He shook his head. “No. I haven’t been to one of her concerts for years. Two, three years. Maybe longer.”
“Where were you, last night?”
I saw a small, uncertain spark of defiance stir deep in his washed-out eyes. “Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
For a long, resentful moment he didn’t reply. Then, frowning, he said, “I was here. Right here.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
He nodded. “All night.”
“Did you talk to anyone on the phone?”
He blinked, frowned again and finally shook his head, sighing deeply. “Last night wasn’t any different from most other nights, Lieutenant. I stayed here, and listened to tapes. And, if you want the whole sordid story, I drank wine. Lots of wine. Then, finally, I went to bed. It was—” He burped—quietly, this time. “It was what you might call a typical evening, around here.” He spoke in a low, mumbling monotone. He didn’t raise his eyes.
“Don’t you have any friends?” Canelli asked.
I glanced at Canelli, slightly frowning. It was the wrong question—a question that could put the suspect on the defensive. As he often did, Canelli had acted impulsively.
Wright turned to Canelli, studied him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “No, Inspector,” he said softly, “I don’t have any friends. I have a few fans left, here and there. And, every once in a while, someone calls to ask me for a favor, or maybe for a loan. But I don’t have any friends. I used to think I had friends—lots of friends. When I was giving concerts, and seeing my picture on posters, and reading about myself in Time, I used to think I had friends. But it turned out I was wrong.”
I waited a second before I said, “You have a gun registered to you, Mr. Wright. A Smith and Wesson revolver. Is that right?”
He looked at me, frowning at the question. Then, slowly, his eyes incredulously widened. “You’re saying that you think I killed her,” he whispered. “That’s why you asked where I was last night.”
Not replying, I let him search my face for the answer.
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head in a dull, defeated arc. “Jesus Christ. What’d she do—leave a note saying I wanted to kill her?”
“It wasn’t a note,” I answered. “It was the gun. Your gun. And it was found backstage last night, about thirty feet from your wife’s body.”
He blinked. “My gun?”
I nodded.
“But I didn’t have the gun.” As he spoke, his voice rose a single thin, plaintive octave. “I haven’t had it for years.”
“Can you prove it?” Canelli asked.
“Prove it?” As if he were puzzled, Wright squinted at Canelli with forehead furrowed, mouth puckered. His eyes were frightened.
“The gun is registered to you, Sam,” I said. “It’s your gun. And it killed her. There’s no doubt about it.”
“But—Jesus—that’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Rebecca had the gun. She kept it in her motor home. All the time.”
“Can you prove that?”
Still puzzled, he scanned my face. Then, as realization dawned, he shook his head, suddenly resigned. His body went slack. Once more, his head fell until his chin rested on his chest. “I can’t prove that I didn’t have the gun, and I can’t prove that I wasn’t there, last night. So you think I killed her. Jesus.”
I decided not to reply.
He heaved a deep, self-pitying sigh. “Are you here to arrest me? Is that it?”
Again, I didn’t answer. If he was sinking into a drunken, maudlin bout of self-pity, I could learn more by listening than I could by talking.
For more than a minute, the silence held. Then I saw his shoulders shaking, and I heard him chuckling. “God,” he said, “it’s the final bit of irony, you know that?”
“How do you mean, irony?” I said it softly, careful not to intrude on his mood.
“I mean,” he answered, “that even when she’s dead, she’s still screwing me over. She’s—Christ—she’s never going to let go. Never. Not until she’s got me dead, like her. It—” Once more, he began laughing, this time tittering on the edge of a kind of exhausted, defeated hysteria. “It’s so typical—so goddamn typical. It—Christ—it’s my goddamn destiny. My karma. I might just as well—” He broke off, then began slowly, sadly shaking his head. At the same time he stretched out his hand toward a side table, and groped blindly behind a table lamp until he found a half-filled glass of white wine. As if he were meditating, he stared deep into the wine. Then, quickly, he drained the glass.
“I might as well face it,” he mumbled.
“Face what?” I asked.
“Face the fact that I’m never going to get rid of her. I had—” He gulped, then grimaced. “I had about one minute—just one—after I heard about it, when I thought, Christ, I’m free. Free. But then—” Once more he helplessly, hopelessly shook his head. “Then it all came back. Everything. Right from the beginning—right from the first time I ever saw her. I—I knew she was trouble, even then. It was in her eyes, and in her gestures, and in the way she carried herself. There was a special kind of arrogance about her. I can still see her sitting on a musician’s stool, watching me. We were about even, then—both of us coming up, fast. So, of course, we’d heard of each other. We were both cutting demos. She was scheduled right after me. She was listening to me sing, and she was keeping time with her hand, tapping her thigh. She was smiling, too. It was kind of a bold, knowing smile. I had the feeling she knew something about me that I didn’t know myself, and she was deciding whether or not she’d let me in on the secret.” He drew a long, shaky breath, sighing sadly. “It’s incredible,” he said, “but the whole thing between us started then. The pattern was set, from that first moment. It was set, and it didn’t change. It was like she was drawing something out of me, just looking at me like that. Because I couldn’t concentrate on what I was singing, for watching her. I knew I was fluffing it. And, sure enough, when I heard the tape, everything was off. Not off by much—but off enough.
“But when it was Rebecca’s turn, she did it just right. And, in fact, that was the first time she ever recorded “Nightingale Morning,” her first big hit. But the tune I was recording never got off the ground. And that’s the way it was, for both of us. That’s the way it started. And that’s the way it ended, too.”
“How did you hear that she’d been killed?” I asked.
“I heard it on the TV, just like anyone else. Just—” Bitterly, he snorted. “Just like the rest of her fans. Millions and millions of them.”
“Do you know where she kept the gun?” Canelli asked.
He waved a wan hand. “I already told you. In her mobile home.”
“But where in her mobile home?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. How should I know?”
“When was the last time you were in her mobile home?”
“Ab—” He cleared his throat. “About six months ago, I guess. Or maybe it was longer. Maybe it was more like a year. Christ, who knows? Who remembers dates?”
“Is that the last time you saw your wife?”
“No. I saw her at her father’s funeral. And then, that night, she stayed here. That’s the last time I saw her.”
“That was about three weeks ago?” Canelli said.
Wright’s head bobbed loosely, nodding. “Right. Three weeks ago.”
“When you say—” I hesitated. Then: “When you say she stayed here, do you mean that you—slept together?”
Again, the disheveled head bobbed loosely. “Yes,” he answered, almost inaudibly. “Yes, we slept together. Because, you see, that’s the problem.”
For a moment, I looked at the bowed head before I said, “You loved her, you mean. That’s the problem?”
Silently, he nodded. Then, softly, he began to cry.
Eight
“WHAT’D YOU THINK, CANELLI
?” I asked, bracing myself as he took the cruiser around a corner too fast. “Was he telling the truth?”
Canelli frowned. “To me, Lieutenant, it looked like he was. Plus I don’t see him killing her. I mean, what we got here is premeditated murder, probably. And that takes balls, as they say. And Sam Wright, he just doesn’t have them.”
“I agree. But, still, he had a motive. She was driving him crazy. And Behr says that he’ll inherit her money. Millions, probably.”
“It seems to me,” Canelli said, “that he was driving himself crazy, and blaming her for it.”
“If we get independent confirmation that she kept the gun in her motor home,” I said, “then Wright’s probably off the hook.”
“He could’ve gotten backstage, though, to get the gun. For him, it would’ve been easy.”
“Agreed. But, backstage, he would’ve been spotted, sure as hell.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Lieutenant. I see what you mean. But, on the other hand, if he’s lying about her having the gun, then he could’ve been out in the audience, with the gun on him. The rest would’ve been easy. He’d just wait for the concert to end, and then slip through the curtains, and pull the trigger—and then go back through the curtains. No sweat.”
“Except for one thing,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Everyone who goes to a rock concert gets searched at the door.”
“What?” Disbelieving, Canelli looked at me with round, astonished eyes.
I nodded. “Everyone,” I repeated. “Mostly, they’re looking for liquor. But they search for weapons, too.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” He considered for a moment, then said, “Still, with his knowledge of the layout, he could’ve stashed the gun.”
Nodding agreement, I said, “I think you should pin that gun down. Try to find someone who spent a lot of time in the mobile home with Rebecca, and see whether they actually saw the gun.”
“A maid, maybe?”
“A maid, or a lover. Try Richard Gee. He’s the leader of Pure Power. David Behr says they were lovers. Try Ron Massey, too. Her manager.”
“What about you, Lieutenant? What’re you going to do while I’m doing that?”
“I’m going to talk to Rebecca’s stepmother. She’s at 3670 Pacific Avenue. Drop me there, and then start working on the gun. I’ll see you back at the Hall.”
“Yessir.”
“If you’ll wait just one moment,” the maid said, “Ms. Dangerfield will be with you.” She gestured me to a small damask armchair, nodded politely, and was about to leave the room when I said:
“I wanted Mrs. Carlton.”
Again, she nodded politely. She was a young, attractive Chicano woman with the smooth, impassive face of a Mayan madonna. “Yes.” To reassure me, she smiled gravely. “Yes. Mrs. Carlton.”
Ms. Dangerfield—Mrs. Carlton. Referring, apparently, to the same person.
I sighed. The deeper I dug into Rebecca’s life, the more complex the investigation of her death became.
I looked around the small study. The room was furnished entirely with delicately scaled antique furniture, obviously to a woman’s taste. The walls were covered with watered silk; the drapes were a rich brocade. The desk was French provincial, exquisitely carved. An old-fashioned French phone rested on the desk, along with a small picture framed in filigreed silver. Looking at the picture, I recognized a head-and-shoulders likeness of Bernard Carlton. Dressed in a tweed sports jacket and soft shirt worn open at the throat, he stared straight into the camera, unsmiling. He appeared to be in his early forties when the picture had been taken. His face was narrow, with a wide, firm mouth and aquiline nose and intense, remorseless eyes beneath generously arching brows. It was an arresting face: handsome, intelligent, obviously well-bred. But, perhaps, a little overbred. As I looked at the picture, I remembered F. Scott Fitzgerald, and his lost generation.
I glanced at the phone, then at my watch. The time was almost noon. Since eight o’clock, when I’d stumbled out of bed, I’d been trying to find a free moment to call Ann. I wanted to tell her that, because of the Carlton homicide, I might not be able to spend tomorrow with her and her sons, as we’d planned.
And I wanted to tell her that I hadn’t slept well last night, because of the things we’d said to each other—and the things that had gone unsaid. I wanted to tell her that, all day, I’d felt empty and alone. I wanted to make her understand that I couldn’t face the possibility of not seeing her—of not spending time with the three of them: Ann, and Billy, and Dan. I couldn’t imagine not making love to her, holding her naked body warm against mine, with her head tucked into the hollow of my shoulder while we whispered together in the bedroom darkness.
But I wanted to tell her, too, that I needed more time with her—and with myself—before I could answer the questions that she’d asked last night.
I’d risen to my feet, and had my hand outstretched to the phone when the door suddenly opened.
Guiltily, I turned to face a strikingly beautiful woman who stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other hand propped on one slim, exciting hip. She was dressed in a light gray woolen turtleneck sweater and beautifully cut wool slacks. Her dark eyes came provocatively alive as she smiled at me.
“Reaching for something, Lieutenant Hastings?”
“I—ah—wanted to call my office.”
She swept her arm gracefully toward the desk. “Go ahead. Please.”
“No—” My own gesture of denial felt stiff and awkward. “That’s all right. But thanks, anyhow.”
Still smiling, she moved to sit behind the desk, at the same time gesturing me to the damask armchair. As I sat down, I realized that my chair was lower than hers, and that I must look up at her.
Sitting as erect as I could, I said, “I’ve come about your stepdaughter, Mrs. Carlton. If it’s convenient, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“It’s Ms. Dangerfield,” she said. “Cass Dangerfield. I’m a writer, like my husband was. A novelist. And I’ve always used my own name.”
“Sorry.” As I said it, I considered the progression: Dangerfield, then a probable marriage to Wade, the father of Justin. And then, finally, marriage to Bernard Carlton.
And, in between, there could have been other marriages, other names.
“What’re the questions?” As she spoke, she picked up a slim, jewel-handled dagger, balancing it idly in her hand. She was looking out through French doors that opened on a small formal garden, and I took the opportunity to study her. Even though the close-fitting sweater and slacks suggested the body of a much younger woman, the coarsening texture of her face and neck put her age in the early forties. Her brown hair was thick and curly, cropped close to her head. Gray hairs mingled with the brown asserted her independence without diminishing her vitality, or her beauty. Her face was small, but its features were strong, decisively drawn. She held herself with a calm dignity that was, I suspected, often taken for arrogance. Her dark eyes were both bold and quick, yet unrevealing. Watching her eyes, and remembering her opening gambit, I decided that Cass Dangerfield’s natural instinct was to take the initiative—and keep it. Whatever the game, she would play to win.
“The first question,” I said, “is the most obvious. Do you have any idea who would have wanted to kill Rebecca?”
“None whatever,” she answered briskly. “But I’ve always assumed that, in the rock-and-roll milieu, life is cheap. Either they OD on drugs and kill themselves, or else they hallucinate and kill someone they think is the devil—or, maybe, an angel, depending on the drugs they take.”
“That’s a pretty harsh assessment, Ms. Dangerfield.”
“It’s a pretty harsh life,” she countered coolly. “No one should know that better than you, I’d think. And, therefore, I make the assumption that you want the truth as I see it, unvarnished. If I’m wrong—if you’d rather have homilies, and protestations of grief, and a few pious platitudes about how sweet and wonderful I fou
nd Rebecca and her friends—then I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, Lieutenant. Because I don’t have time for all that. I’ve got funeral arrangements to make.” As she spoke, she idly tested the dagger’s edge with her thumb.
“It’s your second funeral in three weeks.”
She nodded, staring straight into my eyes. “That’s correct.” There was no sign of sorrow, either in her face, or in her gestures, or in her voice.
“As I understand it, then, you think that someone who was associated with your stepdaughter’s profession got high on drugs, and killed her. Is that right?”
She shrugged. “Yes and no. I don’t have anyone specific in mind. I’m speaking generally.”
“You don’t know of any enemy she might have had?”
“No.”
“I wonder whether you could give me some background on Rebecca.”
“What kind of background?”
“Anything that occurs to you. What kind of a person was she? How did she get along in the family? What about her friends and associates? Did she dislike anyone? Hate anyone? Love anyone?”
Her mouth stirred in a small, cynical smile. “Hate, yes. Love, no. At least, not if you subtract sex.” She paused, letting her gaze wander out to the garden. Then, speaking slowly and deliberately, with what seemed like carefully calculated malice, she said, “Rebecca wasn’t capable of love. Neither was her father. They were, however, capable of lust—a neurotic, insatiable lust. Both of them.”
Watching her, I wondered whether she was capable of love either. I remembered Justin Wade, with his strange visions, and his wild, blazing eyes. Was the son capable of love? I doubted it.
“It sounds like—” I hesitated, searching for the phrase. “It sounds like you might’ve had a difficult time together, the four of you.”
The cynical smile returned. It was broader now, more ironic. “It wasn’t exactly an average, middle-class American life, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t say grace at the table, or roast chestnuts over an open fire.” Now the smile was condescending, subtly taunting me. The meaning of the smile was plain. She doubted whether I could comprehend the kind of life she led. To Cass Dangerfield, policemen were plebes: proletarians whose only function was to make life easier for the Carltons and the Dangerfields of the world. People like me read about people like her in the newspapers and the magazines.
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 7
