Hire a Hangman

by Collin Wilcox

  “She planned how it would happen. She planned everything. She knew about Teresa Bell—about the Bells’ child. She—she set everything up. Those guns—she gave me the money. And afterward, when she got the insurance money and all the rest of it—all the stocks, all the real estate—we were going to live in Europe. Spain or Italy. We were going to—”

  “That’s bullshit,” Friedman interrupted harshly. “Bullshit. You might not be the world’s greatest intellect, but you’re obviously not stupid, either. Are you telling me that you risked the gas chamber for promises? Blue sky, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I did it for us.” Vance was speaking more distinctly now. Color was returning to his face.

  “Ah.” Friedman’s irony was a masterpiece of scorn. “Ah, I see. Love. You did it for love.”

  Vance looked away. His hands had been resting limply on the counterpane. Now the fingers began to twitch fretfully. His eyes began to blink, his mouth moved irresolutely, as if he wanted to say more—but feared the impulse. All promising signs.

  “Christ,” Friedman said, “that trick’s older than the shell game. ‘Help me get rid of him,’ the wife says, ‘and we’ll take the money and live happily ever after.’ Usually on the Riviera.” Marveling, Friedman shook his head. “And you fell for it. So here you are, with buckshot in your ass. And there she is, sleeping between silk sheets, probably, in Pacific Heights.”

  No response. But Vance’s eyes were darkening angrily. His hands were clenched, no longer fretful. As if overwhelmed with pity for the suspect, Friedman turned to Hastings. “Should we tell him?”

  Also projecting a negligent, contemptuous pity, Hastings snorted. “We may as well. He’ll find out in court.” He looked down at Vance, let a beat pass. Then: “She called us this evening. Barbara Hanchett. She called me at about ten o’clock. She told me you killed Teresa Bell.”

  “No.” Vance began doggedly shaking his head. “No.”

  “It came through our communications center. I’ve got it on tape. Every syllable. We’ll play a certified copy of that tape for you, with police calls before and after. She set you up, Vance. On police radio. At about ten o’clock tonight.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Saturday, September 15

  9:15 AM

  “THIS,” FRIEDMAN SAID, GESTURING to the Hanchett town house, “is very nice. Very nice indeed. A million and a half, two million, I’d say, in today’s market. Wouldn’t you say so?”

  “At least.” Hastings swung the cruiser into the Hanchett driveway and switched off the engine.

  “What always intrigues me,” Friedman said, “is why they do it, these rich people. Imelda Marcos. Donald Trump. Leona Helmsley. What’re they after, anyhow? Why do they do it?”

  “They do it because they want more. It’s the American way. It’s greed. Otherwise known as free enterprise.”

  “Hmmm.” Speculatively, Friedman eyed his colleague, conceding, “That’s pretty good. Is that an original line?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” As if he were relieved, Friedman nodded. Then: “Did you call the hospital?”

  “I stopped by this morning, on my way to the Hall. He’s fine. They’ve tested him for brain function already.”

  Friedman frowned. “Brain function?”

  “Because he lost all that blood. If the brain is starved for blood for any period of time, there could be brain damage. But he’s fine. He’ll be discharged in three or four days.”

  “I’m glad he’s fine. Let’s face it, Canelli needs all his available brain cells.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I put a notice on the bulletin board, and talked to the deputy chief. I figure we’d get him a little TV. You know, a portable, with a battery pack. After we finish here, we can go by Electric City. A friend of mine runs it.”

  “Wait a minute. He’s already got a TV in his room. He was watching the news.”

  “Well,” Friedman countered, “he’ll have to convalesce, you know, at home. He can use an extra TV then.”

  “What about flowers?”

  “He’ll get flowers from his family, whatever.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What about Vance?” Friedman asked. “How’s he?”

  “No problem.”

  “Has he got a lawyer?”

  Hastings shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I just talked to the doctor.”

  “After we leave here,” Friedman said, “we’ve got to go by the hospital, see if we can get Vance on tape. If he doesn’t have any money, maybe he doesn’t have a lawyer yet. We could luck out.”

  “Have you got a recorder?”

  “In my briefcase.”

  “Too bad we didn’t have a recorder last night,” Hastings said.

  “That would depend on when we switched it on. I don’t think a judge would be very enthusiastic about our interrogation technique.”

  “True.” Hastings looked at the Hanchett house. “Should we try to tape her?”

  Friedman considered. “Maybe not. Let’s see which way she’ll jump.”

  “You haven’t talked to her, have you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “She’s pretty tough. Pretty smart, too. And rich. That’s a bad combination.”

  Friedman waved a casual hand. “That’s negative thinking. The way I see it, we’re on a roll. One down, one to go. Leave everything to me.” He swung open the door, swung his legs out of the cruiser.

  10:15 AM

  “I’m afraid,” Barbara Hanchett said, “that I don’t understand this. I’ve already told you what happened. I’ve told you that Clay called me yesterday and said he wanted to see me. The yacht harbor, he said. He sounded terrible. I thought I should meet him, though. He’s been acting so—so strangely, this last week, I was afraid not to meet him. So we met at a little after nine o’clock last night. He said he had to go away—that we had to go away. He had to have money so he could get out of town, he said. He was raving. That’s the only word for it—raving. He said he’d gotten a woman named Teresa Bell to kill Brice so that we could be together, Clay and I. But then he had to kill Teresa Bell, he said, because she would incriminate him. And you—the police—he said you were after him. ‘Closing in for the kill,’ he said.” Pantomiming incredulous puzzlement, she shook her head. “Those were his exact words, ‘closing in for the kill.’ Naturally, I humored him, put him off. I told him I couldn’t get any money till Monday—not enough money to go to Mexico, or wherever he wanted to go. And then, as soon as I got home, I called you. So now”—she lifted a supercilious eyebrow—“now you’re accusing me, as I understand it. I mean …” Exasperated, she lifted a manicured hand with a gesture calculated to project a well-bred inability to understand the limitations of the lower classes. “I mean, what’re you after, anyhow?” Her voice was low and cold, her eyes haughty, uncompromising.

  “What we’re after, Mrs. Hanchett,” Friedman said, “is the truth. We’ve got a man in custody who’ll undoubtedly be indicted for murder. And he says it was all your idea. A conspiracy, in other words, to commit murder.” Affably, Friedman spread his hands. “Now, that’s a serious charge. And it’s our responsibility, our solemn duty, to apprise you of what’s happened, tell you that you’re in jeopardy, and why. In fact, it’s the law.”

  “I can hardly believe,” she said, “that I’m hearing this.” Syllable by scornful syllable, she measured the words like drops of poison. Her eyes were baleful as she looked at the two men in turn. “I saw Clay once a week. My husband went out to play, I went to Clay’s place to play. It’s what’s known as an arrangement. Once in a while he came here. Sometimes we went to the movies. Occasionally, when Brice was out of town, Clay and I took short trips together. But that was the extent of it. That was all. Period. The end.”

  “That’s not what Vance says.”

  She shrugged, eyed them again, then rose to her feet. “I’m afraid you gentlemen will have to excuse me. I’m going to call my lawyer.” She frown
ed as she looked at Hastings. Finally: “You gave me your card, Lieutenant. But I think I threw it away. Would you mind giving me another? I’m sure my lawyer will want to talk to you.”

  10:30 AM

  “Boy,” Friedman said, marveling as he shook his head. “That’s one cool lady.”

  Falling into step as they walked down the Hanchett driveway to their car, Hastings said, “I warned you. You remember that I warned you.” He opened the passenger door for Friedman, circled the car, slid in behind the steering wheel. “So what d’you think?”

  “I think,” Friedman said, “that everything Vance says is absolutely true. Actually, I never doubted it. But I’d like to predict—remember, please, that you heard it here first—I’d like to predict that Barbara Hanchett will never, never be indicted. The DA may question her—politely, over very dry wine. But that’ll be the end of it. Jesus.” Ruefully, he shook his head as Hastings backed the cruiser out of the driveway and began driving down the sedate, tree-lined street. “Jesus, a car salesman. You’d think he’d’ve been smarter. Logically, he couldn’t win. She picks up the phone, and he’s on his way to the gas chamber.”

  “That’s logic, though. There’s more to it than logic. You said so yourself, last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Friedman settled back in his seat and yawned. “What’d I say last night?”

  “Love, you said. He did it for love.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Friedman nodded. “Love. I forgot.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  1

  “SIR?”

  FRAZER PUT THE half-filled martini glass aside, turned, let a deliberate moment elapse as he looked the waiter up and down.

  “You’re—?” Another moment, this one inquiring.

  “I’m Taylor. Bruce Taylor.”

  “You’ve been working here how long?”

  “It’ll be a week tomorrow.”

  “And?”

  Taylor frowned. “Sir?”

  “And how do you like it?”

  Still in his twenties, slim, sandy-haired, open-faced, the waiter smiled. It was an engaging smile, an all-American smile. Conclusion: Charles, the manager, had exhausted the supply of available continental types and was recruiting college boys. To test the premise, Frazer said, “You’ve been to college.”

  Pleased, the young man nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Where?”

  “U.C.L.A.”

  “Ah—” Satisfied, visibly bored now, Frazer nodded. “Good.” Then, cryptically: “So?”

  “There’s a man—a gentleman—in the lobby. Carlton Wallace. You’re old friends, he says.”

  The name’s evocation was instantaneous: The frat house. The booze. The girls. Four years at U. of M., where it had all started. How many years was it now? He’d been twenty-two when he graduated; he was forty-two now. Twenty years. Was it possible?

  “How’s he look?”

  Puzzled—cautious—Taylor frowned again. “Sir?”

  “Wallace. How’s he look to you? All right?”

  “Oh … sure.” Once more the all-American smile surfaced. “Sure, I’d say so. Good clothes, a fifty-dollar tie.” The smile broadened affably. “I always look at the ties. Then I look at the shoes. Three hundred-dollar shoes, I’d say. Minimum.”

  “Okay.” Frazer consulted his watch: ten minutes after eight. For a Thursday night, the restaurant was busy. Could it be the review Bea Pixa had written in the Sunday paper?

  “Okay, bring him in.”

  “Yessir.” Taylor nodded, turned, made his way among the tables to the lobby entrance. A moment later he reappeared, followed by Carlton Wallace.

  Yes, the waiter’s instinct had been accurate: Wallace made an acceptable appearance. But the Carlton Wallace following Taylor between tables was no longer slim, no longer lithe. Only the face was the same: smooth, self-satisfied, self-confident. For Carlton Wallace, the gift of grace had come easily, effortlessly. In the Lambda Phi house, Wallace had been an insider. Always.

  Frazer rose, smiled, extended his hand. Wallace spoke first. “Tony. I read about you in the airline magazine.” As their hands disengaged and Frazer motioned the other man to a seat, Wallace looked appreciatively at his surroundings. “This is the place to see and be seen. That’s a quote.”

  “What’ll you have, Carl? Order dinner, if you’d like. Except that I can’t stay.” Frazer shrugged apologetically, waved gracefully, an explanation. “It’s Valentine’s Day, you know.”

  “I’ve already eaten.” Wallace turned to the waiter. “Hennessy, please. Straight up.”

  The waiter nodded, smiled, looked inquiringly at Frazer, then withdrew.

  “And,” Wallace said, continuing, “and, according to the article, this restaurant is just a hobby—so you always have a table, someplace to drop in when you’re bored.”

  “I’ll have to look up this article.” As Wallace continued his appraisal of the restaurant decor, the diners, the rhythms and cross rhythms, Frazer scanned the other man’s face, searching for the visual relationship between the twenty-year-old Wallace and the forty-year-old Wallace. Plainly—predictably—it was a success story: everything complemented the fifty-dollar tie.

  “So—” After the waiter placed a half-filled crystal brandy snifter on the table, Frazer watched the other man drain most of the contents. Was Wallace a drinker? Something in the long, single gulp of brandy begged the question. “So—” Frazer repeated. “What? You’re married, I imagine. Gainfully employed, obviously. A father?”

  Wallace’s smile was unreadable, but then twisted wryly. “Married, yes, right out of college. And a father, yes. Two kids. But—yes—we got divorced. Pamela Ames. Remember?”

  “Ah—” Frazer nodded. Yes. Pamela Ames. Sigma Alpha Phi. Daughter of Walter Ames, advertising tycoon. Ames, Blanchard and Weston, based in Detroit, tapped into automobile advertising. Pamela had been blond and sullen, with no visible breasts.

  “Remarried?”

  Wallace nodded. “Right.” He drained the goblet and, without benefit of invitation, signaled for another. Yes, something suggested a drinker’s mannerisms, perhaps a hint of arrogance, of defiance. After all, one of them sold liquor. And sellers needed buyers.

  Frazer drew back a gleaming white cuff, consulted his watch. Ignoring the pointed gesture, Wallace tossed off half the second brandy before he said, “I don’t have to ask about your marital status, Tony. All I had to do was read that article.” The remark was edged with irony. Or was it thinly veiled contempt, the price he had accepted so long ago? Wallace’s eyes gave no clue; his gaze had gone flat.

  “Where d’you live, Carl?”

  “Chicago. I started out in Detroit, working for Pam’s father.” Wallace grimaced. “Big mistake.”

  “So you were in advertising.”

  Wallace nodded, drained the second snifter. “Still am. But not working for my father-in-law. Jenny—my wife—is twenty-six. Believe me, that’s the way to go.” Wallace winked. Yes, it was the Lambda Phi wink. Significantly, Wallace contemplated his empty glass. Frazer looked away.

  “I don’t have to ask about your marriage,” Wallace said again. “I read all about it. How does it feel, seeing your life spread out in four colors?”

  Frazer shrugged. “It goes with the territory.”

  “The gold mining territory, according to the article. Your wife’s—what—great-grandfather was tapped into the mother lode. Right?”

  “Right.” It was a dead-level response. Frazer pushed back his chair.

  “So you didn’t marry the boss’s daughter.” A malicious beat passed, another frat-house evocation: Carl Wallace, the cool one—the cruel one, after a few drinks. “You married the granddaughter. Or is it the great-granddaughter?”

  “Speaking of whom—” Frazer rose. “I’m off. Nice to have seen you, Carl.” He decided to smile, decided to offer his hand.

  A little unsteadily, Wallace rose, took the outstretched hand, saying:
“You always knew how to please the girls, Tony. And now look.” With his free hand, he gestured expansively. “All this. All yours.”

  “That’s right. All mine.” He caught the waiter’s eye, nodded to the empty brander snifter.

  “Is she older than you, Tony? How much older?” It was a soft, sibilant question: the slender knife, expertly wielded.

  Frazer smiled, disengaged his hand. “Fuck off, Carl. Have another drink. And then fuck off.” He turned, walked to the checkroom, where Amy waited with his coat held ready. He slipped into the coat, smiled at her, dropped a five-dollar bill in the silver tray, and left.

  At the intersection of Franklin and Geary, Frazer stopped for the red light, turned up the collar of his topcoat. The night was cold and foggy and windy, with rain forecasted before morning. At home, Constance was waiting. At noon, pleading an essential business appointment that only he could fulfill, suggesting problems with an unnamed government agency, solemnly promising to return by cocktail time, he’d succeeded in getting out of the house, getting away from her, a reprieve. Then, at four o’clock, he’d called, ready with the elaborate excuse that would move back the deadline to nine o’clock, usually the final dispensation. Constance had been in the bathroom, the maid had said, and he’d left the message with her, an unexpected stroke of good fortune, no more lies required, no cajoling.

  Every year the leash got shorter.

  After the portable cellular phone, was the omnipresent minicamera next, Big Brother’s ultimate surveillance device.

  Big Brother, Big Constance.

  Grimacing at the bad pun, he saw the traffic light turning green.

  Is she older than you, Tony?

  Ah, but he must turn the painful incident to show a profit. Today’s lesson: next time, tell the waiter to keep the Carl Wallaces of the world in the lobby.