Night Games (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  He closed his good left eye, focused the right eye on the ceiling. The textured ridges and whorls of concrete were soft-focused. Turning his head, he looked across the cell. The bars were blurred.

  They had to get him a lawyer. A public defender. He would tell the lawyer about the bad eye. He would tell the lawyer about the ambulance steward, who laughed while he swabbed Cutter’s cuts with iodine.

  He would tell the lawyer about the cop with the nightstick, beating on him. The cop hadn’t been laughing. With his lips drawn back from clenched teeth, with his eyes wild, the cop had looked like an animal. His voice was an animal’s, too. The voice made sounds. Not words. Just sounds. Like a wild animal, growling.

  Like an animal, killing.

  The other cop, the second cop, had finally pulled the first cop off him.

  How many times had it happened? How many times had he been like this, bleeding? He was twenty-four years old. He’d been twelve the first time they’d arrested him. He’d been twelve, and running down a long dark alley—another long dark alley. It had happened that first time the way it happened last night. Two of them were chasing him. They hadn’t even been running hard, the two that were chasing him. They’d just been clomping after him. In the bright moonlight, looking back over his shoulder as he ran, he’d seen one of them, the second one, with his gun out.

  Then, when he’d looked ahead again, he’d seen the police car, parked across the alley.

  And then he’d known that, yes, it was happening again. They’d caught him again. And he’d known that—

  “Hey, Cutter.”

  With his fingers laced behind his neck, as if he were doing sit-ups, he was raising his head, trying to see who’d called out his name. From the next cell, he heard the sound of someone vomiting.

  “On your feet, Cutter. This isn’t a hotel, you know. Get your black ass up and out here. Now.”

  It was the sheriff’s deputy, holding open the door of the cell.

  As he swung his legs over the edge of the cot and began pushing himself into a sitting position, he was aware of the pain in his side, where they’d kicked him.

  He’d tell his lawyer about that, too—about the broken ribs, maybe.

  Seven

  IN HIS MIDDLE FIFTIES, Lieutenant Peter Friedman had come to that time of his life when he could admit to himself that, yes, he’d become complacent. He knew he was good at his job. Over the years he’d developed a talent for solving crimes without leaving the comfort of his office for the dirt and the danger of the city’s streets. Having put himself at a safe distance from hoods and hustlers, working with his wits instead of his muscles, Friedman had next positioned himself to begin a long-running skirmish with police department bureaucrats, his targets of choice. It was a sniper’s campaign, waged purely for a sportsman’s pleasure. He had no intention of inflicting mortal wounds.

  Friedman was also complacent about his marriage, which had survived one extramarital affair that, fortunately, had eventually burned itself out. Looking back, he was sure that his wife had known of the affair. Therefore, he was grateful to her for never having called him to account. She was a proud woman, and could never have allowed herself to stay married to him after the confrontation. He was also grateful to her for the wisdom and patience and toughness with which she’d raised Joel, their only son.

  Ever since Friedman had refused on principle to take over Homicide when Captain Krieger died, he and Hastings had shared command of the squad, with Hastings working “outside” while Friedman worked inside. If Hastings fitted the media’s idea of the man of action, Friedman was perfect for the gadfly role he’d chosen for himself. At two hundred forty pounds, his waist measured more than his chest. His face was round and swarthy. His thick dark-brown hair was never quite combed, always needed trimming. His dark, almond-shaped eyes noticed everything, revealed nothing. His shirt collars were perpetually mashed by a sizable double chin. The vests of his badly fitting, carelessly buttoned three-piece suits were perpetually smudged with cigar ash. If Hastings’ body naturally craved action, Friedman’s sought repose.

  Hastings had waited until nine o’clock on Saturday morning to call Friedman, at home. After listening to the details of the Haney homicide, Friedman agreed to meet Hastings at the Hall of Justice in an hour. At ten o’clock, promptly, Friedman materialized in the clear glass of Hastings’ office door, and entered without ceremony.

  “Late night, eh?” Friedman sank into Hastings’ visitor’s chair with a grateful sigh, comfortably crossing his hands over the mound of his stomach.

  Hastings snorted. “Late night, early morning. I’ve been up since five o’clock.”

  “Anything new?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Hastings answered, “there is. Or, at least, there may be. Did I tell you that Mrs. Haney saw a young black man leaving the premises with a bag of loot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, a black burglar named Frank Cutter was arrested about two-thirty this morning. He’d just hit a house less than three blocks from the Haney house.”

  “Was he carrying anything from the Haney house?”

  “No. But that’s the interesting part. The Haney house is at 3251 Washington. Cutter was caught on Broadway. So, not more than an hour ago, a woman named Granville showed up with a bag of loot her husband and son found in some shrubbery on Pacific, roughly halfway between the Haney house and the house that Cutter was hitting when he got caught.”

  “Is it the Haney loot?”

  “It fits the description. Mrs. Haney said there was a pistol stolen. That fits. If it’s registered to Haney, it’ll be easy to check. And there was also some kind of an ornamental dagger—with blood on it.”

  “Haney’s blood type?”

  “I haven’t heard from the lab.”

  Friedman took a cigar from his vest pocket and began unwrapping it as he spoke: “It sounds like I’ve made the trip downtown for nothing. If we tie the loot to the Haneys, and we also tie it to Cutter, and if the dagger turns out to be the murder weapon—” He made a ball of the cellophane cigar wrapper and sailed the ball into Hastings’ wastebasket. “We can take the weekend off.”

  “It could all be coincidence, though. Cutter fits the description of half the thieves in San Francisco.”

  Friedman grunted as he began shifting from one sizable ham to another, searching his pockets for matches. “Have you ever stopped to think what would happen to our job prospects if all the angry young blacks were to turn into white fraternity boys?”

  Hastings took a computer printout from his IN basket, waving it at Friedman. “This is Cutter’s sheet. He’s been in trouble since he was twelve.”

  Without looking at the printout, Friedman recited, “And his father left home when he was a baby, and he’s got four or five siblings and his mother’s never been off welfare.”

  Hastings watched Friedman light the cigar. Then, resigned, he watched Friedman sail the still-smoking match into the wastebasket. It was a morning ritual that never varied. At first, Hastings had objected, citing fire ordinances. Then he began to wonder how Friedman would react if a fire started. In all the years they’d worked together, many of them in the field, he’d never seen Friedman rattled. Punched, and kicked, and fired on, but never rattled.

  “You sound like a right-winger,” Hastings observed.

  “I’m no right-winger,” Friedman replied, drawing vigorously on the cigar. “I hate those guys, as a matter of fact. But I’m a realist. And I also read statistics. Black teen-age unemployment is fifty percent. That’s a time bomb. And it’s getting worse, not better. The politicians are fighting inflation by creating unemployment, to keep wage costs down. It’s national policy.”

  “You’re saying it’s a plot, then. Black unemployment, I mean.”

  “Definitely, I think it’s a plot. Hatched in Washington.”

  “I take it back, about you being a right-winger. You sound more like a left-winger now.”

  Friedman shrugged. “Lab
els. They change, you know. It takes a while, but they change.” He blew a thick plume of smoke lazily toward the ceiling, then waved the cigar at the printout. “Have you talked to Cutter yet?”

  “He’s still being processed. It’ll be another hour, at least.”

  “What about the knife? Are they testing it for fingerprints?”

  “That’ll be another hour, too.”

  “We might as well wait until we get the reports, before we talk to him,” Friedman said. “Are you going to put him in a lineup?”

  “Let’s wait and see whether Mrs. Haney identifies the loot. We’ll be hearing from Sacramento, too, on the gun.”

  Friedman heaved himself to his feet. “How about a cup of coffee? Doughnuts, too. My treat.”

  Eight

  WITH EACH CALL, THE telephone had seemed to grow heavier. Until, making this one last call, the effort of lifting the phone almost required more strength than she possessed.

  But it wasn’t the strength that she lacked. It was—

  “Hello?”

  God, how clearly the voice came back across the years.

  “It’s Katherine, Mother.”

  A quick, shrewd silence. Then: “What’s wrong?”

  Yes, she could hear that characteristic note of caution, of calculated withdrawal. Whatever it was, her mother would rather not get involved.

  “It’s James. He—he’s been killed. Murdered. He—” Suddenly her throat closed. Tears were stinging her eyes.

  She was crying.

  Finally, she was crying.

  “Killed?” Nothing in her mother’s voice changed. “Murdered?”

  She could imagine the scene at the other end of the line. It was ten A.M. in California, one P.M. in Florida. If her mother had eaten breakfast she’d have skipped lunch, counting calories. Her mother would be dressed casually, probably in white slacks and a brightly printed blouse. If she wore open-toed sandals, her toenails would be manicured. She would be seated at her small glass-topped telephone stand, looking out over the swimming pool. Because her mother was a heavy smoker, and because she became forgetful after the second martini, she’d had glass tops made for all her furniture, to protect against cigarette burns.

  “There was a robbery last night. This morning, really. And James—” She choked, took a Kleenex from a box beside the bed, wiped her eyes, blew her nose.

  “I can’t remember the last time I heard you cry, Katherine.” It was more an objective observation than a sympathetic response.

  For a moment the line was silent; the only sound was a soft electronic sizzle, like the muted muttering of long-lost souls. Then, plainly reluctant, her mother asked, “Do you want me to come out? Is that what you want?”

  “I—I just called to tell you what happened, Mother. I had to do that.”

  “How’s Maxine?” For the first time, faintly, the other woman’s voice registered concern, compassion. “Was Maxine there when it happened? Is she all right?”

  “Mother, I—I don’t want to talk about that now. I don’t want to talk about the—the details. Not now.”

  “Maxine is upset, then.”

  “Of course she’s—” Katherine broke off, shook her head, struggled to control her voice. She was sitting on the edge of her unmade bed. With clenched fist she struck the mattress.

  “When’s the funeral?” her mother was asking.

  “I—I’m not sure. Wednesday, probably. I’ve talked to the funeral parlor, but they’re not sure. They’ve got to—to talk to the coroner, before they can—” She broke off, still fighting the tears that threatened to choke her, threatened to reduce her to a child again. Whenever she’d cried, so long ago, her mother had always made her feel ashamed, as she felt now. Ashamed, and afraid. And alone. Always alone.

  Did Maxine feel as she felt now?

  Had she ever thought about it, ever wondered about it?

  She must know, must find out. Shame was the easiest punishment of all to inflict. A cold stare, a few deftly chosen adult words, and the barb was planted.

  “I’ll come out,” her mother was saying. “I’ll call my travel agent, and then I’ll call you back. Can you meet me?”

  “Yes, I—I guess so. I’m not sure. There’re so many things to do. With the police, I mean. But I’ll try. If I can’t meet you, I’ll try to get someone to—” She realized that, helplessly, she was shaking her head. Because there wasn’t anyone, really, that she could ask. No one.

  “I’ll call you back, then.” Momentarily the other woman hesitated. There was more. There’d always been more.

  “The only thing is,” her mother was saying, “I’m leaving on a cruise, a week from tomorrow. I could cancel, of course. But—” She let it go unfinished.

  How should she answer? Should she let the bitterness show? Just this once, should she strike out?

  No. Not now. Not without any other family, not without any real friend. She must think before she spoke. Always, she must think before she spoke.

  “Don’t do that, Mother. Don’t cancel. There’s no need. Really.”

  “Well—” The sound of relief was plain in her mother’s voice. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure, Mother.”

  “Well, then—”

  “I’ve got to go, Mother. I’ll—” Her voice caught, but she was able to finish it. “I’ll see that you’re met. Don’t worry.”

  “Yes. Well—fine. Goodbye, Katherine. I’ll phone you back as soon as I know my flight.”

  “Goodbye, Mother.” She put the telephone in its cradle, rose to her feet and walked to the bedroom’s front window. The room faced south, and the mid-morning September sunshine was streaming through the windows. A black-and-white police patrol car was parked at the curb, behind a white van from the police crime laboratory. Another car, an unmarked blue sedan with a dented front fender, belonged to Inspector Canelli, who was still downstairs. Other nearby cars, she knew, belonged to reporters, photographers, and TV cameramen. When the coroner’s men had finally finished their grisly work downstairs, they’d wrapped James in a green plastic shroud. They’d secured the shroud to a metal gurney with black elastic straps, and they’d wheeled James out to the coroner’s van, also unmarked. She’d been at the window, watching. As soon as the gurney appeared, she’d seen a half-dozen photographers converging on it like scavengers falling on a dead carcass.

  James Haney …

  She could vividly remember the first time they’d met. It had been more than three years ago. She’d still been married to David, but they both knew the marriage was over. Yet they’d never been enemies; they’d always been friends, really. So, almost companionably, they’d gone to a party, she and David, the last party they’d gone to, together. By Hollywood standards, it had been a small party: fewer than fifty people, invited to a buffet. Almost from the first, she’d been aware of James’ presence. He’d been dressed in a three-piece suit, instead of the regulation slacks and a hundred-dollar sports shirt. Effortlessly, he’d dominated every group he joined. Even the guest of honor, who’d directed a prize-winning documentary on an election campaign, had deferred to James. And, therefore, the other guests had followed the director’s lead. James handled the senator whose campaign was featured in the film. He’d—

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door. Already, she could recognize the light, tentative tapping. It was Inspector Canelli, the roly-poly detective with the anxious eyes and the fretful hands, who always interrupted himself when he talked.

  “Just a minute.”

  She turned away from the window, walked to the dresser, looked in the mirror. When the lieutenant—Hastings—had left her alone, hours ago, she’d taken a shower, standing with the force of the water full in her face, surrendered to the elemental sense of absolution that the water conferred. It had seemed necessary, to feel the water on her breasts and her torso, necessary to cleanse her face of all makeup, necessary to wash the mousse out of her hair. After she’d dressed in tan slacks, a gingham shirt and
a cardigan sweater, she’d gone into Maxine’s room, satisfied herself that Maxine was sleeping heavily, still partially sedated. Then, without looking at the hallway floor at the bottom of the stairs, she’d leaned over the balustrade and asked Inspector Canelli if he’d see that the blood was cleaned up. She’d returned to her room, closed the door, stretched out on the bed. She hadn’t been able to sleep. But somehow she’d been able to numb her thoughts, make her mind a merciful blank. After an hour or two, she’d begun making phone calls. Now, at twenty minutes past ten o’clock, the outside world, in the person of Canelli, was mounting its first assault. Therefore, she must prepare herself, arm herself.

  “Just a minute,” she repeated. On the other side of the door, Canelli was saying that it was all right, that she should take her time. She worked quickly with her lipstick, brushed blusher on her cheeks and jawline, used coverstick on the dark circles beneath her eyes, touched her eyelashes with mascara. With only a combing, thank God, her hair fell naturally enough into place to get her through the next few hours. She swept the makeup into the drawer, took a final moment to eye the effect, then crossed the room to open the door.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Haney.” Canelli was shifting from one foot to the other, ducking his head like an overweight, ill-at-ease schoolboy. “But I just talked to Lieutenant Hastings. There’s a couple of things that just came up, see, and the lieutenant asked me to ask you if you’d mind helping us out, with identifications, and everything.” He looked at her with soft, anxious eyes. “Is that okay? For an hour or so? I’ll drive you downtown, and drive you back, and everything, so you won’t have to hassle the parking, or anything. And I’ll—Oh.” He frowned, vexed with himself. “I forgot to tell you, we got the—you know—the mess cleaned up, at the bottom of the stairs. You can hardly tell that, you know”—he waved a vague hand—“that anything happened.”

  “Thanks, Inspector. Thanks a lot.” She hesitated, then asked, “What is it, that I’ll be identifying? Is it—” She couldn’t finish it, couldn’t say “my dead husband’s body.”