Pfiefer striding purposefully toward him. Pfiefer wore green “scrubs,” the enveloping green plastic gown that was the surgeon’s operating-room uniform. As Hastings rose to his feet, Canelli touched Dolores’s forearm.
“I don’t have much time, Lieutenant.” Pfiefer made it sound like a warning.
As he took a deliberate moment to look the man over, Hastings realized that Pfiefer and John Hanchett and Clayton Vance—and, yes, Fred Bell—all fitted one catch-all description: about five foot ten or eleven, about a hundred seventy pounds, with a full head of hair. Put the four men in a lineup, dress them in dark watch caps and fake mustaches, dye Vance’s hair darker, and a witness could flip a coin.
“Well?” Pfiefer demanded. “What’s the problem this time?”
“There’s no problem, Doctor.” Aware of the satisfaction it gave him, Hastings allowed himself a small, false smile of bogus reassurance. Then, quietly: “It’s just that there’s been another murder, Wednesday night. We think it’s connected to the Hanchett murder.”
“And so?”
“And so we’re wondering whether you could help us?”
“Help you? How?” The dark, remorseless eyes bored in.
Somehow, Hastings realized, he’d been put on the defensive. It was one of Pfiefer’s talents—one of his many talents.
“Well,” Hastings said, “you could start by telling me where you were the night before last—Wednesday night—at about eight o’clock.”
“I can’t tell you, Lieutenant. At least not with any precision.”
“Were you here? Working?”
“No.” Pfiefer raised his wrist, frowned as he worked at the elastic that secured the surgical gown’s cuff, finally succeeded in exposing his wristwatch. “No,” he repeated. “I wasn’t here. Now you’ll have to excuse me.” He turned abruptly and walked to the reception desk, where he talked briefly with the nurse on duty. As they talked, the nurse stole a significant look at Hastings. Then, obviously having received a curt order, she nodded.
Hastings rose, caught Canelli’s eye, then turned and walked to the bank of doors that opened onto the street. They would talk outside.
10:57 AM
“With that beard,” Dolores complained, “what can I tell you?”
“You can imagine how he’d look without it,” Hastings said.
She shrugged. “I tried that. I came up with a blank. You want the truth, that’s the truth. Listen”—she tapped her wristwatch—“I’ve got to go. It’s an appointment, at eleven-thirty. I’ve got to—”
Annoyed, Hastings interrupted, “I told you we’ve got to do this. There’s still one more guy. He sells Jaguars. The showroom’s ten minutes from here. We can—”
“But I can’t.” Her voice was plaintive, thinned by something that could be anxiety. As if to confirm it, her eyes widened.
Was it anxiety or a different, subtler con? She was resourceful, Hastings had decided. And smart.
Determined, she began again: “I’ve got to—”
Implacable now, remorseless, Hastings cut in again: “I told you to make arrangements at the bar where you work. I warned you.”
“It’s not the bar.” As she spoke, she dropped her eyes, shook her head. Watching her, Hastings realized that today Dolores was wearing high heels, a skirt, a white blouse, and a light jumper that complemented the skirt. Her jewelry was understated. She was telling the truth, then; it wasn’t the bar. In these clothes, she would never tend bar.
Now her manner was subdued as she repeated, “It’s not the bar.” As she spoke, she met Hastings’s gaze squarely. She wanted something from him—something different, something she didn’t know how to ask for.
Or was it a new game? Dolores, experimenting with the oldest con of all: sex.
Jeans and a leather jacket and tough talk had worked on Canelli. Did she think a skirt and heels would tempt Hastings?
“I’m sorry, Dolores. But this is homicide we’re talking about. I’m not going to—”
Suddenly she flared: “It’s my kid, goddamn you. He—they’ve got him in juvie, the fuckers.” Back arched, fists clenched, eyes bright with a sudden rage she couldn’t control, she faced him like an angered animal: the elemental mother, ready to do battle.
Then, just as suddenly, she began to sob. Stricken, Canelli looked to Hastings for guidance. Taken aback, Hastings blinked, shrugged, helplessly spread his hands. Canelli turned to the woman, moved a single step closer. Her body rigid, arms locked straight down at her sides, fists still tightly clenched, she stood with her chin defiantly raised, tears streaking her face. Mascara was beginning to dissolve beneath her eyes. Tentatively, Canelli touched her shoulder.
“Hey, Dolores, come on …” Awkwardly, Canelli patted her upper arm. “Hey—what’d you mean, ‘juvie’?”
“I mean that his prick of a father deals drugs, that’s what I mean. And the—goddamn sonofabitching fucker, he used my kid to carry, that’s what I mean.” She turned to confront Canelli, the swell of her breasts inches from Canelli’s chest. “What’d you think I mean? I mean he’s in jail, you—you—” Now she shook her head sharply, dug angry fists into both eyes. The mascara was badly smeared. Hastings realized she would be furious at them for seeing the mess the makeup had made of her face. Especially, she would be furious with Canelli. It was Canelli’s fate. During the confrontation, a dozen passersby had skirted them, most with their eyes studiously averted. A few, however, frowned at Canelli—and a few more muttered disapprovingly.
“Well—jeez …” Canelli spread his hands. “Jeez, juvie’s not exactly jail, Dolores. I mean, kids go to juvie for all kinds of—”
“There’re perverts in there.” As she spoke, her voice choked with anger, she rose on her toes, forced Canelli to step back. “One night in that hole, and a kid is ruined. Ruined. For life. They’re—”
“Is his father in custody?” Asking the question, Hastings carefully pitched his voice to a neutral, disinterested tone.
She turned away from Canelli to face Hastings. But Canelli had taken a handkerchief from his pocket. Hesitantly he touched her arm again. “Listen, Dolores, your, uh, your makeup, it’s—it’s kind of smeared. Why don’t you—?”
She snatched the handkerchief, wiped at her face, stared balefully at the stained handkerchief. She refolded the handkerchief, vigorously blew her nose. Then she turned toward a nearby trash receptacle, cocking her arm to throw. Surprised and aggrieved, Canelli raised a hand in protest. But, unaware of the gesture, she hesitated, set her jaw, angrily thrust the bedraggled handkerchief into a side pocket of her purse.
“Is he in custody?” Hastings asked.
“No. His pusher, he was busted. And Oscar, too.”
“Oscar?” Puzzled, Canelli frowned. “Who’s Oscar?”
“He’s my kid,” she flared. “My kid. Who’d you think?”
“Ah.” Placating her with his sheepish smile, Canelli nodded. “Oscar.” He shrugged. “Nice name.”
“What’s the matter with Oscar? What’re you, some kind of an authority or something?”
“What’s the pusher’s name?” Hastings asked. “The one that got busted. What’s his name?”
“His name’s Santos. Raúl Santos.” Once more, she rounded on Canelli. “I suppose you don’t like that, either,” she said bitterly. “Raúl. I suppose you think that’s funny too.”
“What’s your kid’s last name?” Hastings asked.
“It’s Chavez,” she said defiantly. “Just like mine.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s nine.” As she said it her voice fell, her body began to slacken. Sadness was smothering her rush of anger. “Only nine. Jesus …” She took out Canelli’s handkerchief, found a fresh spot, blew her nose again. As she replaced the handkerchief she looked defiantly at Canelli—who smiled uncertainly.
“What’re the particulars?” Hastings asked.
“Particulars?”
“How’d the arrest come down? What actually happened?”
“It happened about seven-thirty this morning.”
“Seven-thirty in the morning?” Canelli was incredulous.
Her first response was instinctive anger. But, as if she’d lost the will to make the effort, she let her head drop as she nodded, saying, “The son of a bitch, he was parked on the street, waiting for Oscar. He was walking to school. Oscar, I mean. And Freddy was parked a couple of blocks from the school. He told Oscar to—
“Freddy’s Oscar’s father,” Hastings interrupted.
“Yeah.” Deeply resigned, she nodded. “Yeah—his father. The prick.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Alfredo Fernandez.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
“Well, Freddy gave Oscar a paper sack. Like it was his lunch, you know—with an apple and a sandwich and everything. And he told Oscar that a guy in a black Corvette—Raúl Santos—would be parked a block away. And when Oscar gave Santos the sack—just tossed it through the window, onto the seat—then he’d get a dollar. But they were following Santos, I guess. The narcs. Because about eight-thirty, something like that, my doorbell rings, and it’s two narcs. And they tell me Oscar’s on his way to juvie.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to us before?” Hastings asked.
For the first time she answered him fully, without anger or calculation—only exhaustion, and visibly deepening despair. “I didn’t see any point. How would it help to tell you? I figured …” Dispiritedly, she let it go unfinished. Hastings allowed a long, speculative moment to pass as he stared at her. Was her story true? Was she faking her hatred of Alfredo Fernandez, protecting herself? Could she be the dealer, using Oscar to carry for her? How far gone was Dolores? How far had she overstepped the line? Did she love her child more than she hated Alfredo Fernandez?
Hastings pointed to his cruiser, parked across the street in a red zone. “Wait for us in the car, Dolores.”
“But”—she looked at her watch—“but I got to—”
“It’ll just take a minute.” His eyes expressionless, Hastings moved his head toward the car. As she walked grudgingly away, Hastings studied the determined set of her head and shoulders—and the provocative movement of her buttocks and thighs, doubtless enhanced by the high heels she wore. From Canelli, Hastings heard a soft, wistful sigh.
“Beautiful sight,” Hastings observed.
“Yeah …” Followed by another sigh.
“So what d’you think?”
“About her story, you mean?”
Hastings nodded.
“It seems pretty straight to me.”
“Does she love her kid, do you think?”
“Oh, yeah.” Canelli nodded decisively. “No question, she loves that kid. She lives with two other women. They’re all mothers—unwed mothers. They live in the Mission—nice house, nice block, I was surprised. And they got their day figured so they all take turns baby-sitting. They seem to have everything covered.”
“But she also does a little fencing? Maybe a lot of fencing.”
“She swears she only did it a couple of times. She says Charlie Ross conned her.”
“What would you expect her to say?”
“Yeah …” Eyeing the woman, who now sat in the cruiser, Canelli nodded ruefully.
“Would you say she’s being cooperative with these identifications? All she seems to say is that she can’t be sure.”
“I just don’t know, Lieutenant. It’s one of those heads-or-tails things, if you know what I mean.”
“You’ve never seen her kid—talked to him?”
“No. But I’ve seen the house, like I say. And it’s nice. Very clean, very cheerful.” As he spoke, Canelli still stared at the woman. Now, incredulously, he shook his head. “Oscar, Jeez, what a name. I can’t get over it.”
“So you believe her story about Fernandez and the drugs.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
Hastings considered, then finally said, “Tell her that if she’ll tell us where to find Alfredo Fernandez, and if Narco’s interested in him, getting him set up, then tell her you’ll get Oscar out of juvie, if she’ll turn Fernandez. You handle it with Narco. Then, if she cooperates, you go with her to juvie.”
Canelli shrugged, then nodded—then smiled. “Fine. Good. What about you? What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to find out when Pfiefer grew that beard.”
“Ah.” Canelli said it approvingly. “Gotcha.”
“Then I’m going to talk to Clayton Vance. So when you spring Oscar and get him home, you tell Dolores she’s got a date with me. Clear?”
“That’s clear. Jesus …” Marveling, Canelli shook his head. “Oscar.”
11:25 AM
Shrugging, Susan Parrish spread her hands. “I’d say it’s about a month since he started to grow the beard. Maybe two months. No more.”
“Listen, Susan, I know you’re busy, and I hate to ask you, but could you get a little closer than that? It’s important.”
Across her desk, looking wholesome and starched in her white uniform, Susan’s gaze quickened. “What’s it all about, Frank?” Even though the thick, solid wooden door of her office was closed, she dropped her voice a conspiratorial half-note as she asked, “Do you think Pfiefer killed Hanchett and the Bell woman? Is that it?”
“Jesus, Susan, come on. Do you expect me to answer a question like that? Cops can get sued for libel too, you know.”
“No,” she answered. Then quizzically: “Really?”
“Sure.”
“Hmmm …” Thoughtfully, she leaned back in her chair, let her eyes wander. “That’s interesting. That’s very interesting. The public, you know—we think cops are above the law.”
“It depends on the situation, if you want the truth. Mostly we’re chasing guys without much clout—and not many brains, either. We’ve got it pretty much our own way, chasing guys like that. But people like Pfiefer—the upper crust—that’s different. They hire lawyers.”
“So what about parking tickets, free apples from fruit stands, dinner on the house, things like that?”
“No comment.”
“I’ll feel silly, asking around about Jason Pfiefer’s beard.”
“For a lunch? An expensive lunch?”
“Hmmm …”
12:40 PM
In the 1930s, the building at 795 Van Ness had been a bank, with four fluted Grecian columns in front and pink marble in the foyer. By the fifties, Van Ness Avenue had turned most of its banks and many of its storefronts into auto showrooms, hi-fi shops, and steak houses. In the early fifties, Hastings remembered, before the Japanese learned how to make automobiles, the Jaguar showroom at 795 Van Ness, with its lofty ceilings and Grecian decor, had been a mecca for the affluent and the low-budget snobs who mimicked them. A profusion of potted palms had adorned the marble parquet floors, and all the salesmen spoke with British accents and wore blazers and, invariably, button-down oxford shirts.
Now, struggling, Jaguar shared half of the cavernous showroom with Alfa-Romeo, Fiat, and Ferrari. The other half was a used-car salesroom.
Wearing a navy blue blazer, a pale blue button-down shirt, and a regimental striped tie that complemented his guardsman’s mustache, Clayton Vance was seated at a small desk in a plate-glass cubicle. As their eyes met through the glass partition, Hastings saw Vance’s male-model face go momentarily rigid. Then, looking impassively away, Vance lifted a telephone from its cradle on the otherwise uncluttered desktop. He touched the buttons, waited, spoke briefly into the phone. Then he put the phone in its cradle and rose to his feet. Without meeting Hastings’s glance, Vance buttoned the blazer, touched the knot of his tie, squared his shoulders, then raised one hand in a small gesture directed to an older, paunchier man who occupied a large office at the rear of the showroom. Responding to the gesture, the paunchy man nodded briefly, then turned his attention to a stack of papers on his desk. Vance wa
lked down the short corridor between the salesmen’s cubicles and went directly to Hastings.
“Something in a Jaguar, Lieutenant? Maybe a Ferrari?” Beneath the mustache, Vance’s lips were twitching urbanely at the corners.
Of the four men whose lives touched Hanchett’s, only Vance had a mustache. Dress Vance in dark glasses, a stocking cap, and a nondescript jacket, put him in a lineup, and what would Dolores Chavez say?
Deciding not to answer the smile, Hastings spoke brusquely: “I hate to bother you at work, Mr. Vance, but there’re a couple of questions.”
Still smiling, gesturing smoothly, Vance turned and led the way to the showroom’s front door. “I was just going out for a snack. Join me?”
“I’ll have some coffee, maybe.”
“Fine.”
12:55 PM
“Only coffee?” Vance asked. “You’re sure?”
Hastings nodded. “I’m sure.”
Vance ordered two coffees and one quiche, bestowed an automatic smile on the young black waitress who wore an African tribal necklace and carried herself like a Bantu princess, head held high, hips swinging rhythmically. As Hastings followed the waitress with his eyes, Vance said, “She’s a folksinger. Very good. If she gets the right agent, a friend of mine says, she could be somebody.”
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