Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I’m trying to break away, so far without much success. I’ve had two marriages, and two disastrous divorces. Both times I picked exactly the kind of man that my father couldn’t tolerate. Between marriages I did a little traveling and a little partying and a lot of screwing around. All of it was carefully calculated to hurt my father and to demonstrate to my mother how wrong she was when she married him.” She broke off and dropped her eyes for the first time. Then, softly, she added, “Of course, in the end, the only person I hurt was myself. That’s part of the pattern, you see. If you don’t like your father, and he gives you a toy, you try to hurt him by breaking it. If he gives you a car, you smash it up—along with yourself, of course.”

  “Have you smashed up many cars?”

  “Yes,” she answered, still staring down at the floor. “Yes,” I’ve smashed up several cars. I even smashed up an airplane once. Whereupon, surprise, my analyst decided that instead of hating my father, I was really sexually attracted to him, and that I was trying to punish myself for the guilt I felt.” She spoke in a soft voice, sadly ironic. “Of course, I fired him. He was my first and last shrink.”

  I let a few seconds go by before I said, “If you were me, Mrs. Robinson, how would you go about finding this caller?”

  With an effort, she raised her eyes, meeting mine. Now, for the first time, I caught a clear glimpse of her loneliness and her misery.

  “Can you give me some idea?” I prompted. “Some starting place?”

  She drew a long, deep breath before she said, “You’ll find, Lieutenant, that my father’s life is pretty much under the control of two people, Jack Ferguson and Katherine Bayliss. Between them, they get my father to the right place at the right time, dressed in the right suit, with the right speech in his pocket. He takes it from there.”

  “Who’s Katherine Bayliss?” I asked, writing the name in my notebook.

  “I guess you’d call Katherine Dad’s personal manager. Jack is his political manager. Katherine takes care of him when he’s off camera.”

  “How old is Katherine Bayliss?”

  “I don’t know. About fifty, I’d say.”

  “And how old is your father?”

  “He’s sixty-six.”

  “Is your father really as sick as they say he is?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered coolly. “I haven’t seen him since his heart attack. I’ve talked to him, and to James and Mother. But I haven’t seen them for months. Any of them.”

  “Will you see them while they’re here?”

  “Oh, sure—” She said it casually, bitterly offhanded. “Oh, sure, I’ll show up at the Fairmont for the photographers. There’ll be a family dinner, too, at the family mansion on Sunday, with the photographers in before and after dinner. That’s the normal routine. Which, naturally, Dad will adhere to, sick or not. Then, of course, there’ll be the dedication. I’ll be there, too, smiling for the cameras.”

  I watched her for a moment, sitting in her big baronial chair with its carved lion heads and claws. She was staring down at her hands, clasped forlornly in her lap.

  Now, finally, she looked the part of the character she’d cast herself as: the poor little rich girl.

  Seven

  “WHAT WE’VE GOT HERE,” Friedman said, gesturing to a list of possible suspects supplied by Records, “is very, very little. So far, all we’ve done is waste a lot of man-hours going around in large, widening circles. And this is Saturday, I don’t have to remind you.”

  “I know it’s Saturday,” I said sourly. This afternoon, Ann and I had intended to visit Betty and Jim Lamb, old friends of Ann’s. Two years ago, with an inheritance, Betty and Jim had bought a small winery in the Napa Valley. They’d invited us for dinner tonight, and for Sunday breakfast, too. But with Senator and Mrs. Ryan scheduled to arrive before noon today, I’d told Ann that I couldn’t leave town. She’d decided to go alone, announcing that I could mind the boys. Then she’d changed her mind, reluctantly.

  “You’re looking a little preoccupied,” Friedman observed.

  I sighed, absently fingering the useless list of possible suspects. “I guess I am,” I admitted.

  “Does it, ah, have anything to do with Ann? Or her ex-husband?”

  I looked at him for a moment: a lumpy, swarthy, owl-eyed man wearing a wrinkled suit and a not-quite-clean shirt. Years ago, after he’d gotten out of the Air Force, Friedman had wanted to act. He’d spent a year in Hollywood, making the rounds of the studios with a sheaf of eight-by-ten glossies. He’d finally gotten a bit part in a “B” movie. But he hadn’t liked actors, and he’d hated Los Angeles. So, broke, he’d come back to San Francisco and taken the civil service exam.

  Friedman didn’t belong here, sitting across the desk, lolling belly-up in my visitor’s chair.

  I didn’t belong here either. Both of us were misfits. That fact, more than any other, had probably made us friends. In all the world, besides Ann, Friedman was my closest confidant.

  So I answered, “Yes, it’s about Ann. Her husband paid us a visit. He says we’re corrupting the morals of his children.”

  “It sounds,” Friedman observed, “like you’ve got two choices. Either move out, or else marry the lady.”

  Morosely, I nodded. “I know.”

  “Well,” he demanded, “which’ll it be?”

  “If I knew,” I said, “I probably wouldn’t tell you. At least not until I’d told Ann.”

  Instead of smiling, he looked at me steadily for a moment before he said, “It’s your choice. You know that, don’t you? Not Ann’s. Yours.”

  “Yes,” I answered heavily, “I—”

  My phone rang.

  “Lieutenant Hastings,” I answered.

  “This is Duane Hickman, Lieutenant. Mr. Ferguson wanted me to pass on a few things to you.”

  “Yes. All right.” Reluctantly, I reached for a notepad. Having been prodded by Friedman, I wished that I could have had a chance to talk with him about Ann.

  “Senator and Mrs. Ryan will be arriving at the airport in about two hours. They’ll be traveling by private jet, just the senator and Mrs. Ryan, along with a man from the FBI and Lloyd Eason.”

  “Who’s Lloyd Eason?” I asked, scribbling the name on the notepad.

  Hickman sounded surprised at the question as he answered, “Lloyd Eason is Senator Ryan’s personal bodyguard. They’ve been together for years. Weren’t you told about him?”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Hickman said crisply, “that was an oversight. Because you’ll certainly be working closely with Eason, I’m sure.” In the short silence that followed, I could imagine Hickman calculating how best to blame Ferguson for the oversight—before Ferguson fixed the blame on him. “Anyhow,” he continued, “they’ll be arriving entirely without prior notice to the press. That’s partly for security reasons, and partly so the senator won’t have to exert himself answering questions at the airport after a long trip. They’ll go right to the Fairmont.”

  “Why not to his home?”

  “When he’s in town the senator usually headquarters at the Fairmont, because of all the commitments he has and all the people he sees. And, actually, that could be a plus, securitywise. It should be easier to protect him at the Fairmont than at home. Don’t you agree?” Once more, I could imagine him exploiting a difference of opinion to his own advantage.

  “I don’t know,” I answered shortly. “I haven’t seen the Ryan mansion.”

  “Mr. Richter says that the hotel environment makes it easier to post guards who won’t be recognized. Anyhow, that’s the decision.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I understand,” he said, “that Susan Ryan has become involved in this thing.” He spoke slowly and tentatively, obviously probing for information.

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “Yes. Yesterday.”

  “What were your conclusions?”

  “I thought that who
ever is after the senator is getting serious about it. Which is another reason that I need more cooperation.”

  “Well, Lieutenant,” he answered, “it happens that Mr. Ferguson agrees with you. He talked to Susan after you did, and he agreed that we’ve got to change course on this thing.” He made it sound stiff and pompous, like a major policy pronouncement.

  “Oh. Good.” I hoped he caught the ironic note in my reply.

  “So,” he said, “Mr. Ferguson has set up an appointment for you with Mrs. Bayliss. She’s at the Fairmont in Suite 1140. If it’s convenient, she’d like to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Mrs. Bayliss is the senator’s personal secretary?”

  “Well,” he answered stiffly, “she’s more like his personal assistant, I’d say. She—” He hesitated. “She’s definitely a part of the senator’s inner circle.”

  I let a moment of silence pass while I thought about his comments. If I was picking up the right signal from him about Mrs. Bayliss’s influence with the senator, Hickman was presenting me with an unexpected prize.

  “I’ll be glad to see Mrs. Bayliss,” I said. “I’ll leave for the Fairmont immediately. By the way, where’s the senator’s son?”

  “He’s here,” Hickman answered. “He arrived last night with Mrs. Bayliss.”

  “Isn’t he part of the inner circle?” I asked, probing.

  “Yes, of course he is,” came the quick, annoyed reply. “But James Ryan is—busy. He’s busy with the dedication arrangements.”

  “Still, I’d like to see him if possible. Is he staying at the Fairmont?”

  “Lieutenant—” I heard him heave a deep, long-suffering sigh. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, shall we? We’re doing everything we can to cooperate with you. But you’ve got to realize how big this dedication is—how important. Even the Vice-President will be here, along with several cabinet members. And James, as a member of the family, is sorting out the protocol. He’s busy. Very busy.”

  But the statement had a false sound, protesting too much.

  I promised that I would arrive at the Fairmont within a half hour and called for my car.

  Eight

  AS CANELLI WAITED FOR a red light, he pointed to the radio. “You want it on, Lieutenant?”

  “No, never mind.”

  “You couldn’t answer a call, I guess,” he ventured. Canelli was fishing, trying to discover the reason for the assignments he’d been getting and for the secrecy that surrounded them. Canelli had been my driver for almost two years. At age twenty-seven, Canelli weighed almost two hundred forty pounds, most of it fat. His face was round and guileless, exactly suiting his disposition. Canelli didn’t look like a cop or act like a cop or think like a cop. As a result, he was seldom “made.” Which meant that Canelli enjoyed a continued streak of incredible good luck. On stakeout, despite his size, he sometimes seemed invisible. During a hot pursuit, I’d actually seen suspects run in Canelli’s direction, thinking he was a civilian.

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “I couldn’t answer a call.”

  “Who’re we going to see at the Fairmont?”

  To myself, I smiled. “You’re just dropping me off, Canelli. Then you can go back to the Hall. I’ll get a black-and-white when I’m finished.”

  “You don’t want me to come in, huh?” His sidelong look was wistfully eloquent. Canelli was the only cop I’d ever known who could get his feelings hurt.

  “No. Sorry. This is part of the FBI thing I’m working on.”

  “The one where we’re pulling the jackets on assassination threats and psychos?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “It’s just you and Lieutenant Friedman on the inside, huh?” His soft brown eyes reproached me.

  “For now, yes.” I pointed ahead. “Just pull in behind that cab. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  “Yessir.” Heaving a deep, self-pitying sigh, Canelli turned the cruiser to the curb and stopped.

  As I stepped out of the elevator, a tall, athletic-looking young man dressed in a dark blue suit moved forward to intercept me.

  “This is the eleventh floor,” he said. “It’s closed. Sorry.” Smiling, he spoke pleasantly. But his eyes were alert as he looked me quickly up and down.

  “I’m looking for Suite 1140. Katherine Bayliss.” I produced my badge and ID card. “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings.”

  “Oh—yes.” He nodded, drew a paper from his inside pocket and consulted it. “Yes. SFPD.”

  “You’re FBI.”

  He looked at me with quick, alert eyes. “How’d you know?”

  “I guessed.”

  He was silent while he decided what my remark really meant. Finally, speaking in a neutral voice, he said, “I came in from Washington. Last night.”

  I pocketed my shield case and watched him while he replaced the paper inside his jacket. From another pocket he withdrew a small lapel button.

  “That’s for identification,” he explained.

  “I know.” I fastened the button in place and looked up and down the hushed corridor, thickly carpeted and furnished with expensive antiques. Suddenly I wished I’d worn a better suit.

  “Mrs. Bayliss is down there,” he said, pointing. “Just to the left, around the corner.”

  “Thanks.” As I walked to the corner and turned left, I saw two more agents posted at either end of the intersecting corridor. I nodded to one of them, straightened my tie and pressed the bell-button for the door marked 1140. Almost immediately, the door swung open, revealing a young woman dressed in a beige travel suit. Her severely styled hair, no-nonsense horn-rimmed glasses and the cool efficiency glittering in her eyes behind the glasses labeled her a fast-rising executive, feminine gender.

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. I have an appointment with Mrs. Bayliss.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” She stepped back, motioning me into a beautifully furnished sitting room. She didn’t smile. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll tell Mrs. Bayliss you’re here. If you’d like something—” She gestured to a portable bar, stocked with a dozen different bottles and rows of sparkling glasses.

  “No, thanks.” I sat in a comfortable armchair that commanded a view of downtown San Francisco. Skyscrapers gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Beyond them, across the bright blue bay, I could see the Berkeley hills, scattered with tiny houses and accented by the spire of the Campanile, the University of California’s landmark bell tower.

  The young woman knocked discreetly at one of the suite’s inner doors and immediately entered the next room. Before the door closed, I heard a woman’s voice, probably talking on the phone. I’d once read that the telephone is to the modern leader what the lance and sword had been to the ancient knights and noblemen: their instruments of power, and badges of rank. As the executive climbs the ladder, his—or her—private communication console becomes more and more sophisticated, commanding ever-widening circles of influence. Until, at the apex of power, the President sits in his Oval Office—with one button that, if pressed, could cancel out the world.

  I adjusted my tie again, finger-combed my hair and withdrew my notebook and pen, putting them on an end table beside my chair. For the first time I noticed that large, elaborately arranged bouquets of flowers had been placed on every available surface.

  I heard a door open and rose to my feet, turning to face Katherine Bayliss. She was a strikingly handsome woman. Her dark hair, styled close to her head, was gray-streaked. Her face was small, but its features were perfectly balanced: dark, steady eyes, a firm mouth, a decisive jaw. She was dressed in a simply cut suit and a white silk blouse that revealed an exciting torso. She was a small, compactly made woman, but she carried herself with the assurance of someone accustomed to center stage. She moved with the graceful, sensual economy of a trained model on her high heels: shoulders squared, head up, hips rhythmically swinging.

  She gestured me to my seat and sat on a small brocade loveseat facing me. From the other room, through
the closed door, I heard the faint sound of voices.

  “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Hastings?” Her voice was low-pitched and husky, a little like Susan Ryan’s. Her eyes remained on my face, steady and calm.

  “I guess the question is, what can I do for you?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly; her dark brows contracted as she studied me for a moment. Then she said, “I just talked to Duane Hickman. I called Susan, too. Both of them seem to feel that this letter-writer might be more than just a harmless crank. Do you agree?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you think he lives here? In San Francisco?”

  “My feeling is that he probably does live here,” I answered. “But I’m not sure.” I paused for emphasis, then said, “And that’s the problem, Mrs. Bayliss. I’m not getting the information I need. I’ve got to break through this—this security ring that you’ve got around the senator. I’ve got four men doing nothing but checking out kooks in San Francisco who have a history of threatening dignitaries, especially politicians. They might get lucky. Anything is possible. But my instincts tell me that the person we’re looking for isn’t in our files. My instincts also tell me that the person we’re looking for has some connection to Senator Ryan—some close connection.”

  She sat silently for a moment, staring me straight in the eye. Then she rose suddenly to her feet and strode to the large view window. She stood for a moment with her back to me. It was a vaguely theatrical turn, calculated for effect.

  But what effect?

  Finally she pivoted to face me. Backlit by bright light from the window, her expression was unreadable as she said, “Frankly, Lieutenant, I don’t get the feeling that you’re approaching this matter very professionally.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “All you talk about—your only tools—seem to be your so-called instincts. Somehow I’d expected more.” She spoke in a low, tight voice, as if she were suppressing sudden anger.

  “The fact is, Mrs. Bayliss,” I answered quietly, “that most police work, at least at my level, is a matter of playing the hunches. You might not like to hear that, but it happens to be the truth.”