Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mrs. Haney. I’m the co-commander of Homicide. Can we talk for a few minutes?” As he spoke, he nodded to a nearby chair.

  She raised one hand, gesturing to the chair. “Sit down. Please.” Her voice was husky.

  “Thanks.” He sat on the small, delicately fashioned chair, opened a notebook, clicked a ball-point pen. “What I’d like you to do, Mrs. Haney, is tell me everything that happened, in sequence, from the time you discovered your husband’s body to the time the first officer arrived.”

  A moment of silence passed as she turned her head on the pillow to face him fully. Finally she licked her lips, cleared her throat, and said, “I’ve already told the other one—Inspector Canelli—I’ve already told him what happened. I spoke to another man, too. A sergeant.”

  Hastings nodded. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Haney, you’ll probably have to repeat the story several times during the next day or two. That’s what a homicide investigation is all about. It’s tough on the loved ones—the victim’s family. But you and I—the police—we both want the same thing. We want to catch the murderer. And I’ve got to tell you that the chances of catching him get less by the hour. Those are the statistics. That’s why I’m here, now—at six o’clock in the morning. That’s why we’re all here. We’re trying to help. All of us.”

  “Yes—” Still with her head resting on the pillow, she nodded. Her voice was almost inaudible. “Yes, I know. And the—” Once more, the tip of her tongue circled her lips. As Hastings watched her, erotic images momentarily distracted him.

  “And the truth is,” she was saying, “while I’ve been lying here, waiting for them to—to finish, downstairs, I’ve been thinking about it, about what I told Inspector Canelli. And I knew—I realized—that I had to—to tell you more. I—” She broke off, faltering. But, moments later, doggedly, she began speaking again. Her voice was stronger now. Her eyes were coming into sharper focus. The effort of recollection, of organizing her thoughts, was reviving her, bringing her back from shock.

  “I can see that I’ve got to tell you what happened, tonight—what really happened. Everything.”

  Hastings decided to say nothing. For now, he would wait, let her talk. He would listen carefully to what she said, and the way she said it.

  Still with her legs straight on the bed, she used her elbows to lever herself to a sitting position, with the pillows at her back. She moved her arms as an athlete might: smoothly, efficiently, strongly. She began speaking slowly, deliberately:

  “First of all, I’ll tell you about—about earlier, tonight. I mean, it—it’s going to come up. I know that. So—” Biting her lip, she shook her head, as if to protest what she knew she must say. Then, determined, she went on: “So I should tell you that, tonight, James and I went out separately.”

  “How do you mean, ‘separately’?”

  She drew a deep breath. Obviously with great effort she said, “I mean that he—went out on the town, or went to someone’s house, or whatever. I don’t know—” Once more, hopelessly, she shook her head. “I don’t know where he went, who he was with. And he—he didn’t know where I went, either. That was our deal. Our arrangement.”

  “You both knew, then—knew what the other one was doing.”

  She nodded. Then, bitterly, her perfectly shaped mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. “It’s called ‘open marriage.’ At least, that’s one word for it. I suppose there’re other words.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mrs. Haney. Not now.”

  The violet eyes met his squarely, as if she were probing the true meaning of his words. “You’re very—considerate. Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you.” Pointedly, he waited for her to continue.

  “Anyhow, as I said, we were each out. I didn’t know where he was, and he didn’t know where I was. Maxine—my daughter—was home, with a sitter. James probably was doing what he usually did, Friday nights. He probably went right from his office to a bar. And then—” She raised one hand in a gesture of wan futility. “Then he probably went to someone’s apartment. At least, that’s what he usually did, on Friday nights.”

  With his pen poised over the notebook Hastings asked, “What’s the name of your baby-sitter?”

  “Amy Miller. She lives just a couple of blocks from here.”

  He wrote down the name, then asked, “Is—was—your husband’s office downtown?”

  She nodded. “It’s Haney and Associates, in Embarcadero Center Two. James is—was—one of the most successful public relations men in the country. His specialty was politicians. He told them what kind of an image to project. He’d talk to senators as if they were Little Leaguers who couldn’t follow directions. But—” She sighed, and then winced, as if the deep, ragged exhalation had caused her pain. “But every Friday, he’d follow the crowds to the singles bars. As if he couldn’t help himself.”

  “It can be a compulsion.”

  She looked at him directly as she said, “Sex, you mean.” Her voice was flat; her violet eyes were cold.

  He decided not to reply directly. Instead he said, “You must be tired, Mrs. Haney. Why don’t you tell me what happened tonight—what you say, what you know. There’ll be time later to fill in the gaps.”

  “Yes, all right.” She dropped her eyes and lay motionless for a moment. With her right hand she began fingering the close-fitting collar of her robe. Then: “I’m not sure exactly what time I got home. I know it was at least one o’clock, maybe later. I knew James was home, though, because his car was already in the garage. I parked my car, and went into the house through the service door. That was the first hint I had that something was wrong. Because the door from the garage to the rear hallway wasn’t locked. James hadn’t locked it, when he came home. Which was unusual. James was very security-conscious, always. Also, he hadn’t left a light burning downstairs. That was unusual, too.”

  “Do you have a burglar-alarm system?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it set when you came home?”

  “Yes, it was. Except for the service door. A door has to be locked, you see, before it’s hooked into the system. But I reset the alarm, after I locked it.”

  He nodded, waited for her to go on: “I don’t know whether you looked around, downstairs,” she said, “but the house is laid out around the big hallway. The living room and the dining room and the library and the study all open off the hallway. Then there’re two smaller hallways, one leading back to the garage. There’re—” She paused, counting on graceful fingers. “There’re six doors, opening off the hall. The door of the small passageway leading from the garage to the central hall was open, so that I could see into the front hall. At least, I could see a little; there weren’t any lights on, as I said. But enough light came from outside for me to see a little. And I remember feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong. I’ve been thinking about it ever since—thinking about what warned me, what made me feel frightened, suddenly. There wasn’t any sound, at least none I could identify. But the closer I got to the front hall, the more frightened I became. Maybe it was the dark house. Or maybe it was—” She bit her lip, then said reluctantly, “Maybe it was the smell that warned me, at least subconsciously. But, whatever it was, my legs and my feet were like lead, the closer I got to the front hall. And then I—I saw him, lying there.”

  “Do you remember what you did then?” Hastings asked. “In detail?”

  “Yes, I do. I went up to him. I—I wish I could say that I was grief stricken, that I threw myself on him. But I didn’t. I—I went to him, very slowly, very cautiously. At first, I thought he’d had a heart attack. It seemed logical. I mean, he was in pajamas, and at first I didn’t see the blood, because there wasn’t much light. I didn’t know there’d been anything stolen, either. But then, when I got close enough, I saw the blood. And then, in that same instant, I heard something—a sound like the scrape of a foot on the floor, from the direction of the study. And right away I knew someone was in
the house, a stranger, who’d killed James. I knew he was in the study.”

  “Why the study?”

  “Because I heard the door squeak.”

  “The door leading from the hallway to the study?”

  “No. That door was standing open. The squeak came from the door that leads from James’ study out to the patio. They’re French doors, and one of them squeaks. It’s unmistakable, that squeak. So I knew, you see, that he was in there—in the study.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “That’s—” As she shook her head, the thick tawny hair, cut shoulder length, swung gently around her neck and face. Puzzlement was plain in her voice as she said, “That’s the—the crazy part, you see. Because I realized that I was going toward the study, going right toward the danger. That’s something I’ve been thinking about, this last hour. I mean, why would I do that—go toward a killer, instead of the other way?”

  “You heard the door squeak. You probably thought he was going. Escaping. And you wanted to get a look at him, before he got away. Could that’ve been it?”

  Her slow, solemn nod was hesitant, as if she were reluctant to credit herself with the courage it must have taken to walk from the body of her husband toward the open door of the study. “I—I suppose it’s, you know, the female of the species, protecting her young. I knew—I was almost sure—that Maxine was upstairs. And I guess I wanted to—you know—” Half apologetically, she gestured. “I wanted to put myself between her and danger. I remember that I wanted to lock the French doors. That’s all I could think of, lock the doors.”

  “I understand you keep a gun in the study. Did you intend to get that?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. Because there’s also a gun upstairs. I mean, if I’d wanted a gun, that’s the one I would’ve gotten, logically.”

  “Would you have used the gun, do you think? Do you know how to shoot?”

  “I know how to shoot. And, yes—” She nodded. “I think I would’ve used a gun. Especially if Maxine were in danger.”

  Hastings decided to let a long moment of disapproving silence pass before he prompted, “So you went into the study.”

  “I went to the study door. That’s when I saw him.”

  “The burglar, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far away from him were you, when you first saw him?”

  “Whatever the distance is from the hallway door to the French doors. Fifteen feet, maybe. No more. He was—it was just like I thought, or suspected. He was going through the doors. There’re two doors, really. Two French doors. But only one of them opens, unless you unbolt the other one at the top and the bottom. He had the one door open, and was already outside, on the patio.”

  “Was he running?”

  “No. He was walking, very calmly. I remember that, particularly—how calm he was.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  She frowned, as if the question puzzled her. “I’m not sure what you mean. There weren’t any lights on. There was just the moonlight, from outside. All I could see was that he was black—a young black man, I thought. At least, he moved like he was young. He was carrying something. A bag, or a sack.”

  “He couldn’t see you, though.”

  She seemed to shudder at the thought, momentarily clenching her teeth. “That’s right. I knew he couldn’t see me. There weren’t any lights. Anywhere. So I knew I was safe.”

  “Did he look back into the study?”

  “No. He just—as I said—he was very calm. He just walked across the patio to the wall. There’s a brick wall behind the house, and an alley behind that. The wall is about six feet high. And I remember thinking that he couldn’t get out, that way. I remember thinking that I’d have to go upstairs, to Maxine. And we’d be trapped, then. He’d have us trapped, upstairs. But then I saw that he had a ladder, at the wall. He’d taken it from the study. It’s an antique library ladder, for books. I saw him swing the sack he was carrying up on top of the wall, and then I saw him get up on the ladder, and pull himself up. And then he was gone.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I—I think I waited for a minute or two, to make sure he wouldn’t come back. Or maybe it was only a few seconds. I don’t know. But anyhow, while I was standing there, I could see that the study had been ransacked. There were drawers pulled out, and things were thrown on the floor. And then I thought of the gun, in James’ desk. And before I realized what I was doing, I’d turned the lights on, and I was at the desk, and I was looking for the gun.” She dropped her eyes, as if she were making a shameful admission. “It was silly, I know—turning on the lights. He could see me. I realized that, afterwards.”

  “Did you find the gun?”

  “No. It was gone. The gun and a lot of other things, too.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I went to the French door and locked it. Then I drew the drapes across it. I remember thinking that I felt better, after I drew the drapes. And then I went upstairs, to Maxine. It—was horrible, stepping around James’ body. I must’ve turned on the lights in the hall, too, because I remember I could see him very clearly. God—” She dropped her gaze and hugged herself, as if she were suddenly very cold. “I’ll never forget his eyes. One of them was half closed, as if he—he was winking at me. And I remember thinking that, as long as we knew each other, I don’t think he ever winked at me.” Still with her head bowed, she sat silently, fighting for self-control. Sharing her silence, Hastings looked at the swell of her breasts above her crossed forearms. Did she know how sensuous she seemed: the tawny-haired beauty, so vulnerable, so trusting? What was she wearing, Hastings wondered, under the high-buttoned robe? Anything?

  “And then what’d you do?” Hastings was aware that, matching her voice, he was speaking softly, almost intimately.

  “I—I stepped around him, and went upstairs, to Maxine. I was going to wake her up, tell her what happened. But then, God, I heard her moving around, on the other side of the door. Or, at least, I heard something—or thought I heard something. It—” Desperately, desolately, she shook her head. “It was terrible, that moment—the worst moment of all. Because I thought someone was in there, you see—inside her bedroom, with Maxine. But then, Jesus, the door opened. It opened very slowly, like a door in a horror movie. And it—it was Maxine, who’d opened it.”

  “She wasn’t asleep, then.”

  As if she hadn’t heard the question, Katherine Haney sat silently for a long, lost moment. Her eyes were empty as she stared off across the half-lit room. Her voice sank to a low, numbed monotone as she said, “Maxine was terrified. It was like she was—catatonic,” I think that’s the word. Because she’d already seen him, you see. I didn’t know that, couldn’t know that. Apparently she’d heard something. She’d been asleep, I think, and probably woke up when—when—” Momentarily she broke off. Then, with great effort, as if she were oblivious of her surroundings, still staring at nothing, she continued in the same dull, disembodied monotone: “What happened—what I think happened—is that she heard James being murdered. That’s what woke her up. It—it could’ve happened just a few minutes before I got home. She could’ve woken up, and not realized what she’d heard. She got out of bed to investigate, see if anything was wrong. She opened her door, and went to the head of the stairs. She looked down, and she saw me bending over James. And she—she thought I’d killed him, I think. That’s why she went back into her room. Because, you see, she was afraid. She was actually afraid of me.”

  “But she did open the door for you.”

  “Yes. It—it seemed like forever. But finally she let me in. And then, suddenly, she went into hysterics. Instantly. It—it was horrible. She couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t keep her body from shaking.” As Katherine said it, a tremor passed through her own body. To keep her mouth from trembling, she bit her lower lip, hard.

  “Was she coherent?”

  “Not at first. Not for a long while. S
he wouldn’t look at me, at first, wouldn’t let me even touch her. I—I guess, without knowing it, I did the right thing, just exactly the right thing. Because, you see, I started telling her what happened. Everything, right from the first. We were standing just inside her room, with the door open. I remember that she kept looking at the doorway, as if she wanted to get out, wanted to escape. But finally she began to look at me, began to focus on me, as if she were seeing me for the first time. And then she began crying. And I couldn’t get her to stop. The only thing I could do was hold her—just hold her. We sat on the foot of the bed, the whole time. We stayed like that for—it seemed like forever. An hour, at least. Maybe more. I—I didn’t even look at the clock. But finally it got better. She stopped crying, and she let me give her a sleeping pill—one of mine. And, after another half-hour, she went to sleep. I stayed with her for another fifteen minutes or so. Then I called you. Called the police.”

  “Is your daughter still asleep?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s eleven.”

  “Is she your only child?”

  “She’s my only child. Both James and I have been married twice before. I had Maxine by my first husband. His name is Richard Brett.”

  “When Maxine’s feeling herself, I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Why?”

  “She was on the scene. She was a witness. I’ll make it as easy as I can for her, but I—”

  A knock sounded on the closed door: Canelli’s characteristic three quick taps. Hastings rose, pocketed his notebook. “That’ll be for me, Mrs. Haney. We’ll be leaving in an hour or so. You and your daughter can get some rest. I’m going to leave two men here. One’ll be parked in his car in front of the house, and the other’ll watch out back. They won’t let anyone in unless they check with you.”