Hiding Place (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Anything from Markham?”

  “He hasn’t got much from the murder scene, but I think I’ve got a line on the popcorn vendor. I’ll have him brought in. The Lester Farley tail just called—completely pooped. It seems that Farley’s a walker. That’s all, just a walker.”

  “Don’t be too sure. At the moment he might be our best prospect. He was one of the last ones to see her alive, and the first one to see her dead. That could be a lot more than coincidence.”

  “Sounds reasonable. He could’ve… Oh, oh. Wait a minute.” The line clicked dead. Then: “They picked up her car, Frank. Just about a mile from the scene, in the park. I’m sending a man out to make sure they tow it into the lab.”

  “Good. Let me talk to Canelli. I’ll see you at four-thirty or five.”

  “Roger.” I heard him calling to Canelli, telling him to take my call in the squad room.

  “Hello?” It was Canelli’s voice.

  “I hear you’ve got something.”

  “Oh, hello, Lieutenant. Yeah, I think I do. See, I went through her room, like you said, but after about fifteen minutes or so I hadn’t found anything. I mean, I hadn’t found anything that meant anything. No diaries, or letters, or anything. She was probably one of those kids who carried everything in her purse. So, anyhow—” He paused for breath. “So anyhow, after about fifteen minutes I was sitting on her bed, just looking around. And I thought that what the hell, I should look for some grass, or drugs, or something—an envelope, say, taped somewhere. So I took out all her drawers and looked on the bottoms and the backs. But that didn’t…”

  “Canelli. Please. I don’t need a blow-by-blow. Just tell me what you found.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Lieutenant. Well, I was just getting to the point. Which is that as a last resort, I looked up under the bed. And I almost missed it, because it was a brown envelope, the same color as the bed frame, Scotch-taped up there. And guess what I found.”

  I sighed. “I give up, Canelli. What’d you find?”

  “I found three hundred and twenty-seven dollars. In cash. And that’s why, see, that I thought I should come downtown, to turn the money in. I mean, I don’t like to carry that much around.”

  “Why? Are you afraid you might get robbed?”

  “What?” I could visualize him frowning, perplexed.

  “Never mind. Tell me how her parents reacted.”

  “Well, they were pretty surprised. Especially her mother. She seemed to think I planted the money, or something.”

  “Did she try to account for it?”

  “She said that up to a few months ago the girl used to work for a family named Cross, which lives just a couple of blocks from them. I mean, June used to baby-sit the Cross kid, mostly. And sometimes she’d fix dinner. Things like that.”

  “How much did she earn?”

  “Twenty a week, average.”

  “Did she spend it all?”

  “Her mother thinks so. And looking at the victim’s clothes closet, I can believe it. Her mother, see, says that the victim bought her own clothes when she was working for the Crosses.”

  “And she hasn’t worked for a few months you say.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you have the Crosses’ address?”

  “No, but I can get it out of my desk. Why?”

  “Because,” I said patiently, “I think I’d like to talk with them. We need all the information we can get on the victim, especially about her finances, as it turns out.”

  “Oh. Right. Just a minute.” I heard him clumping across the squad room, then clumping back. “It’s Walter Cross, Lieutenant, at 761 Twenty-sixth Avenue.”

  “Right. Now listen, Canelli—this money puts a different light on things, obviously. She sure as hell didn’t save three hundred dollars on twenty dollars a week—not if she bought clothes. And even if she did save it, she’d have the money in the bank, not under the bed.”

  “I know it, Lieutenant. That’s why, when I first saw it, I said to myself the money was probably hot. I figure that…”

  “I want you to get back out here,” I interrupted, “and try to make contact with some of the victim’s friends. Try the neighbors, too. But be cool. Tell them that you heard June Towers had a lot of money, and ask them about it. Check on her spending habits, too. But don’t admit that we have any specific suspicions.”

  “Right.”

  “If she kept three hundred dollars under the mattress,” I said, “she could’ve been carrying a wad in her purse. That might be our motive. If so, it implies premeditation. Someone might’ve had prior knowledge that she had money on her. Which would mean that we aren’t looking for a random mugger. It could be an entirely new ball game.”

  “I was just thinking the same…”

  “I want you to be careful about suggesting to the parents, though, that the money might be hot. Just say that you’re puzzled. Clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “All right. I’ll check with the Crosses and see where that gets me. I’ll see you downtown about four-thirty. Good luck.”

  “Thanks, Lieutenant. You, too.”

  “Thanks, Canelli. You might not need the luck, but I do.”

  Six

  I PARKED ACROSS THE street from the Cross residence, and for a moment simply sat in the car studying the house and the front yard. It was a large two-story house, probably less than twenty years old, obviously expensive. The front garden was beautifully planted, doubtless by a professional. Yet the house had an empty quality, as if its owners were away. A newspaper and several circulars littered the front porch.

  As I walked toward the door, I looked up and down the block, watching the children play, listening to their laughter. It was a reassuring sound: the carefree libretto of the American middle class. Its cadence and timbre differed from the ghetto’s. Its rhythms were lighter, less robust, less violent. Suddenly I realized that I was in my own territory. I felt safe. I was walking easily, muscles relaxed. Was it because I could recognize the same subtle rhythms that had accented my own childhood? Or was it because in the ghetto I was the enemy? Did the ghetto-sounds, like the jungle-sounds, change when an alien animal came close?

  I rang the bell, waited, then rang again. I was about to turn away when the door opened. I was facing a man of about my own age, about my own height. He weighed a little less, probably about a hundred eighty. He wore his dark hair modishly long. He was dressed in khaki trousers, an old red sweater, and loafers. His beard was a day old. He blinked at the light as if he’d been inside too long. And, at three o’clock, alcohol was plain on his breath.

  “Mr. Cross?”

  “Yes.” He was frowning, ready to deny whatever pitch I’d come to make. When I identified myself, showing him the shield, I saw a shadow shift behind his eyes. Was it the small shock that most citizens register when confronted by an unexpected badge? Or was it fear?

  I asked to go inside, and after a brief hesitation he stood back, gesturing me past, closing the door. As I was sitting down, a name registered: Mrs. Walter Cross, residing in the Sunset District.

  Several months ago she’d been a suicide. Accounting, doubtless, for the shadow-shift behind the eyes.

  As quickly as I could, I stated my business, apologizing for the intrusion. His reaction was subdued, almost indifferent. He mumbled that he was very sorry about June—that she was a nice girl. Then he simply sat slumped in his chair. He was a handsome man, with moody eyes and a petulant, self-indulgent mouth. Even sitting down, the lines of his body suggested a certain overprivileged elegance. He looked like a successful advertising executive relaxing in his gardening clothes on a Sunday afternoon.

  Except that it was Monday, and he had liquor on his breath. And the richly furnished house smelled stale and unused. Dirty dishes were everywhere: on the mantel, the bookcase, even the floor. On the side table I could see a coffee cup with green and white fungus growing in the bottom.

  With an almost visible effort he focused his uncertain gaze o
n me. Anticipating my unspoken question, he said abruptly, “I don’t go out much. Almost never, in fact. My wife—died, six months ago. And three months after that, her daughter—left. So—” His voice trailed off into a kind of exhausted silence. He began gnawing at his lips as he stared down at the floor between his feet.

  “I remember about your wife. Barbiturate overdose, wasn’t it?” I pitched my voice to a neutral, professional note. After six months, sympathy wouldn’t help him.

  “It was barbiturates and liquor, I’m afraid. She—she drank a lot, the last year. And she began threatening suicide. Then she tried it, a couple of times—after giving me warning. Finally”—he choked, then cleared his throat—“finally she made it. I—I should have taken it more seriously when she first threatened. I know that now,” he said, shaking his head in a dull, lifeless movement of self-pitying defeat.

  To change the subject, I said, “Did you say your daughter left?”

  “Not my daughter, Lieutenant. Her daughter. By a previous marriage.” As he said it, his voice was edged with bitterness. “Katherine—my wife—was married before.”

  Still speaking in a flat, official monotone, I said, “How old was the daughter?”

  “Seven.”

  “It would make sense, then, for her to go with her father.”

  His head bobbed loosely in a slack, long-suffering movement of impatient agreement. “The point is, Lieutenant, that she didn’t go with the father, who happens to be a drunk—and who, incidentally, regularly beat Katherine. The girl’s with her grandparents. After Katherine’s death her parents wanted the little girl. They had to have her,”

  “Did you get a lawyer?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “That’s what I should’ve done. Just like I should’ve taken Katherine’s suicide threats more seriously. But—” Very deliberately he stretched far back in the easy chair. He seemed to move with extreme care, as if any sudden movement would tip him beyond some delicate, desperate balance. With feet stretched far out, eyes closed, limp hands resting on either arm of the chair, he spoke in a very low voice. “Some people, you know, commit the most terrible sins imaginable, with the clearest, most untroubled consciences. Katherine’s parents, for instance, merely convinced themselves that they were acting in the best interests of their granddaughter. The rest—” He lifted one hand, then let it fall back. “The rest was easy.”

  “If I were you, Mr. Cross, I’d get out of here. Do you work?”

  His head was resting against the back of the chair, neck arched, eyes still closed. I saw his expressive, well-shaped mouth stir in a small, rueful smile.

  “I’m an interior decorator, Lieutenant. I was a fairly good, fairly successful one when Katherine and I met. She was a client of mine, in fact. She’d just gotten divorced from her husband—who, as I said, used to beat her. Later, however—” Again he raised the listless hand. “Later I discovered that he beat her because she wanted to be beaten, but that’s another story. It’s also beside the point, which is my profession and what I’m doing about it. And what I’ve done about it since I married Katherine is absolutely nothing. Trying to help her hang onto her sanity was a full-time job, and more. Luckily she had enough money to make it feasible.”

  “Did you try a psychiatrist?”

  “Her psychiatry bill,” he answered in a totally uninflected voice, “was about five hundred dollars a month. And the drug bill another hundred.”

  I sighed, glancing at my watch. It was ten minutes after four. “I repeat what I said, Mr. Cross: If I were you, tomorrow morning I’d shower and shave and put on some clean clothes and go to a barber. Then I’d get back to being an interior decorator, whatever that involves.”

  With his head still resting against the chair-top, still in profile to me, neck arched and lips slightly pursed, he said quietly, “What’s mostly involved, Lieutenant, is bullshit. Most of the clients are either blue-haired old ladies with nothing but coupons to clip, or else they’re people like Katherine—rich enough to afford a decorator, and so insecure that it’s impossible for them to decide between one piece of furniture and another.”

  “I’m trying to figure out,” I said slowly, “whether you were really very fond of your wife.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then, very softly, he asked, “Are you married, Lieutenant?” As he said it, he opened his eyes and rolled his head toward me, meeting my gaze directly.

  I felt my mouth curving in a wry, knowing smile. I heard myself snort softly, scoring a point for Cross. “It just occurs to me,” I said, “that we’ve gotten off the point, which is June Towers.”

  “There isn’t anything to say. She started out by baby-sitting Steffie while I took Katherine to her psychiatric appointments, which we scheduled at four o’clock to coincide with June’s school day. Then, as Katherine got worse, June used to come every afternoon to help with dinner. Sometimes she ate with us, too.”

  “How long did this arrangement continue?”

  “For almost a year, altogether.”

  “And you paid her twenty dollars a week.”

  He nodded. He’d closed his eyes again, once more facing the ceiling. He seemed completely relaxed, utterly at ease. He reminded me of a sad, tired man lying limp in a barber’s chair.

  “Did she work for you after your wife died?”

  “Yes. Steffie—liked June. So June came every day for a couple of hours. To fix dinner—and just be here.”

  “How long has your stepdaughter been gone?”

  “Three months.”

  “June didn’t come here after Steffie left?”

  “There was no reason to.”

  “How would you describe June Towers, Mr. Cross? What kind of a girl was she?”

  For a moment he didn’t reply. Then he said, “She was just—just average. Just a teen-aged girl. She didn’t say much. She wasn’t lazy, but she wasn’t ambitious either. She was a quiet girl.”

  “Was she especially frugal? Did you get the impression that she saved most of the money you gave her?”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea, Lieutenant. None.”

  “Was she pretty, would you say?”

  “Pretty enough,” he answered indifferently.

  “Did you ever meet Kent Miller? Her boyfriend?”

  “A few times.”

  “Did you get the impression that they were pretty tight, as the kids say?”

  “Pretty involved with each other, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  He paused before saying heavily, “I guess I’m not really a competent judge, Lieutenant, because I didn’t really pay much attention to June Towers—or to anyone or anything except my wife. I was only married to Katherine for two years. But it seems like an eternity, even now. It was totally demanding, living with a neurotic. It’s an experience that takes everything out of you.”

  I rose, picking up my hat. “I’ve got to be going, Mr. Cross.” I laid my card on the coffee table beside a food-caked plate. “If you think of anything that might help us, I’d appreciate a call. Meanwhile, as I said, I’d get back into the swing of things if I were you. Your wife’s gone. You’ve got yourself to think about.”

  With an effort, sighing deeply, he got to his feet and turned toward the door. I had the feeling that he’d make himself a drink as soon as I left.

  Seven

  I TOOK A CHAIR on Friedman’s right: the “brass’s chair.” Whenever possible, Friedman called informal meetings in his office, giving himself the pleasure of his oversized swivel chair. The only other armchair was reserved for the visiting officer, usually me. Inspectors were relegated to the straight-backed chairs.

  “While all of you have been running aimlessly out in the field,” Friedman announced, “I have been laboring behind closed doors, with very promising results, if I do say so.”

  Canelli, typically, was looking at Friedman with an expectant, hopeful expression. Markham’s expression, typically, was inscrutable. Markham was waiting to be shown.

>   “First,” Friedman said, “I located the popcorn vendor and had him brought downtown. It turns out that after twenty years in this country he still can’t speak good English. He’s Greek. His name is Stavos Papadopolous, and he’s saving his money to go back to Greece because he’s decided that he doesn’t like America. So…”

  “This is beginning to sound like a Canelli-type prologue,” I murmured.

  “I’m merely setting the scene,” Friedman replied blandly. “As you’ll see. To continue, Mr. Papadopolous, after fifteen minutes of skillful questioning, finally remembered seeing the girl.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Definitely. For one thing, he remembered her car—color, make, everything. He remembered the girl, too. No question. He said that she parked near his popcorn wagon a little after four-thirty. He remembers the time because he packed up and left about four forty-five. He says that she parked and just sat in her car—as if she were waiting for someone. When he left the area, she was still parked—presumably still waiting to meet someone. By that time, according to Mr. Papadopolous, it was starting to get dark.”

  “What about corroborating witnesses?” I asked.

  Friedman spread his hands, shaking his head. I turned inquiringly to Markham, who also shook his head.

  “Did Mr. Papadopolous see anyone else?” I asked.

  “That,” Friedman said, “took another half-hour. But I finally got the descriptions of four people who were more or less known to Mr. Papadopolous. That is, they were regulars in the park and he knew them by sight. He never did talk to any of them, and if you’d ever talked to Mr. Papadopolous, you’d understand why. Anyhow, one of these parties we’ve more or less identified as Lester Farley, who you already know about. Apparently Farley was loitering around between four and four-thirty, then he left. Of course, he could’ve come back. And he was definitely there during the same time as the victim.”

  “Anything more from Farley’s tail?”

  “Culligan called in just a few minutes ago. He didn’t get anything but a couple of sore feet. He found a talkative neighbor, though. Apparently Farley is a forty-one-year-old mamma’s boy who doesn’t like either girls or boys. The last job he held was at Macy’s tie counter.”