The Pariah (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “No, we couldn’t do that, Mother.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too late for you, Mother. There’s no place you can imagine that you’d rather be—nothing you’d rather do.” He let another moment pass, then said, “You’re protected, Mother. You’re cared for, whether you realize it or not. You drink, and you’re protected. It’s all you can ask for. Because you can’t be alone when you drink.”

  “Elton, I—”

  “And I’m protected, too, you see.”

  “Elton, no. You’re not protected. I see these men, I hear people talking. Their faces—I see what they’re thinking, in their faces. Don’t you understand that?”

  “Whose faces? Who’re you talking about?”

  “The strangers. They’re your enemies, Elton. You don’t see it. But I do. And Gloria does, too. And Herbert—and Lloyd. They all know, Elton. And it’s dangerous, what they know.”

  “All except Father. He doesn’t know.”

  “I—” She shook her head. “I haven’t—” Still shaking her head, she discovered that she couldn’t answer. There were no words, suddenly no words. Nothing was left.

  “You haven’t seen him, then. You haven’t seen Father.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ve seen him. And I can tell you, I’m safe. I’m protected, Mother.”

  “Protected from what?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Mother. You have your secrets, and I have mine. And it’s better not to ask about secrets.”

  “You have secrets, Elton. But I don’t.” She paused, then said, “Except for one, just one secret. A very old secret.”

  “It’s about Father, isn’t it?”

  “H-how’d you know?”

  “Because you don’t have a life of your own, Mother. So it’s got to be about Father.”

  “Shall I tell you, Elton? About the secret? It might help you if you knew. It might give you power. Secret power.”

  He shook his head. “No, don’t tell me. Because then it wouldn’t be your secret anymore. It’d be our secret. And I don’t want any more secrets. They can be dangerous, you know. Secrets can hurt. Kill, even.”

  She frowned, focused on him. “Kill? Did you say kill?” As she said it, spoke the single word, she saw him again: the dead boy, lying beside the twisted bicycle. Susan Gaines’s mother had died that day. So Susan had left her alone. She’d gone into Austin’s room, and found some money, more than a hundred dollars. She’d taken the money, and she’d found keys to the Cadillac. Even though it had been summer, hot and smoggy in Los Angeles, she’d thrown a coat over her dressing gown. She’d gone to the garage, and started the Cadillac, and backed it out of the garage. She’d been within a block of the supermarket, calculating how many bottles of vodka she could buy for a hundred dollars, when she’d felt the thud, felt the car swerve.

  She’d felt the thud, and she’d heard the boy’s scream.

  His screams and her screams, echoing and reechoing …

  The same screams she’d heard when she’d found her father, dead. Always, the two screams ran together, echoing and reechoing.

  Always. Always.

  “Kill?” she repeated.

  He didn’t reply; he only nodded, very slowly.

  18

  OVER HIS NEWSPAPER, CANELLI saw Elton Holloway leaving the elevator. Automatically, he checked the time: 9:10 A.M. Without doubt, the suspect was going for breakfast. Noisily, Canelli folded his newspaper, then rose abruptly to his feet. Last night, and again this morning, the lieutenants had ordered that surveillance be tightened so that, if he looked, the suspect would know he was being followed. After thinking about it, Canelli had approved. If Elton Holloway was a loony, a compulsive killer, then anything that would keep him from killing might make him all the more determined to find a victim, kill again.

  Yesterday—Wednesday—the suspect had reportedly eaten breakfast inside the hotel. But today, he was crossing the lobby toward the Powell Street entrance. Canelli let him pass, slipped a transparent earpiece into his ear, pressed a switch set into the handle of the tiny surveillance microphone concealed in his palm:

  “This is Canelli. He’s going out to Powell Street. I’ve got him.” He waited for acknowledgment, frowned, repeated the transmission. Nothing. Once again, the equipment had failed. Muttering an obscenity, he switched off the radio and fell in behind the suspect. Outside, the September morning was warm and calm. Overhead, the sky was a deep, clear blue. On Powell Street, a passing cable car was filled with beaming passengers, most of them with cameras slung around their necks. To himself, Canelli smiled. He’d been born in San Francisco, had lived here all his life. But, still, the city excited him, pleased him. When he got married, he would live in the Sunset District, where he was born, and where his parents lived. Some criticized the monotony of the Sunset’s stucco row houses, some even called them ugly. Canelli didn’t agree. “Home is where the heart is,” someone had said. And his heart was in the Sunset.

  Hands in his pockets, whistling, Canelli walked a little faster, slightly closing the distance between himself and the young man with the pale face and blank eyes who was suspected of at least a dozen murders.

  As Gloria pressed the buzzer, she glanced at her watch. Good, not yet nine-thirty. There was still plenty of time.

  The door opened to reveal Lloyd Mitchell. Seeing him with his hair rumpled, beard-stubbled, wearing a tee shirt, Gloria privately smiled. Mitchell had worked for her father before she was born. But she’d never before seen him without a shirt and tie, wearing his standard blue suit. Even when he’d played with them, during her childhood, he’d always worn a tie.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said. “But I’m locked out. You’ve got a passkey, haven’t you?”

  He frowned. “These doors, they aren’t spring locks. How could you—?”

  “The lock’s screwed up.” She edged her voice with authority. “Give it to me. Dad needs some stuff, some research.”

  For a moment, stubbornly, plainly suspicious, the big man remained motionless, looking at her with his dark, still eyes. The message: Mitchell answered only to Austin Holloway, took orders only from Holloway.

  “Lloyd—pu-leeze.” This time, she smiled. “I’ll bring it right back. I promise.”

  Finally he shrugged, reached in his pocket, produced the key, reluctantly handed it over. She thanked him brightly, patted him on his thick, hairy forearm, and moved briskly away in the direction of her room, around the corner, out of sight.

  If he’d been dressed in his blue suit and tie, he might have insisted on coming with her. He would have insisted on testing her door, double-checking. Mitchell’s suspicions were eternal.

  At the corner of the corridor she turned, looked back, made sure his door was closed. Only one of the two guards were in sight, turned away from her. Quickly, she moved to Elton’s door, opened it, stepped inside, shot the bolt. Slipping the key into the pocket of her slacks, she stood motionless for a moment, looking around the room. Elton’s suitcases were still on the floor beside the bureau. Sometimes, on the road, Elton lived out of his suitcases, never allowing anyone to help him unpack. Indecisively, she eyed the two suitcases, then moved to the bureau. The top two drawers were empty. The second drawer was filled with shirts, underwear, and socks. Gingerly, she stirred at the underwear—

  —and found it: a three-foot length of thick golden cord, knotted at either end. It was heavily plaited, the kind of decorative cord that might have been used to tie back old-fashioned velvet draperies.

  Aware of the sudden thumping of her heart, she stood motionless for a moment, suddenly terrified, helplessly holding the cord draped over both her hands. Her breath was coming harshly, blocked in her throat. If he should come back, find her—

  As if the cord had come alive, she panicked and dropped it. She turned to the door, hesitated, turned back to face the bureau. Had the drawer been open? Closed?

  Should she take the cord? Leave it?

 
; This was proof—the proof that Elton was a murderer. With this much proof, the police would impound Elton’s possessions, take his fingerprints.

  Who would she help, if she took the cord? Who would she hurt?

  She couldn’t decide. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

  But she must move. Must think.

  As she picked up the cord, she saw her fingers trembling. Never could she remember seeing her fingers tremble like this.

  Never.

  19

  “WE CAN’T TELL HIM now,” Flournoy insisted. “This meeting tonight, this banquet—you’re probably not aware of it, Gloria, but tonight, this speech, how it’s received, it’s the most important point in Austin’s career, no question.”

  “He wants to be president,” she said. “That’s what you mean.”

  “No,” Flournoy answered primly. Mouth drawn into a disapproving line, nostrils pinched, he repeated it: “No, not at all. And I wish you wouldn’t—”

  “He wants to choose a president, then. What the hell’s the difference? The point is, the more important he becomes, the more a scandal can hurt him. Don’t you see that, for God’s sake? Don’t you?”

  “After the meeting, I’ll talk to him. I promise. I’ll—”

  “No. After the meeting, we’ll talk to him, Herbert. And meanwhile—” She raised the golden cord, made Flournoy look at it. “Meanwhile, I want to show this to Mitchell. Now. Right now. You can sit in or not, I don’t care. But I’m—”

  “Gloria, you—you’re out of your depth on this. Remember, the police have already talked to him, and apparently didn’t get anything incriminating. And we’ve got Wertheimer, too. So we can afford to step back, give ourselves time to—”

  “No, Herbert, you’re out of your depth. You won’t acknowledge anything that could rock the boat, put a wrinkle in my father’s expensive psyche. And that’s just plain, goddamn shortsighted. And it’s stupid, too. Because we can do something, now. As long as Elton’s free, we’ve got room to maneuver. But time’s running out. Don’t you see that?”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you, Gloria. I’m just saying that—” She turned away from him. Dangling the golden cord from one hand, she strode to the telephone, punched out Mitchell’s room number.

  “Lloyd, I’m in Herbert’s room. We have to talk to you. Right now.” She paused, listened a moment, then said, “Assign someone else. This is important.” She listened, nodded, replaced the phone in its cradle.

  She dropped the coil of golden cord across Mitchell’s thigh, dropped the passkey in his lap. She watched him look down at the key and the cord. Plainly, he realized what the two together meant.

  “I found it in Elton’s room,” she said. “That girl, the prostitute, was killed with a cord like this. I don’t know whether the police can match up the cord with marks on the girl’s throat. But I’m betting they can.”

  Still with his head lowered, Mitchell stared down at the key and the cord. Then, gravely, he took the key, slipped it into his pocket. Finally, as if its touch might contaminate, he gingerly touched the cord, running his large, blunt fingers lightly along the silken braids. Gloria glanced meaningfully at Flournoy, then returned her gaze to Mitchell. For now, silence was her best strategy. Whatever Mitchell decided, the decision would be his alone. Because he coveted nothing, therefore depended on Austin Holloway for nothing, Mitchell’s influence on her father was unquestioned. Making the decisions that really mattered, her father always listened last to Mitchell. Looking down at his big, rough-cut head with its thick, close-cropped hair, she imagined him a Roman centurion, preparing himself for battle. In her imagination, he wore sword-scarred armor, not an off-the-rack blue suit.

  Finally Mitchell raised his head. “You talked to them, the detectives. Do you think they’ll arrest him?”

  “I think if they had this—” She pointed to the cord. “—they’d arrest him. Yes.”

  “There’s probably other evidence,” Flournoy said. “It’s only logical.” He spoke heavily, tonelessly. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t have come here.” His narrow, aesthetic face was drawn, his lips were compressed. Behind sparkling gold-rimmed designer glasses, his eyes were dull, smudged by fatigue.

  “Then we’ve got to talk to Austin,” Mitchell said. “Now. Today. He’s got to get Elton out of town, out of the country. It’ll ruin Austin, ruin The Hour, if they ever arrest Elton.”

  Gloria drew a deep, grateful breath. The only person Austin Holloway trusted completely had finally faced the inevitable.

  For a moment they sat silently, each avoiding the others’ eyes. Finally Flournoy, too, drew a deep breath. “After the banquet tonight, though. We’ll tell him afterward. Not before. We’ll all three talk to him.”

  Gloria turned to Mitchell. “Tonight you’re going to have to watch Elton. We can’t keep him from leaving the hotel, I guess. Not physically. But if he goes out, you’ve got to follow him, make sure he doesn’t—” She broke off, shook her head, fell into an incredulous silence. Having forced the others to accept the fact that her brother was a murderer, she realized that she could hardly comprehend it herself.

  “I should be at the banquet, though,” Mitchell said. “With Austin.”

  “Elton’s got to be watched,” Flournoy said. “Right now, that’s more important than anything else. If he should—”

  Grimly, she finished it for him: “If he should try it again, and they arrest him, then—” Once more, she let it go ominously unfinished.

  “It’s also possible,” Flournoy said, “that if the police get him outside his room, outside the hotel, they could question him, get him to talk. He could leave the hotel and never come back.”

  As the significance of the words registered, each of them fell separately silent, avoiding one another’s eyes. Then Mitchell said, “I’ll have him watched during the day. And tonight, I’ll do it myself if he goes out.” He rose, took the passkey from his pocket, held it out to Gloria, with the golden cord.

  “You’d better put this back. I don’t think he should know we’ve got it. I’ll wait in the hallway while you put it back, to make sure he doesn’t see you.”

  Nodding, she took the cord and the key. For a moment they stood facing each other. When he spoke, Mitchell’s voice was low, thick with emotion: “He was always different—always so frail, so unhappy. Nobody would play with him, I remember. Not even you.”

  Slowly, with infinite regret, she nodded. “Not even me.”

  20

  WITH THE TIP OF HIS right forefinger Holloway touched the tiny knot of skin at the corner of his mouth.

  “It shouldn’t be a problem,” the doctor had said. “Not unless it gets larger. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

  He leaned close to the bathroom mirror, examined the spot. At its center, the spot had reddened. When he returned to Los Angeles, he would call the doctor, tell him about the red spot. Of course, the doctor would want him to come into the office. A half day wasted. A half day, and a hundred dollars for the visit.

  Someone had once said that the medical profession was America’s priesthood. And it was true. No matter how much money his doctor made, Holloway’s income would always be many times more. Yet, when he needed medical advice, he must journey to the doctor, hat in hand, sometimes with his heart in his mouth, seeking solace. Once, after his “cardiac event,” he’d considered adding a doctor to his staff. But then he’d realized that only a second-rater would take such a job, never mind the salary.

  He stepped back from the mirror, lifted his chin, critically examined himself. Yes, for the job ahead, he’d chosen wisely: pinstriped blue suit, vest, gleaming white shirt, conservative tie, French cuffs. On Sunday, for the cameras, for the eager masses, he would wear polyester. But for tonight, only Brooks Brothers would do.

  He glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes, and Flournoy would knock on his door. This was the time he needed most, this time alone, in absolute solitude, all calls held, his thoughts focused on the task ahead. Years ago,
when he’d first begun, he’d practiced in front of the mirror, looking himself squarely in the eye, gesturing, exhorting, pleading—praying for the sinners.

  What was it about bathrooms that made a man so thoughtful, so reflective? Was it the mirror, bringing the man face-to-face with himself? Was it the privacy, with the whole world locked out? An English king had once said that the bath was the only place a king could truly commune with himself. And then there were the elementary functions that man performed in the bathroom: the essential pleasure of a good, full bowel movement, everything in its approved shape, and consistency, accomplished without strain, without pain. And pissing, too, was an elemental pleasure, since the sexual organ was, after all, the means to the end.

  Women, he’d heard, were more preoccupied with the various ceremonies and celebrations of the bath than men, perhaps because, after all, the female’s role required that she adorn herself so that she could attract the male. And it was in the bath that the paints and powders and lacquers and scents were applied, all calculated to please her mate, therefore arouse him.

  Or perhaps the female was more intimately involved with her organs of elimination, therefore of reproduction, since she carried everything inside, enclosed within herself.

  The male was the sower of the seed, the female the receptacle.

  The sower of the seed …

  It would be the perfect lead-in to a sermon. Not, of course, as a sexual reference. Never that.

  Or—yes—the face in the mirror, another lead-in. The man facing himself, facing the truth.

  Anything—everything—could serve. Sometimes as he lay awake at night, amusing himself, he would take the most improbable subjects, working them into something interesting enough to keep the customers in their seats until the collection plate came around.

  How often had he heard his father say it: “Keep them in their seats until the collection basket comes around.”

  And he’d been the one, he and his sister, who’d passed the baskets. “Little Austin and Little Dora,” his father would intone, beaming down at them, then beaming out over the congregation: women in cotton dresses, men in suspenders with their hair slicked down. Rubes. Dull, stupid rubes, sitting on benches beneath a tent that didn’t shed water and wasn’t paid for, listening to his father with their mouths hanging open.