The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “The Bayside.”

  “Yeah. I’ll find out who owns it, and give him a little peek at what kind of grief he can expect if that night clerk doesn’t give us the right answers.”

  “Good idea.” Hastings put a paperweight on a stack of interrogation reports, and got to his feet. “Well, I’m going over to the St. Francis. Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “In the afternoon, maybe. I’ve got to be in court until the jury’s charged. Which the judge should do tomorrow, first thing. I’ll call in when I know more. Meanwhile, good luck in the Tenderloin.”

  “Thanks.”

  6

  “THERE HE IS,” PENZINER said, pointing to Dancer Browne’s Continental, pulling to a stop in a yellow no-parking zone. “How d’you want to handle it?”

  “You haven’t talked to him today, is that right?” Hastings asked.

  “Right. I just came on duty an hour ago. And Dancer doesn’t keep office hours.”

  “I think I’ll talk to him alone,” Hastings said. “No point in attracting any more attention than we can help. By the way, do you know who owns the Bayside Hotel?”

  “Some Iranians, the way I understand it. Rich Iranians, with lots of real estate in San Francisco. I’m not sure who runs it day-to-day, though. Or, more like it, night-to-night.” Penziner smiled, pleased with his joke. He was a tall, stooped, hollow-chested man, divorced three times. He wore polyester suits, tassled loafers and a mismatched toupee. In defiance of departmental guidelines, he carried a .45 automatic in a bulging shoulder holster. But, in fifteen years, Penziner had never fired a shot in the line of duty.

  “See if you can find out who actually manages the Bayside,” Hastings said. “The room clerk that was on duty last night—that big black guy. Do you know him?”

  Penziner nodded. “His name is Floyd Harrison. He used to box. And he’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “Has he ever been busted?”

  “Not for anything heavy, I don’t think.”

  “I want him to be available for an identification if we turn up anyone. And I want him cooperative. So find out who’s managing the Bayside, and tell him that unless Harrison works with us, we’re going to make it very hard for the hotel to stay in business. Lieutenant Friedman’ll do the same number on the owners once he tracks them down.”

  “Right.”

  “And do it as soon as you can. It could be that we’ve only got a few days on the MacFarland homicide.”

  “How come?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Hastings walked briskly across Mason Street. He was a big, muscular man who moved easily and economically, projecting a calm, quiet self-confidence. He wore a Harris tweed sports jacket, a wool tie, and flannel slacks. His features were regular: full mouth, straight nose, broad forehead, firm chin. His brown eyes were thoughtful, but watchful. In his forties, he still had most of his hair, a source of secret satisfaction.

  As he’d done last night, Hastings rapped on the Continental’s passenger window. This time, he didn’t show his shield. Plainly reluctant, Dancer swung the door open.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Lieutenant. It—you know—tarnishes my image.”

  Without comment, Hastings swung the door shut and shifted on the glove-leather seat to face the other man.

  “Have you got a conservative suit and tie, Dancer?”

  Surprised, Dancer studied the detective’s face, which told him nothing. Finally, cautiously, Dancer nodded. “Sure I do. Why you asking?”

  “Because I want you to go home and put on the suit. I want you to do it now. Right now. Then I want you to go to the lobby of the St. Francis. That’s where I’ll meet you.” He looked at his watch. “It’s one-thirty. I’ll see you there at two-thirty. Sharp.”

  “But—”

  “If I’m not there, contact the house detective. He’ll tell you what to do. And remember, I said a conservative suit. I want you to look like you went to Harvard. Clear?”

  “But—” Deeply aggrieved, Dancer gestured toward the street outside. “But I got things to do here. I got business.”

  Hastings tripped the door handle, swung open the door, got out of the car. He leaned down, waited until they made eye contact, then spoke quietly: “If you aren’t at the St. Francis by two-thirty, Dancer, you’re out of business. Permanently.”

  “But—”

  “And I wasn’t kidding about Harvard. You come there looking like a pimp, it’s your ass.”

  “Pimp?” Elaborately aggrieved, Dancer raised expressive eyebrows, pursed full, disapproving lips. “Pimp, did you say?”

  Hastings smiled: an ironic twisting of his wide mouth. “How about procurer? Better?”

  “Better,” Dancer replied, nodding judiciously. “Much better.”

  Dressed in a wrinkled corduroy jacket and haphazardly pressed brown slacks, raising his plump chin against the unaccustomed constriction of a tie, seated in a delicately carved Regency armchair, Canelli was plainly ill at ease. Seeing Hastings walking through the revolving doors on the Powell Street side of the St. Francis lobby, Canelli immediately rose. Tentatively smiling, he raised his hand—then reconsidered. The hand came quickly down, the smile of amiable recognition quickly vanished as he stood motionless, waiting for Hastings to take the initiative. When Hastings came directly to him, Canelli ventured a second smile.

  “Hi, Lieutenant.”

  “Hello, Canelli. Where’s Marsten and Culligan?”

  “Marsten’s on the Post Street entrance, and Culligan’s on the Geary Street side.”

  “There’re three entrances, then.”

  “Yessir. Plus the garage. But this one—” He gestured. “Powell Street, that’s the main one.”

  Hastings led the way to a green velvet sofa placed beside a towering pillar intricately carved in dramatically veined marble. A huge fiddle-leaf fig grew in a hammered brass planter, partially concealing the sofa from the hotel’s elevators and main desk.

  “So what’s the rundown?” Hastings said.

  “Well …” Worriedly, Canelli shook his head, fretfully frowning. “Well, we aren’t exactly organized, I guess you’d say. I mean, we’ve only been here for a little over an hour, you know. And you told us to—you know—keep a low profile, and everything, till you got here. So, really, there isn’t a hell of a lot to report, Lieutenant.”

  “Did you talk to the hotel detective?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I figured you’d want to do that.” Anxiously looking for signs of approval, Canelli’s soft brown eyes scanned the other man’s face. To himself, Hastings smiled. Canelli was the only cop he’d ever known who could constantly get his feelings hurt.

  “That’s right.” Hastings nodded. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “But I talked to the bell captain,” Canelli offered. “He said that the Holloway people have the whole eleventh floor. So I decided to go up there just to—you know—look around. I mean, I didn’t plan to show my shield or anything. But what d’you think happened, when I pressed the elevator button for the eleventh floor?”

  Gently, Hastings sighed. “I give up, Canelli. What happened?”

  “Nothing, that’s what happened. Zero.”

  “Zero?”

  “If you press eleven, nothing happens. The goddamn buttons’re blanked out, or something. I couldn’t believe it. But that’s what happens, the bell captain said, when the president comes, or somebody. The elevator won’t stop at their floor, unless you know which other buttons to push. Like, if you push three and one and four, quickly, then you’ll get the eleventh floor. Clever, huh?”

  “So what’d you do? Use the code?”

  “No. I mean, I didn’t think that would be very low profile.” Once more, he looked for approval in Hastings’s face, then said, “So I went up to twelve, and then walked down. And, of course, the next thing I know, I’m eyeball-to-eyeball with a couple of guys in blue blazers, who start asking questions.”

  “Private security people.”

  Canelli
emphatically nodded. “Definitely.”

  “Do you have any idea how many Holloway people are up there on the eleventh floor?”

  “The bell captain guessed about fifty altogether.”

  “Fifty …” Hastings checked the time, stood up. “I’m going to talk to the house detective. You stay here. Amy MacFarland’s pimp will be here by two-thirty. Do you know him by sight?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay, good. Have we got enough surveillance radios and a good, clear frequency?”

  “Yessir.” Canelli patted his inside pocket, where he’d concealed his radio. “But the thing is, we’re kind of hamstrung, as far as any real surveillance goes. I mean, all we’ve got is a general description. And I bet I’ve seen a hundred guys that are between twenty-five and thirty-five, with dark blond hair, just since I got here.”

  “First I’ll talk to the house detective. Then we’ll work out something.”

  “If they’re coming from the eleventh floor, they’ll be using that bank of elevators,” the hotel detective said, pointing. “Of course, if they go down to the fifth floor, then they could use the elevators on the Post Street side.”

  “And what if they use the stairs?”

  The hotel detective shrugged. “Same thing. The stairs run beside the elevator shafts. Then there’s the main staircase, coming down from the third floor.” He looked at Hastings. “What’s this all about, anyhow?”

  “We think someone connected with Holloway might’ve committed a felony. We’re going to try to find him, and question him. He’s twenty-five to thirty, dark blond hair, medium build. Pale face, I gather.” Hopefully, Hastings looked at the other man. “Ring any bells?”

  “Afraid not. What kind of felony’re we talking about?”

  “A serious felony.” Looking across the elegantly furnished lobby toward the Powell Street entrance, Hastings saw a tall, graceful black man jauntily emerging from the revolving doors, as arrogantly as a Bantu prince. Dancer Browne had arrived.

  “What I’d like you to do,” Hastings said, speaking to the hotel detective, “is get me a list of everyone on the eleventh floor, every guest. I’d also like to use your phone for messages, if that’s all right.” Apologetically, he shook his head. “What’s your name again? I’m sorry—”

  “The name’s Malloy,” the detective said, extending his card. “Bill Malloy, retired from the LAPD.”

  Handing over his own card, Hastings shook hands with the other man, then signaled to Dancer Browne, who was sitting at his ease in a luxurious tufted armchair, one long leg crossed over the other. Browne was wearing a double-breasted suit, conservatively pinstriped. His red silk tie was paisley-printed; his high-collared white shirt gleamed. In his lapel, an antique diamond stickpin sparkled.

  “You look like a stockbroker,” Hastings said, sitting in a facing chair.

  “Man, I feel like a stockbroker,” Browne answered. “They say clothes make the man. And it’s true. You feel like how you look.”

  “Sorry to pull you away from business.”

  Airily, Dancer waved a long-fingered hand. “No problem. I’ve got an assistant.”

  “This could be important—a big one. Or, at least, a very delicate one.”

  “Yeah, well—” Dancer waved again, this time magnanimously. “Well, just don’t forget, all right? I mean, sometimes I have—ah—problems, downtown. You know?”

  Hastings nodded. “I know. And I hear you.” He turned to point to the hotel’s main bank of four elevators. “We’ve got good reason to think that the man who killed Amy is staying here, at this hotel. And if he is, then he’ll probably be using those elevators. So what I’d like you to do is just hang around here, until—”

  “Hey—”

  Irritated at the interruption, Hastings turned to look at the black man. He saw Dancer meaningfully move his chin in the direction of the hotel’s main entrance. A young man with dark blond hair had just pushed open one of the two doors that flanked the revolving doors, and was walking slowly across the lobby in the direction of the main desk. Slowly, Hastings rose to his feet. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I’m positive, man. Look at those eyes. There’s no one at home.”

  “You stay here,” Hastings ordered. “Don’t move.” Across the lobby, he caught Canelli’s eye, surreptitiously nodding in the direction of the blond young man, who was now waiting at the desk for a clerk to acknowledge him. Also on his feet, Canelli nodded in return, began angling easily toward the desk. Reflexively, both detectives unbuttoned their jackets, touched the butts of their service revolvers. With twenty-five feet still separating him from the suspect, Hastings heard someone calling his name. Turning, he saw Bill Malloy. The hotel detective held a printout sheet in his hand, and was looking at Hastings expectantly. Satisfied that Canelli was close enough to grab the suspect if he ran, Hastings beckoned for Malloy to come closer.

  “Here’s the guest list,” Malloy said. “But I couldn’t get—”

  “Not now—” With his eyes back on the suspect, Hastings raised a cautionary hand. “That one at the desk, the blond man wearing the beige jacket, no tie, brown shoes. Know him?”

  “Sure do,” Malloy answered promptly. “That’s Elton Holloway. Is he the one you—?”

  “Elton Holloway? Who’s Elton Holloway?”

  “Elton Holloway’s Austin Holloway’s son.”

  7

  THE CAMERAMAN WIDENED HIS focus to include both Austin Holloway and Jeffrey Christopher, anchorman for the Channel 4 News at 11. Deep-focused, the shot caught the opulence of the St. Francis’s presidential suite, with a large view window in the background, framed by red damask draperies. Pleased with the angle, the cameraman smiled slightly, concentrating on holding the frame steady. In the viewfinder, he saw Christopher smiling smoothly as he leaned forward, about to slip in a sugarcoated zinger, Christopher’s specialty.

  “What I’m wondering, Mr. Holloway—what many are wondering—is: Why San Francisco? Los Angeles, yes. The Bible Belt, yes. But San Francisco? Why?” Engagingly, the smile widened as Christopher, ever mindful of the camera, turned his head slightly for a more flattering angle.

  Seated in a carved armchair that could have come from a castle, Austin Holloway decided to smile benevolently. In his sixties, Holloway was perfectly cast for his evangelical role. His silver hair was full and flowing, a deftly styled biblical mod. His blue eyes were clear, dramatically alive, wonderfully expressive. His profile, too, was dramatic, as arresting as a prophet’s. His torso was trim, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted. His voice was rich and resonant.

  “Our crusade, Mr. Christopher, is for all the people—those who sin, and those who follow the commandments of the Lord. And San Francisco, certainly, is a challenge.” Focused just between the camera and the anchorman, his smile was broad, both benevolent and compelling, gently mischievous, infinitely tolerant.

  “You’ll be holding your Sunday service at the Cow Palace, where the Republicans have held their conventions in the past. Do you expect to fill all the seats?”

  The smile remained in place; the eyes sparkled, chiding the questioner. The voice expressed genial tolerance for the other man’s callowness. “We don’t concern ourselves with statistics, Mr. Christopher. If one soul is saved on Sunday, this San Francisco Crusade for Christ will have succeeded.”

  Recognizing an exit line that couldn’t be topped, Christopher turned toward the camera, which was now focused fully on his face.

  “Austin Holloway—America’s premiere TV evangelist, in San Francisco for the first time in his forty-odd years in the pulpit.” A pause, as the camera held for the segment’s final seconds. Then: “This is Jeffrey Christopher, Channel Four News.”

  Both the reporter and the evangelist held their on-camera smiles until the tiny red light beneath the lens blinked out. Then both men rose, shook hands, exchanged perfunctory good-byes, turned away from each other. An impassive blue-blazered security man nodded to the reporter and cameraman, ush
ering them out into the hallway. As the door closed behind them, Holloway turned to the two men who had advanced from behind the camera to stand side by side, facing him. Physically, the men were exact opposites. At age fifty, Herbert Flournoy was a lean, taut, avid man, visibly restless, fastidiously dressed, precise when he moved. In his sixties, Lloyd Mitchell was massively built, stolidly uncompromising. Flournoy was dressed for the boardroom. Like the men who worked for him, Lloyd Mitchell wore bodyguard blue.

  But if their dress differed, their eyes were the same: cold, watchful eyes. Inscrutable eyes, revealing nothing.

  In unison, Holloway and Flournoy checked their watches. Both men were businesslike, slightly abstracted, obviously accustomed to planning, thinking ahead, working within tight schedules.

  “How long will it take at City Hall?” Holloway asked.

  “Portal to portal,” Flournoy answered, “I figure it an hour flat—fifteen minutes down, fifteen minutes back, a half hour for the ceremony.”

  “How’s the coverage?”

  “Both newspapers, only one TV channel, so far.” Flournoy shrugged. “Benton’s still trying.”

  “Is the mayor coming Sunday?” Holloway asked.

  “He hasn’t committed himself yet.” Flournoy tapped his watch. “You’ve only got twelve minutes.”

  “Fine.” Holloway nodded, turning away. “Just enough time for a good, satisfying crap.”

  Flournoy’s face registered prim, unsmiling disapproval. It was a turn-of-the-century schoolmaster’s face: pinched nostrils, a thin, tight mouth, pale, passionless eyes. The flesh of his face was sallow; his bald head was fringed with brown hair.

  Flournoy waited for the connecting door to close on Holloway before he turned to Lloyd Mitchell. Flournoy spoke quietly, without inflection: “This town worries me. The SLA, the Zebra killings, the Zodiac murders—they all happened here. Are we covered?”

  “I’ve got three men with Uzis in their attaché cases,” Mitchell answered. “It’s not legal, but that’s what they’ve got. And the police will be at the Cow Palace. They’ll be at the civic luncheon, too. And today, of course, when he gets the key to the city.”