Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

“Well,” Culligan said sourly, “I had a hell of a time getting any answers out here. I mean, it was like pulling teeth. But finally, after I threatened to subpoena their records, I found out that Juanita’s brother Byron pays her bills, which average about two thousand a month.”

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “That’s it,” he answered.

  I glanced across the desk at Friedman, who said into the phone, “Why don’t you get a court order to look at Byron Tharp’s bank account, Culligan?”

  “Do you know which bank?”

  Friedman looked questioningly at me, and I took over the conversation. “No, I don’t, Culligan. He’s in the phone book, and he owns Trader John’s down on the waterfront. Find him and ask where he banks.”

  “What if he doesn’t cooperate? Should I lean on him?”

  “No, don’t lean on him. Let me know if he doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Right.” Abruptly, he hung up. Culligan didn’t believe in the amenities.

  Immediately after Friedman and I both put down the receivers, my phone rang again.

  “This is Byron Tharp, Lieutenant.”

  “Oh—” Surprised, I gestured for Friedman to pick up the extension again as I said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Tharp?”

  “You can find my car,” he snapped. “Fred stole it. The bastard.”

  “Are you sure he stole it?”

  “Of course I’m sure. It was taken out of my garage. Right out of my garage. And he had the keys to the garage when he disappeared.”

  “That’s not exactly proof that—”

  “Jesus Christ,” he interrupted furiously, “he was seen last night about midnight. One of the tenants saw him. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I know it was him.”

  “What kind of a car is it?” I reached for a pencil and paper.

  “It’s a metallic green Datsun 280 ZX. And it’s brand-new. Christ,” he grated, “If I ever get my hands on that—”

  “Do you know your license number?”

  “Of course I do. It’s CVC 916.”

  “All right. I’ll get this on the air right now.” I paused, then said, “While I’ve got you, I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “A favor?” he repeated truculently. “What kind of a favor?”

  “I’m trying to tie the loose ends of this case together, and I’d like to have the name of your bank, if you don’t mind.”

  A short silence followed. Then: “You want my bank?” He spoke carefully, cautiously.

  “If you don’t mind.” As I spoke, I looked at Friedman who was shaking his head. He was betting Tharp wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Why do you want my bank? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s just routine, Mr. Tharp.” Hearing myself say it, I realized that the explanation sounded lame, unconvincing. I should have waited to ask the question until I’d thought of an angle.

  “I don’t know,” Tharp was saying in my ear. “I’m not in the habit of giving out that information.”

  “It’s up to you. It’s just routine, like I said.”

  “Yeah. Well, let me think about it then. But, meanwhile, get my goddamn car back, will you?”

  “Right. Where can I reach you?”

  “Either here at home, or else at the club. I’m usually there from six o’clock until it closes. I just got up about an hour ago, which is why I didn’t know the car was missing until now.”

  “I understand. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Tharp. I’ll have the car on the air in two minutes.”

  “Good. Thanks.” He said it grudgingly, speaking in his normal voice, harsh and unfriendly.

  “You’re welcome,” I answered shortly, frowning at the phone.

  But Friedman was smiling as I ended the call. “All we’ve got to do,” he said, “is contact the D.M.V. If he registered the Datsun and paid by check, or if he got any traffic tickets and paid by check, the clearing house numbers will be in the computer. We’ve got the license number. That’s all we need.”

  “By God, you’re right. I should’ve thought of that and saved a lot of talking.”

  “And then, after we’ve done that,” Friedman said, “let’s turn out the troops and find that Datsun—with Tharp inside, maybe.”

  Twenty

  OVER LUNCH, FRIEDMAN AND I decided that we would sit on Belle Ryan’s revelation until I’d made one last effort to contact Donald Ryan, putting the question of Frederick Tharp’s parentage to him face to face. But even as we made our decision, I could foresee problems. Would I tell Ryan that his own wife was the source of the rumor? Would I try to stonewall it, fencing with one of the most powerful men in the country?

  We’d finished lunch and were still arguing strategy as I pushed open the door marked “Reception Room, Inspectors’ Division.” Looking like a high-styled celebrity dressed for a diplomatic reception, Katherine Bayliss sat beside the receptionist’s desk, pointedly apart from the ordinary victims of crime and violence waiting to make their statements, or lodge their complaints, or endure their interrogations.

  I nodded to Katherine Bayliss, at the same time questioning the receptionist with a glance. Yes, the lady was waiting for me.

  “Who,” Friedman breathed, “is that sexy-looking creature?”

  “That’s Katherine Bayliss.”

  “Incredible,” Friedman muttered. “Absolutely incredible. There’s nothing more attractive than a woman over forty who’s kept herself together.”

  “You want to sit in?”

  I saw him steal another look at her, then shake his head regretfully. “No. But tell her she has an admirer, will you?” He turned down the private hallway to his own office. I greeted Katherine Bayliss, waited for the receptionist to press the button that unlatched the swinging divider that separated the desk from the reception room, and gestured for Katherine to precede me down the hallway to my office.

  “I hope you didn’t have to wait long,” I said, surreptitiously taking my gun from my hip and slipping it into a desk drawer as I settled into my swivel chair.

  “Not long,” she said. “Ten minutes. No more.” She put her purse on the floor beside her chair and crossed her legs. She wore a beige wool suit with a simple white blouse, high-heeled pumps and sheer stockings. Beneath level brows, her dark eyes were calm and steady as she sat silently for a moment, watching me. It was almost as if she were the interrogator waiting for me to begin my statement, coolly alert for some sign of telltale discomfort.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Bayliss?”

  “I’ve just talked to Lloyd Eason. He says that there’ve been new developments.” She spoke in a slow, measured voice. Her eyes were steady. She sat relaxed in her chair, composed, in perfect control.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that this—this person, Frederick Tharp, had written the letters and that he had attacked Susan.” She allowed herself a small, controlled shudder of revulsion before she said, “Is that true?” She asked the question accusingly, as if I were somehow responsible for the attack.

  I nodded. “Yes, it’s true.”

  “Is Susan all right?”

  “I think so. I haven’t talked to her today. It happened yesterday afternoon.”

  “It’s an encircling movement,” she said. She spoke softly, abstractedly. Her eyes looked beyond me as she said, “He’s using Susan in a campaign of terror.”

  I sat silently, studying her as she spoke. Something in her manner suggested that she was speaking of someone she knew, someone she’d expected to act as Tharp was acting.

  I leaned across the desk, waited for her gaze to focus on mine, then quietly asked, “Who is Frederick Tharp, Mrs. Bayliss? What is he to Donald Ryan?”

  “I understood from Lloyd,” she said, “that you know who he is.”

  “I know about his criminal record. But I don’t know his connection to Mr. Ryan—not yet. Do you?”

  “I—” She looked away, saying, “I’m not sure what you mean.” But something in
her voice, some small faltering of her aloof self-control, suggested that she did know.

  I decided to change my tack, relying on an interrogating officer’s most effective tool: a long, uncomfortable silence, accompanied by a cold, steady stare. I waited until her eyes finally dropped before I said, “You told me you first met Senator Ryan in the fifties in Los Angeles where you were a TV actress. Were you in any movies, too?”

  She nodded. “I had walk-on parts in three movies, all of them for Victor. Then I got smart and went to work for the boss.”

  “Mr. Ryan, you mean. He owned Victor.”

  Again she nodded calmly.

  I decided to try for a quick score. “What about Juanita Tharp?” I spoke in a crisp, impersonal voice, all business.

  “Juanita—” She looked at me with narrowed, wary eyes. I’d surprised her, shaken her. “Juanita Tharp?”

  “She was a starlet, too, about that time. Also at Victor.”

  She smiled straight into my eyes. “Lieutenant, I’m sure you must know that, literally, there were hundreds of—” She broke off, suddenly frowning. “Juanita Tharp. Is she—?”

  I nodded. “Right. Frederick’s mother. She could’ve been working for Victor about the same time you did, about the time Donald Ryan took over the company. And I understand—” Mentally, I drew a deep breath and took the first step into the unknown: “I understand that she knew Donald Ryan. Personally.”

  Once more, her eyes narrowed. Her face was closed and cautious as she said, “Are you suggesting that there’s some connection that exists between this Tharp woman and—” As if the thought was too incredible to put into words, she let her voice die.

  I decided to take the next step—maybe the biggest, riskiest step of my career. “I’ve been told,” I said, “that Mr. Ryan and Juanita Tharp were lovers.”

  Almost theatrically, her eyes widened. “You must be crazy,” she breathed, “to say something like that. Crazy.”

  “I’m just repeating what I heard this morning. You’re the first person I’ve told. And the last, until I can speak directly to Mr. Ryan.”

  “You’d tell Don—” She shook her head in sharp, blind disbelief. “You’d tell him that? You’d tell Mr. Ryan that?”

  I sighed. “Mrs. Bayliss, I got Frederick Tharp’s name from Mr. Ryan himself on Saturday night when I came to the hotel. The senator’s the one who started me looking for him. And, in the process of trying to find Tharp, I heard that his mother—” I decided to let the rest of it go unsaid.

  She sat rigid for a moment, obviously making an effort to control herself. Finally, speaking very distinctly, very precisely, she said, “You should realize that someone like Senator Ryan is a target for everyone, Lieutenant. The crazier they are, the more likely they are to attack him. It happens constantly. Back in Washington, we’ve got a whole file drawer filled with nothing but crank mail.”

  “But Frederick Tharp is different,” I said quietly. “You know he’s different. And so does the senator. He’s no crank. And I have to know the reason for that difference.”

  “But why? Why?”

  “Because, in my business, we look for connections. That’s how we establish motives. And I think the connection between Donald Ryan and Frederick Tharp might constitute a motive for what Tharp’s doing—and might do.”

  “And I think it’s preposterous.” She spoke coldly, viciously.

  “Maybe,” I answered quietly. “But police work is a guessing game, Mrs. Bayliss. We keep trying different scenarios until we get one that fits the facts.”

  Hands clasped white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, leaning toward me, she fought to control a furious tremor in her voice as she said, “I’d advise you to think about the consequences if you ever repeat this—this scenario of yours, Lieutenant. I’d advise you to think about them very, very carefully.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  Suddenly she rose to her feet. She stood looking down at me while once more she struggled for self-control. Finally, cold-eyed, she spoke in a soft, sibilant voice: “Yes, Lieutenant, that is definitely a threat.” She turned to the door and left the office.

  I drew a long, weary breath and was about to dial Friedman’s interoffice number when the phone rang.

  “It’s Culligan, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, Culligan—” I heaved another sigh. Whenever I fought with a woman, win or lose, I felt drained. Probably because, mostly, I lost.

  “I’m down at Tharp’s bank,” he said. “And maybe I’ve got something.”

  “Already?” I asked, surprised. “Do you have a court order?”

  “Whatever all this is about,” he said, “the word must be out. The judge made a call. One call. I guess it was to the Chief’s office. Anyhow, I had the order in a half hour. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “So what’ve you got?”

  “What I’ve got,” he said, “is three thousand dollars deposited every month in Byron Tharp’s account.”

  I felt a knot of excitement gather at the pit of my stomach. “And?”

  “It comes from a Swiss bank,” he answered. “The deposits go ’way, ’way back. They were two thousand a month five years ago. Then twenty-five hundred. For the last year they’ve been three thousand.”

  “He’s making a profit,” I said, half to myself. “Sure as hell, he’s making a profit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing, Culligan. Have you got the name of the Swiss bank?”

  “Naturally,” he answered, offended at the question. As he spoke, my second outside line lit up.

  “All right. Great. Come on down to the Hall, Culligan. And thanks. I’ve got another call.”

  It was Canelli. From the pitch of his voice, I knew that he had something too.

  “They found the Tharp car, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “It’s in a parking garage on Greenwich Street, right off upper Grant. It’s one of those garages where you park for the week, or the month mostly.”

  “Are you on the scene?”

  “No, sir. I’m right here in the squad room. I just got the word from Traffic, and I figured I should tell you right away.”

  “What’s the name of the garage?”

  “Russian Hill Carpark.”

  “Has Traffic got the car staked out?”

  “Gee, Lieutenant, I don’t know. I mean, I just got the call from Communications because of the alert you put on the car. So I’m at square one, you might say. Repeat, square one.”

  “All right. I’m going to put you in charge of this, Canelli. And I want you to understand this is important. Very important. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir,” he answered dutifully, “I do.”

  “What I want you to do first is make damn sure no uniforms show up around that car. I want it staked out by two teams of good plainclothesmen around the clock on my authority. I want them with their eyes open, and I want them out of sight. I don’t want them parked across the street reading their newspapers. Tell them that I’m going to be checking the stakeout—which I will, believe me. Also, see if the people at the garage can identify Frederick Tharp from the picture. See if they talked to him. In other words, give it the full treatment. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir, I understand.”

  “All right. Do it. Send one team out now. Don’t wait until you get all the assignments made. Send out one team, set up the rotation, and then get out there yourself. And keep me advised. I’ll be wearing my beeper. Clear?”

  “Yessir,” he said, “that’s clear. That’s very clear.”

  Twenty-one

  “I THINK,” FRIEDMAN SAID, “that we’ve definitely got to give the Chief a rundown. If Ryan’s court jesters won’t let you talk to the great man to either confirm or deny it, what choice have we got, if we want our asses covered?”

  “Except that—” I hesitated. Then, to my surprise, I put into words the real reason for my reluctance to make Belle Ryan’s rumor public: “E
xcept that I feel sorry for Ryan,” I admitted.

  Friedman raised his eyebrows. “Sorry? That’s like feeling sorry for Mount Rushmore.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, though. If you’d talked to him, you’d realize that he’s the victim of his own PR. He’s a sick man, but he can’t even admit it. He can’t even lie down.”

  “Well,” Friedman said, plainly skeptical, “it’s your choice. Personally, though, I think you’re asking for trouble if you don’t tell Dwyer, and then the truth comes out later.”

  “That’s assuming it is the truth. We don’t know that yet.”

  Indifferently, Friedman shrugged. “Your choice, like I said.”

  “Let’s get an appointment with Dwyer and see how it goes. Let’s play it by ear.”

  “Right.” He reached for his phone and dialed.

  We were told to meet Dwyer in his conference room. When we entered, we found Dwyer sitting at the head of the big walnut conference table—and William Richter sitting at the other end. As I stepped forward, I heard Friedman’s surreptitious disapproving snort. Suddenly he found himself facing his two prime antagonists.

  “I was just going to call you in,” Dwyer said, gesturing us to the table.

  I took my seat and slipped a sheet of notes from my inside pocket. Across the table, Friedman remained silent, nodding first to Dwyer and then, barely, to Richter.

  “We thought that it was about time we, ah, coordinated our thinking, so far as the Ryan case is concerned,” Richter said, speaking in his precise, colorless voice.

  “We were thinking the same thing,” I said, addressing Dwyer. “That’s why we called for an appointment. We wanted to bring you up to date.”

  “Oh. Good.” Dwyer nodded cordially, at the same time touching the knot of his tie and adjusting his gleaming white cuffs. At age sixty-two, Dwyer was almost a stereotype of the successful Irish politician. His face glowed with ruddy good health. His carefully groomed white hair was thick and luxuriant. His eyes were a clear, genial blue. His voice was deep and rich. He always wore gray suits and ties, to complement his hair and eyes. His shirts were always white.

  “What’ve you got?” Dwyer asked, still speaking to me.