“It’s up to you, Hoadley,” I said, shrugging. “Either way, you’re going to jail. You assaulted me with a gun last night. With your record, that’ll get you fifty years, minimum.” I let a moment of silence pass, at the same time signaling for the intern to leave the suspect’s bedside. Then, softly, I said, “Either way, you’re screwed. But one way, you make it hard for yourself. The other way—” I spread my hands. “The other way, I could help you. It’s your choice.” I raised my arm, pointing to the door. “But if I leave here—if I walk through that door—it’s your ass. You’ll be inside for thirty years, at least. You’ll be an old man, when you get out.”
“If you get out,” the intern put in eagerly.
Hoadley’s lips twisted in a small, weak smile, shakily defiant. “There’s lots of people tried to nail Sally,” he whispered. “But none of them ever did. And you won’t, either. And if you don’t get her, you won’t get me.” He cleared his throat, coughed up phlegm, then said distinctly, “So fuck off.”
I had no choice but to play out the walkaway. So, furious with myself for pressing him too hard, I left the room—followed by the young intern, his eyes still shining.
In the hallway outside, the patrolman said, “There’s a message for you, Lieutenant. You’re supposed to call Communications. Sergeant Halliday.”
“Thanks.” I walked down the hallway to a pay phone, and quickly dialed Communications.
“I’ve got an urgent message from Inspector Culligan, Lieutenant Hastings.”
“What’s the message?” As I spoke, I eyed the intern, excitedly pacing the hallway beside the phone booth. He was reliving the interrogation.
“Inspector Culligan says to tell you that Sally Grant just got home. He wants instructions.”
“Tell him not to take any action until I get there. I’m leaving now.”
“Yessir.”
Fifteen
FOR THE SECOND TIME that night I checked with Culligan, in the rear alley, then pressed Sally Grant’s door buzzer. The time was one-fifteen A.M., and as I leaned against the wall beside the gate, yawning, I massaged my side, where Hoadley had kicked me.
If I ever got him alone, in a windowless interrogation room, I would pay him back.
“Keep your thumb on the button, Canelli,” I said wearily.
“Yessir.” With his thumb obediently in place, he said, “How’re you feeling, Lieutenant?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a broken rib.”
“Does it hurt when you take a deep breath?”
I nodded.
“Then it’s probably broken, all right.” Sadly, he shook his head. “He was a real tough one, you know that? If it hadn’t been for the dog, I think we would’ve been in real trouble.”
“He wasn’t so tough in the hospital,” I answered shortly.
“Jeeze, I thought he was going to pull the trigger, though, you know that? I thought he was going to—”
“Who the hell’s there?” It was a woman’s voice, coming through the speaker beside me. I leaned toward the speaker, saying, “It’s the police. Open up.”
“It’s one o’clock in the morning, for Christ’s sake.”
“If you don’t talk to me now, I’ll be back tomorrow with a warrant. We’ll take you downtown, if we have to come back. Take your choice. I don’t care, either way. I could use the sleep.” As I said it, I heard Canelli groan. Working shorthanded on a weekend, we’d gone through all our reserves. So, while I slept, Canelli would be standing stakeout.
“Who’s talking, anyhow?” Even though her voice was electronically distorted, I could sense caution in the question—calculation, too.
“My name is Hastings. Lieutenant Frank Hastings. Homicide.”
“Homicide?” A moment of silence followed before she asked, “Is Captain Jepson with you?”
“This isn’t a vice bust, Sally. I’m working on a murder.”
“Who’s murdered?”
“Let me in, and I’ll tell you.”
After a final moment of silence, the buzzer sounded and the gate swung open under my hand.
Sally Grant opened the front door, examined my badge and I.D., looked into my eyes for one long, appraising moment, then turned her back and walked through an ornate archway and into an elaborately furnished living room. As she walked, swinging her broad, bulging hips, four tiny white poodles frisked and yapped around her. When she seated herself on a brocaded silk sofa, the poodles jumped up beside her, two on each side.
At forty-six years old, without her makeup, with her long, bleached-blonde hair hanging in tumbled disarray around her shoulders, she looked exactly like what she was—a massage-parlor madame. Her eyes were as hard and unrevealing as two pale-blue marbles. The line of her mouth was as cruel as a drill sergeant’s, harassing recruits. She was wearing a white satin dressing gown over a bright-red nightgown. Her figure had probably once been provocative, full-breasted and voluptuous. Now, though, she was simply fat.
Idly scratching one of the poodles, she looked at me impassively for a moment, then said, “I saw Captain Jepson four days ago. On Wednesday. He didn’t say anything about any murder.” Her voice, too, was almost a caricature of a madame’s: harsh and brassy, gravel-throated.
Instead of replying to the implied question, I said, “I understand you just got back from Las Vegas. Is that right?”
Revealing uneven teeth and a thick pink tongue, she yawned in my face. “That’s right, Lieutenant. I’ve been driving for twelve hours straight. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m pooped. So whatever you got to say, I’d appreciate it if you’d say it quick.”
“Why did you drive? Why didn’t you fly?”
“Because,” she answered, “I’m scared of flying. Five years ago I was in a chartered airplane—flying to Las Vegas, as a matter of fact. First one engine quit. It only had two, and one quit. Then it got lost going through the mountains. It couldn’t fly over the mountains on just one engine. So it had to go through a pass. In a snowstorm.” Remembering, she shook her head. “I’ll never forget it. Never.”
“So you haven’t been in an airplane since,” Canelli said. “Is that right?”
Turning to Canelli, she took a long, insolent moment to look him up and down before she said, “Who’re you, anyhow?”
Grinning sheepishly, he said, “My name’s Canelli. Inspector Canelli.”
Obviously unimpressed, she grunted, “Well, you’re right, Canelli. I haven’t flown since. And I’ll never fly again, either.”
“When did you leave for Las Vegas?” I asked.
The hard, expressionless eyes returned to me. “I left Thursday,” she said curtly. “About noon.”
“Did you go on business, or pleasure?”
“I haven’t had a vacation for six years. Does that answer your question?”
“Did you go with anyone?”
“One of my girls drove my car. I hate to drive, especially long distances.”
“What kind of a car do you have?”
“A Cadillac.”
“You don’t have a garage?”
“I keep it downtown, in one of the hotel garages.”
“Which hotel?”
“The Hilton.”
“That must cost a bundle,” Canelli said.
She didn’t bother to reply. Instead, looking at me, she said, “Now, what’s this all about, anyhow? Who’s been murdered?”
Holding her gaze, trying to disconcert her with a long, silent stare, I didn’t reply. The tactic failed. After a hard, uncompromising moment she exhaled irritably.
“Listen, Lieutenant—” As she shifted impatiently on the sofa, the dressing gown parted to reveal a thick knee and the white, lumpy flesh of her thigh. “Let’s not play eye contact, eh? It’s too late for games.”
In spite of myself, I smiled. Sally Grant was tough. Smart, and tough. She’d seen it all, at least once.
Quietly—still watching her carefully for a reaction—I said, “Rebecca Carlton’s dead, Sa
lly. She was killed Friday night. And we think you’re involved.”
“How the hell could I be involved,” she snapped. “I was in Las Vegas Friday night.”
“I’m not saying you pulled the trigger.”
“What are you saying, then?”
“We’ve got Bruce Hoadley in custody. Did you know about it?”
“What’d you mean, did I know about it?” she asked belligerently. “All I know, he wasn’t here when I got back.” As she spoke, she stroked one of the dogs, as if to reassure herself that it hadn’t suffered during Hoadley’s absence.
“Does Bruce Hoadley owe you money?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, he does. But what’s that got to do with Rebecca Carlton?”
“How much does he owe you?”
“I forget. A few thousand. But he’s working it off.” Still stroking the dog, she shrugged. “He’s a gambler. He always owes me money. I let him go for a while, then I tighten up. You know—like fishing. You give them some slack, then you tighten up.”
“It’s like you want to keep him on the hook, then,” Canelli put in. “So you always have someone to do your dirty work.”
Once more she looked Canelli deliberately up and down before she asked, “What kind of dirty work are you talking about, anyhow?”
“Let’s get back to Rebecca Carlton.” I asked, “What was your connection with her?”
She looked at me for a long, calculating moment before she said, “Suppose you tell me, Lieutenant. What was my connection with her?”
Now it was my turn to calculate. Obviously, she was trying to determine how much I knew. If I took a chance—made a lucky guess—I might shake her composure, and therefore learn something from her reaction. But if she was as smart as she seemed, she would simply break off the interrogation, and call her lawyer.
So I must play the same game she was playing, keeping her off balance while I tried to trap her.
Sometimes the truth was the best means of disconcerting a suspect. “To be honest,” I answered slowly, “I haven’t been able to establish a connection. And I haven’t been able to establish how the .357 magnum got from Sam Wright, to Rebecca Carlton, to you, to Hoadley—and then back again, when it was ditched at the Cow Palace, after the shooting. But I will, Sally. Believe me, I’ll get it all connected. And when I do, I’ll have the last piece of the puzzle. I’ll have the motive, too. I don’t have it now. But I’ll get it.” As I spoke, I got to my feet. Looking down at her, I said softly, “And when I get it all put together, Sally, then you’ll fall for Murder One. You’ll fall just as hard as Hoadley.”
I turned, and left the house without looking back. On the sidewalk outside, I turned to Canelli. “Stake her out, front and back—tight. Now. Right now. When I get home, I’ll arrange for your relief, probably at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” I stifled a yawn, and said goodnight. As I walked away, I heard Canelli sigh deeply.
Sixteen
AT SEVEN-THIRTY THE NEXT morning—Sunday—my bedside phone rang.
“I thought I’d let you sleep an extra hour,” Friedman said. “Myself, I’ve been up since six A.M.”
“What happened?”
“Shall I give you the build-up, or do you just want the punch line?”
“Listen, Pete, I didn’t get to sleep until two-thirty.”
“All right, here’s the punch line. Sally Grant is dead. Murdered.”
“But—Christ—her place was staked out, front and back.”
“Maybe now you want the build-up.”
“What is it?”
“Well, in sequence, she left her house about two A.M., by cab. The cab called for her at her back gate. Culligan followed her, with a G.W. man. She went to the Hilton, went inside, and promptly disappeared. Later it developed that she probably went downstairs to the garage, got in her Cadillac and drove off—while Culligan was waiting for her to come out of the hallway that led to the ladies’ room. Culligan, needless to say, is mortified.”
“Where the hell was Canelli?”
“He was guarding the front of the house, not the back. So, when Sally took off, Culligan told him to stay put. Quite properly. Why?”
“Because Canelli knew that she kept her car at the Hilton. If he’d been following her, he might not’ve lost her.”
“What can I say? Those’re the breaks.”
“How’d she die?”
“A gunshot wound to the right temple was fatal, but she was also shot in the upper chest. That one probably put her out of action, and the one to the head finished the job. She was in her car, behind the wheel. Apparently she’d parked in a lovers’ lane close to the top of Twin Peaks—the one called The Crescent. Anyhow, that’s where she was found, at about five A.M. A black-and-white car saw her window shot out, and investigated. I got the call a half hour later.”
“She went out to meet someone, sure as hell. I’ll bet she made a call as soon as I left, and set up a meeting.”
“Did she know her house was staked out? Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“She probably saw Canelli out in front,” Friedman mused. “So she tried the back. That’s the only way it makes sense. Culligan said he and the G.W. man were parked at opposite ends of the alley. So she probably didn’t see them.”
“So what now?”
“Now,” Friedman said, “we do the obvious. First, we find out where our so-called suspects were, at two this morning. Second, we see if we can connect Sally with one—or more—of them. And then, third, we see whether we can connect Sally and Rebecca.”
“Why do you think there’s a connection between Sally and the others?”
“I don’t, necessarily. I’m just looking for a motive. I mean, if we assume that it came down like Carole said—that Sally planned the job and Hoadley pulled the trigger—then we’ve got to figure out a motive for Sally. And, what’s more, it has to be a pretty good motive. I’ll deny I ever said it, but she had Jepson tucked right inside her bulging brassiere. She had it made, in other words. She was rich, and successful in her chosen profession. So why would she risk falling for murder?”
I was sitting up in bed now, resigned to getting up and going to work. “I was hoping to take today off,” I said ruefully.
“Likewise.”
“Or, at least, I want to get off tonight. I’ve got to get off tonight.”
“Then take it off. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” I said sourly, “is that people keep getting murdered. And you know as well as I do that it’s just you and me. There’s no one else to supervise.”
“It sounds like whatever you’ve got to do tonight is more important than your sworn duty.”
“It is.”
“Well, don’t sweat it. Anything that comes up, I’ll handle it.”
“Thanks. I’ll take you up on it.”
A moment of silence followed. Then Friedman said, “Judging by the particular love-struck tone of your voice, I’d say that what you’ve got to do tonight involves Ann Haywood, my favorite schoolteacher.”
Irritated at the ease with which he’d guessed the truth—and angry at myself for making it so easy—I didn’t answer.
But Friedman, typically, didn’t let it drop. “I also get the feeling,” he said casually, “that you and Ann are at some kind of midlife crossroads. Am I right?”
“Listen, Pete, this isn’t—”
“Let’s assume I’m right,” he continued blandly. “And let’s also assume, just for the sake of argument, that you’re scared shitless of getting married again. Which would make sense, considering how close you play your emotions to your vest. So then, let’s assume that—”
“Listen. It’s not even eight o’clock, for God’s sake, on Sunday morning. Do I really have to listen to all this?”
“No. But, see, that’s another character defect that I’ve been meaning to point out. You’ve got a tendency to—”
“Christ. Come on.”
“All right. So
rry. How’s your ribs, by the way?”
I took a deep breath—and winced. “Terrible.”
“You want to go back to bed? Go on sick call?”
“No. I’ve had cracked ribs before. I’ll get them taped up, later. What’d you want me to do?”
“How about taking another shot at Hoadley?” he suggested. “If he really did pull the trigger, he probably knows more about Sally than he’s telling.”
“All right.” I swung my legs out of bed. “Where’ll you be?”
“At the Hall,” Friedman said. “Sitting in the center of my spider web, feeling for vibrations.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Sally’s dead?” Hoadley asked.
Drawing a chair up to his bedside, I nodded as I sat down. “That’s right, Hoadley. I interrogated her early this morning, when she got home from Las Vegas. As soon as I left, she obviously called someone to arrange a meeting—quick. Whoever she met must’ve killed her.”
“I don’t believe you. It’s a goddamn con.”
“Listen, Hoadley,” I said wearily, “I wouldn’t’ve gotten out of bed at seven-thirty on Sunday morning just to run a con on you. Ten o’clock, maybe. But not seven-thirty. Not with four hours sleep.”
I saw him swallow, saw his eyes wander away, losing focus. Finally he asked, “When’d she get killed?”
“Sometime between two A.M. and five A.M. Why?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “No reason.”
“Do you know who she met? Did she have an appointment to meet someone, as soon as she got back in town?”
He didn’t reply. His eyes were still unfocused, and he was frowning thoughtfully. I watched his scarred, big-knuckled brawler’s hands fret absently on the counterpane. Freshly shaved, with his face washed and his hair combed, he was a remarkably good-looking man. His eyes were a clear china blue. His mouth was small, shaped like a corrupted cupid’s. Hoadley was one of the baby-faced thugs—the kind that are often the most brutal, the most sadistic. At the thought, I touched my side. There’d been no reason for that final kick. He’d done it purely for pleasure.
Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 13
