Briefly—peevishly—I wondered whether she’d ever noticed my name in the newspapers.
To try and disconcert her—shake her infuriating poise—I decided on another tactic: “I met Justin last night. When he heard about the murder he came to the Cow Palace.”
Unperturbed, she nodded. “Yes. Justin would do that. Did he come looking for emanations? Or was it publicity? Or both?”
“Does he actually see visions? Are they real?”
She shrugged. “They’re real to Justin. They’ve always been real to him.”
“And to his followers, too, I gather.”
She looked at me narrowly for a moment before she said, “It’s easy to sell Justin short, Lieutenant. He’s always been a little—odd. All his life, people laughed at him. But he might have the last laugh.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, “that Justin can make people catch fire. Most of them, admittedly, are neurotic, if not downright unbalanced. But, still, they do what Justin tells them to do. And that’s power.”
“To me, it sounds a little frightening.”
Again, she shrugged. “The early Christians frightened a lot of people, too.”
“Are you comparing Justin to Christ?”
The question amused her. “If I compare Justin to Christ,” she said, “it’s only because I’m a card-carrying atheist.”
I thought about it for a moment while I watched her toy with the small jeweled dagger. Then, mostly out of curiosity, I asked, “How long were you and Mr. Carlton married?”
“Eleven years.”
“So—” I calculated. “So Rebecca would have been about sixteen years old, when you were married.”
“That’s right. And Justin was twelve. If you want the other numbers, I was thirty-one and Bernard was forty-eight. And, if you’re trying to decide what kind of a marriage it was, I can tell you that the first few years were pure hell. Bernard and I always had an up-and-down relationship, even before we were married. And it’s no secret that both the children were discipline problems, to say the least. By the time she was seventeen, Rebecca had already spent six months in Juvenile Hall.”
“What was the offence?”
“She was a runaway.”
“That’s not usually cause for arrest.”
“It’s cause for arrest if the runaway was caught trying to steal a drunk’s wallet in Los Angeles.” She smiled as she said it. Obviously, the memory gave her a perverse pleasure.
“Was it her first felony offence?”
“Yes.”
“Then, normally, she still wouldn’t’ve served time. She would’ve been paroled to your custody. There must’ve been something else.”
“There was something else,” she answered calmly. “Her father refused to take her back.”
Grimly, I smiled. “He thought six months would shape her up. Is that it?”
Examining the tip of the dagger, she nodded.
“But it didn’t work,” I said. “Did it?”
“Why do you say that?” It was a quiet, offhand question. She wasn’t defensive. She was simply curious about my reaction.
“Because,” I answered, “it never works.”
“What does work, Lieutenant?”
“Parental love,” I answered. “And parental time, too. Lots of both.”
Her smile mocked me as she said, “You’re a real do-gooder, aren’t you? A bleeding heart. Somehow you don’t look the type.”
“I’m a professional policeman, Ms. Dangerfield. And any policeman will tell you that, in ninety percent of the cases, adult criminals were juvenile delinquents. It’s a simple matter of statistics.”
“Well,” she said, “Rebecca was one of the ten percent. Every time she opened her mouth, she made a million dollars. She was a success.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. To me, her life sounds pretty grim.”
“We were talking about criminal behavior, Lieutenant. Not happiness. Remember?”
“Someone killed her,” I said. “That’s criminal behavior.”
“Some sickie killed her.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she retorted. “But you aren’t either, are you?” There was an unpleasant edge to her voice. In that instant, I thought I understood the nature of Cass Dangerfield’s relationship to men. It was an antagonist relationship: a constant, grueling contest.
I decided not to play the game with her. Instead, changing the subject, I said, “I understand that she was very upset by her father’s death.”
“Why do you say that?” Her voice was still edged. Her eyes were cold. She was still looking for a fight.
“Because, for one thing, she canceled a concert when he died.”
She snorted. “Anything else would’ve been bad PR. The truth was, she and her father hated each other. Or, at best, they had a love-hate relationship.”
“How do you mean, ‘love-hate’?”
“I mean,” she said, “that it was almost a textbook example of a totally guilt-ridden relationship—on both sides. Bernard was incapable of sharing any of himself with her. So, to compensate, he spent money on her. Which, of course, she rejected. Or rather, she rejected the things that money could buy. If it was a car, she smashed it up—and herself, too, sometimes. If it was clothes, she either ruined them or gave them away. If it was money, she lost or squandered it. And, all the while, she punished herself—because she felt guilty for punishing him. It was a process that gathered a momentum of its own—like a steam engine running wild, with the governor broken. She even intended to give away her inheritance, when she got it—more than a million dollars.”
“A million dollars?”
She nodded.
“How much was his estate worth?”
“About five million,” she answered calmly.
“Did he leave more than a million to you, too?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business, Lieutenant.”
I held her eye for a moment before I said, “In a homicide investigation, Ms. Dangerfield, everything is my business.”
Her smile mocked me as she said, “The answer, then, is yes. We were to get equal shares—Rebecca, Justin and me.”
“But Justin wasn’t even his natural son.”
For a moment she didn’t reply. Then, as her eyes strayed again out toward the impeccably landscaped garden, she said, “Bernard didn’t care about money. He made lots of it, and he inherited lots more. He also spent lots of it. But, except for its value as a weapon, or as a means of mocking people, he never cared about money.”
“What did Bernard care about?”
Her gaze returned to me, and now the mockingly ironic smile teased the corners of her mouth again as she said quietly, “It wasn’t me, if that’s the question. We had a love-hate relationship, too. True, it was a little more complicated than his relationship with Rebecca. But, basically, it was the same. Except that we were more equally matched. Rebecca could only hurt him by hurting herself. I could give him a better fight. Which is what he wanted, of course. A fight.”
“You make your husband sound like a monster, Mrs.—Ms. Dangerfield.”
“He was a monster. But he was also talented. And, at another level, he was dangerous. Living with him was an adventure. You know—like climbing mountains, or keeping lions for pets.”
“Are you saying that he threatened you?”
“No,” she answered, “not physically. Bernard was more complex than that. His arena was the mind—the soul. He was an absolute virtuoso. I’ve seen him reduce people to tears with a single sentence—one short, cruel thrust. It was an art form with him—like a matador, killing with exquisite grace and economy. But, ultimately, he was self-destructive. He was killing himself, both physically and psychologically. And, of course, that’s what happened. He killed himself.”
“Suicide, you mean?”
“That wasn’t the coroner’s verdict,” she answered calmly. “But, sooner or later, he was bo
und to kill himself, flying. Everyone knew it. No one would fly with him. He was almost always drunk when he flew. The miracle was that it didn’t happen sooner.” She paused a moment, staring thoughtfully down at the dagger. Then she said: “It was the perfect end for him, actually—Götterdämmerung. A grand, fiery finish for a godlike figure. That’s the way he saw himself, and that’s the way he died. He orchestrated it. Just like he orchestrated everything else in his life. In a way, it was magnificent. Sick, but magnificent.”
As she said it, the French phone rang. Newsweek was calling, asking for an interview. It seemed like a good point to end the interrogation. I left her in her elegant study, talking to Newsweek.
Nine
RIDING TO THE HALL in a sector car, I switched the radio to a civilian band, and learned from a local news program that David Behr had just offered a $25,000 reward for information leading to the conviction of Rebecca’s murderer. I smiled to myself. Someone less cunning—and more serious about the offer—would have paid the reward when the suspect was arrested, not when he was convicted. As the offer stood, Behr could easily get $25,000 worth of free publicity before the trial even started.
At the Hall, I used a back stairway to avoid reporters, then went through Chief Dwyer’s anteroom and down a short hallway that served Dwyer’s office, the Bureau of Inspectors and Homicide. Except for a single bored-looking sergeant taking calls that the switchboard couldn’t—or wouldn’t—handle, both the chief’s office and the inspector’s bureau were deserted. Even the white-hot publicity furor surrounding the Carlton homicide hadn’t been enough to bring the departmental brass and their plainclothes subordinates into their offices on an unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon in March.
If the rest of the bureau was deserted, a peek around an aluminum-and-glass partition revealed that Homicide’s small reception room was packed. Against one wall, Richard Gee and Pam Cornelison stood side by side before a window that offered a view of San Francisco’s downtown skyline, with Treasure Island and the Bay Bridge for background. An NBC cameraman was focusing on the pair, while a man-and-woman reporter team conducted the interview, on camera. All four of the principals—Pam, Richard and the two reporters—were dressed in the rock tradition: fashion-faded blue jeans, expensive shirts opened to the third button and elegant boots. Behind the cameraman, obviously acting as stage manager, Ron Massey was in earnest conversation with Howard Rappaport, NBC’s San Francisco manager. Massey was dressed in an impeccable maroon blazer, gray flannel slacks, silver-buckled loafers and a striped tie. With his finely chiseled profile and his elegantly styled hair, he looked as if he might be on his way to a Hillsborough garden party.
Across the room, I saw Justin Wade. Today, he wore a one-piece white woolen robe that fell to his ankles. The robe was circled at the waist by a narrow beaded belt that was secured by a knotted cord. With his long hair combed and his face composed, fingering the massive Aztec sun medallion hanging on its heavy chain around his neck, Justin looked convincing in the role of a pop messiah. The illusion was enhanced by four of his youthful followers who stood two on either side of him. Dressed in robes identical to Justin’s—but with smaller medallions around their necks—they stood silently, impassively staring straight ahead. I wondered whether they’d been interviewed by NBC. Somehow I doubted it.
The remaining chairs in the reception room were taken up by an oddly assorted group of people who, at first glance, seemed to have nothing in common. Adam Farwell, the newest member of Homicide, sat at the reception desk. Catching my eye, he raised his eyebrows and surreptitiously lifted his shoulders. Then he pointed to the phone, and nodded to me. I had a call—or an important message. Or both.
I backed away from the glass partition and walked down the inside corridor to my office. When I lifted my phone, Farwell was already on the line.
“Inspector Canelli is back from the field, Lieutenant,” he said, speaking softly. “And Lieutenant Friedman would like to talk to you.”
“All right. Ask them both to come into my office. What about Justin Wade?”
“He’s—ah—” Discreetly, Farwell coughed. “He’s waiting to see you, Lieutenant.”
“Does he know I’m here?”
“No, I don’t think he saw you.”
“Then don’t tell him. But don’t let him leave without notifying me. I’ll get to him as soon as I can. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear.”
“Who else have you got out there, anyhow? The place looks like a zoo.”
“That’s about it, Lieutenant,” he answered laconically. “They’re the confessors.”
“Christ, there must be ten or fifteen of them.”
“Yessir. Lieutenant Friedman says it’s a record.”
“I can believe it.”
“Jeeze,” Canelli said, marveling as he shook his head. “I can’t get over it. Fourteen of them. And it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since she was killed.”
“That’s only the ones who applied in person,” Friedman said drily. “I took three confessions over the phone.”
“But why do they do it?” Canelli asked plaintively. “I’ve never understood why.”
“Everyone wants to be a big shot,” Friedman grunted. “And the more important the victim, the more important the murderer. It’s simply mathematics.”
“But, Jeeze, they’re admitting to murder.”
“If it gets them some attention, they’re willing to take their chances,” Friedman answered. “Next to being loved, that’s what people crave most—attention.”
“Who’s taking their statements?” I asked Friedman.
“Culligan and Marsten,” he answered. Then: “How’d it go with Sam Wright and Mrs. Carlton?”
As concisely as I could, I described the two interrogations, beginning with Sam Wright. When I finished my account of the Dangerfield interview, Canelli was once more shaking his head. “That,” he said, “sounds like a very, very sick marriage.”
“Apparently that’s what sells books,” Friedman said. “And records, too.” He paused a moment, then said thoughtfully: “I wonder what’ll happen to Rebecca’s share of Carlton’s estate, now that she’s dead.”
“That’s a good question,” I admitted. “I should have asked.”
“Has the will been probated?”
“I don’t know. But he’s been dead for three weeks. I imagine it’s been probated.”
“I’ll check on it,” Friedman said, taking out his notebook and jotting a reminder to himself.
“Good.” I turned to Canelli. “What about the gun?” I asked. “Did she keep it in her motor home?”
Canelli waved toward the reception room. “I talked to them all, Lieutenant—Cornelison, and Richard Gee, and Massey. I questioned them all separately, plus I talked to David Behr on the phone. And I found Rebecca’s maid, too. And I talked to her fitter, or whatever you call him—the one that made all her clothes, and her costumes, and everything. And they all said the same thing.”
As Canelli paused, Friedman murmured, “He’s doing it again—building the suspense.”
“They all said,” Canelli continued, “that they’d never seen her with a gun, and they’d never seen a gun in her motor home, either. And, what’s more, they never even heard her talk about having a gun.”
“Which would seem to put the ball in Sam Wright’s court,” Friedman said.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Don’t forget—Rebecca’s fingerprints were on the gun.”
“That’s true,” Friedman admitted, frowning.
“Maybe Sam Wright gave her the gun, and she put it away and didn’t take it out again,” Canelli offered. “Then the murderer could’ve stolen it, and used it to kill her. He could’ve stolen it weeks ago. Months ago, even—and then waited for the right time.”
“All of which doesn’t let Sam Wright off the hook,” Friedman said. “If he was planning ahead, he could’ve let her handle the gun, to get her prints on it, and then taken it home.”
He turned to me. “Have you got him under surveillance?”
I nodded. “Two men. Around the clock.”
“Is there any way we can prove he wasn’t home last night?” Friedman asked.
I turned to Canelli. “Why don’t you check out his neighbors? If that Mercedes in the driveway is his, it’s a car that people remember. We might find someone who saw it leave, last night.”
“Yessir.” Plainly glad of the chance to escape from my office, Canelli bobbed his head goodbye and quickly left.
“I get the feeling,” Friedman observed, “that you don’t think much of Sam Wright as a suspect.”
“I can see him getting drunk, and killing her in a rage. But I can’t see him planning to do it. And any of the scenarios that we’ve been discussing involve planning. Lots of planning.”
“I don’t agree. He might not’ve planned it. He might’ve simply taken the gun to the concert, and sat in the audience. He could’ve been drunk, or stoned, or both. It’s the accepted thing at rock concerts, I understand. Then, after the encores, he could have gone through the curtains and done the job.”
“Don’t forget that he would’ve been searched at the door.”
“Big deal. He could’ve put the gun down the front of his pants.”
“Maybe,” I answered doubtfully.
Pressing the point, Friedman said, “To me, it sounds like he probably blamed her for all his troubles. It also sounds like he was brooding about it—more than he realized, maybe. And brooding, plus booze, or drugs, can be a very powerful combination. And that’s not even counting his profit motive.”
“Why don’t you talk to him?”
“Perhaps I will. Incidentally, do you know that Justin Wade is waiting for you?”
“Yes. What’s he want?”
“I don’t know. However, I get the feeling that he’s taken quite a fancy to you.”
“To me?”
Friedman nodded, smiling owlishly as he said, “He seems to think that, for a cop, you’re a sensitive, feeling human being. And, obviously, he considers himself an authority.”
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 8
