Mankiller (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “How do we explain away Sally’s death?”

  Now the eyebrows bounced puckishly. “There’s lots of murderers on the loose, murdering people for no good reason. Sally’s luck might’ve just run out.”

  “With that theory, you go on Cronkite. I pass.”

  “You’ve got a better theory?”

  “For one thing,” I answered, “I think we should get Cass Dangerfield fingerprinted. Also, I think we should have a lab team go over her car.”

  “You’re implying,” Friedman said, “that I should’ve come down on her harder, there at the last.”

  I let my silence speak for itself.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he answered amiably. “But I figured that if we put any more pressure on her, she’d either quit talking, or call her lawyer, or else throw us out. Or, more like it, all three. To me, she looks like one very tough lady. Besides which, she’s got a pretty solid-sounding alibi for Tuesday night. Incidentally, someone should check on Sam Wright’s alibi. In the dark, a Mercedes 220 might look like a 450SL.”

  “What motive would Sam Wright have for murdering Bernard Carlton, though?”

  Friedman shrugged. “You never know. Maybe Carlton was sore at him for marrying his daughter.”

  “That sounds like a pretty thin motive for murder.”

  “Granted.” He toyed thoughtfully with his fork for a moment, then said, “Maybe we’re making a mistake, assuming that the two murders are connected. Also, we might be making a mistake if we assume, hands down, that Carlton’s death was murder. Who knows, maybe some prankster put sugar in several airplanes, and Carlton was the only one who didn’t check his gasoline.”

  “If that happened, Bill Anthony would’ve told us.”

  Friedman nodded glum agreement, and we sat silently, each of us mentally trying different combinations. Finally Friedman said, “If Carlton’s death was murder, and if the two murders were connected, either Cass or her idiot son would be our most logical suspects. Theoretically, both of them have motives. Conceivably, Sally Grant had a motive, although it seems unlikely. Beyond those three, though, we really don’t have a viable suspect for the double murders. But, on the other hand, we’ve got lots of people who could’ve wanted to kill Rebecca.”

  “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

  “What I’m getting at,” Friedman said, “is that we could be making a mistake, assuming that the two deaths are connected.”

  “Still, we—”

  At Friedman’s belt, his pager buzzed. Muttering a mild obscenity, he grimaced, and headed for a guest phone. In less than a minute, he returned to the table.

  “That was Canelli in Communications,” he said. “We’re supposed to contact Justin Wade. I gather that he’s got another vision for us. Something real hot, according to Canelli.”

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s a waste of time, Pete. He’s bonkers.”

  “You said that his mother doesn’t agree. Besides, I’d like to see his set-up. Cults fascinate me.”

  “But we’ve got a lot more important things to do, it seems to me.”

  “What’s the harm? Besides, there’ve been a lot of psychics who’ve been scoring pretty high lately. Maybe we’ll get lucky, if we keep an open mind.” As he said it, the waitress arrived, and began serving our lunch. Friedman looked casually down the front of her dress. “Besides,” he said, “Justin might be able to tell us about Bernard and Sally. Ever think of that?”

  Also enjoying the view down the front of the waitress’s dress, I shook my head absently.

  “That must be it,” Friedman said, pointing to a narrow driveway that curved through a thick-growing grove of eucalyptus trees. The concrete of the driveway was chipped and uneven, crisscrossed by an ancient network of lines and cracks. Tufts of grass sprouted from the cracks, and a brick curbing was overgrown with tangled vines and weeds. Two massive brick pillars flanked the driveway. Ornamental wrought-iron lanterns topped each pillar. But the iron was rusted, and the lantern’s glass sides had been broken long ago.

  As I turned into the driveway, I saw a huge black cat moving stealthily through the thick undergrowth beside the driveway stalking some unseen prey.

  “This must be one of those old mansions built before the turn of the century,” Friedman said. “There used to be several of them in this part of the city. This was the only place in San Francisco where it was possible to buy an acre of land and be a country squire. But I thought they’d all been condemned and sold off to the developers.” As he spoke, we emerged from the trees.

  Canelli had described Aztecca as something out of a Charles Addams cartoon. He hadn’t exaggerated. The building was a huge Victorian monolith, three stories high, built entirely of wood, probably with five rooms on each floor. Originally, it must have been magnificent. Pillars supported a formal portico in front. The tall, narrow windows were curved at the top, framed in intricate wooden scrollwork. The huge front door was carved oak, inset with stained glass. A widow’s walk circled the squared-off mansard roof. Lacy wrought-iron railings surrounded a small octagonal cupola.

  But many of the tall windows were boarded up. Only a few fragments of stained glass remained in the door; the rest was plywood. Of the six pillars that must have originally supported the portico, only four were standing, two of them slanting precariously. Most of the carved cornices were missing; the rest were about to fall away. Inside the cupola, with its broken windows, pigeons were nesting. Whole sections of the widow’s walk’s iron railing were gone; what remained was entirely rusted. A half dozen decrepit cars and pickups were parked at odd angles on the circular driveway.

  “What a place for a Halloween party,” Friedman muttered.

  I parked behind a dented, lopsided panel truck that must have been twenty years old. After clearing our car with Communications, we mounted the rotting steps to the front door. Above the door I saw a large redwood plaque with the single word Aztecca deeply carved across the top in baroque letters with a primitive sun symbol beneath the legend. Peace and Power were incised below it.

  As I was looking for a bell-button, the huge oak door swung slowly open. A young black woman stood in the doorway. She was dressed in a long, togalike robe that fell to the floor and was secured at the waist with a belt woven of hemp. A sun symbol hung on a heavy golden chain fell between her full breasts. The heavy metal medallion was identical to the one Justin Wade wore—but smaller. Her features were classically Negroid, perfectly formed. Her hair was worn short, sculpting her head so that it resembled a piece of primitive statuary. Beneath the robe, the curve of her torso was proud, almost arrogant. With her dark head held aristocratically high, she could have been a Bantu princess.

  She looked at me gravely, unsmiling. “You’re Lieutenant Hastings.” Her voice was low, musky and melodious.

  “Yes. And this is Lieutenant Friedman.”

  “I’m Anya.” She moved grudgingly back from the doorway, reluctantly gesturing for us to come inside. Even though we’d been invited, it was obvious that she considered our presence an intrusion. Entering a huge central hallway, we might have stepped back through time to the last century. Incredibly elaborate carvings and rococo woodwork seemed to glower down on us like overbearing gargoyles. The side-walls were paneled to plate-rail height with dark, somber wood. The oak floors were parquet, intricately patterned. Above the paneled wainscoting, the walls and ceilings were painted the brownish-red color of dried blood. Centered on an ornamental Victorian lighting medallion, a huge Mayan sun symbol had been painted in gilt on the ceiling.

  Two men wearing broad leather belts and heavy boots stood guard at either end of the hallway. Their robes had been cut off at the elbow and knee, revealing massively muscled arms and legs. Watching us, their eyes were expressionless. Each man held a spear with a thick wooden shaft and a broad, gleaming blade.

  “Justin is waiting for you,” the woman said.

  “Did you talk to Inspector Canelli when he was here?” I asked.

  Sh
e nodded: one measured inclination of her head. “Yes.”

  “You’re the—” I hesitated, searching for the phrase. “You’re Justin’s assistant?”

  Instead of answering, she turned and motioned for us to follow her down a central hallway that led to the rear of the mansion. As we followed her down the dark, gloomy passage, we came abreast of an archway that opened on what must have once been a formal ballroom. In the center of the room’s polished wooden floor a low dais had been fashioned from branches and boughs arranged around a plywood platform. A robed figure, head shaved, was crouched on the dais both arms stretched overhead. A dozen other figures, identically robed, heads shaven, crouched in similar attitudes in a circle around the dais. Each of them wore the sun symbol.

  We passed three smaller rooms opening off the central hallway. Each of the rooms, I noticed, had its door removed. In each room silent, white-robed figures were watching us as we passed. I remembered the times I’d walked down the corridors of county jails, feeling prisoners’ eyes on me.

  Anya knocked at a carved walnut door at the end of the hallway. She waited a moment, listening, then opened the tall door and gestured us inside.

  Originally the room must have been a large dining room. Tall leaded bay windows looked out on the overgrown remains of what was once a formal garden. The garden had been planned around a miniature marble water temple: delicately fluted columns circling a small pool. But now, like the temples of ancient Greece, some of the pillars and cornices had fallen to the ground. Tangled vines overgrew the ruins.

  With the glare of the midday sun behind them, the curve of the bay windows was blindingly bright. The rest of the room was in shadow, with the side windows heavily curtained. Wearing a long white robe identical to that worn by his followers, Justin Wade sat in a huge claw-carved armchair that could have come from a medieval castle. With his back to the bright light from the bay windows, and shadowed by the chair that rose high above his head, Justin was an indistinct shape: a mystically disembodied figure, speaking in a voice without substance:

  “Do you suspect me of my sister’s murder, Lieutenant Hastings?”

  I hesitated, trying to decide on an answer. Standing like some penitent before an enthroned monarch, I felt awkward and silly.

  Friedman, though, was ready with an instant rebuttal: “Why do you ask that?”

  It was a textbook gambit. If the subject tried to take the initiative by asking a question, the officer should counter with another question.

  But Justin was ready with yet another question: “You asked for my fingerprints,” he said solemnly. “Why?”

  “Because,” Friedman answered, “we’re fingerprinting everyone who could possibly have gained from Rebecca’s death.”

  “Gained? What could I have gained?”

  Instead of answering, Friedman pointed to a nearby couch, actually a mattress placed on the floor and covered with a cheap chenille bedspread. “May we sit down?” He asked the question with subtly mocking deference, poking fun at the seated cult leader.

  “Yes, sit down.” Still holding his own, Justin gave his permission with a regal flair.

  “Thank you,” Friedman intoned. A playful “your highness” could have been the next phrase.

  “What could I have gained?” Justin repeated. As he spoke, he fingered the outsize medallion that hung around his neck.

  “You could have gained money,” Friedman answered promptly. “As I understand your stepfather’s will, Rebecca’s third of the estate will be divided between you and your mother.”

  With my eyes accustomed to the glaring backlight, I could see Justin’s expression. He was looking at Friedman with a kind of benign contempt. He lifted his right hand and swept the room. “Do you see anything here that looks like I would murder for money, Lieutenant?” He spoke softly, condescendingly.

  “It must cost money to run a cult,” Friedman answered blandly. “Or do your people sell flowers at airports?”

  Immobile in his baronial chair, with his fingers curled loosely around the lion heads carved on each of the chair’s arms, Justin stared contemptuously at Friedman. Finally he said: “What’s your definition of a cult, Lieutenant?”

  “A cult is a group of zealots who’re under the control of a bigger zealot,” Friedman answered promptly. “Or, if he isn’t a bigger zealot, then he’s a smarter zealot. And, in that case, he’s probably also a rich zealot.”

  “And what’s your definition of a zealot, Lieutenant?” He spoke calmly, almost benignly. But his fingers, I noticed, had tightened on the lion heads.

  “Listen, Justin, I didn’t come here to play Twenty Questions,” Friedman said brusquely. “My opinion of you and your operation isn’t important. We’re investigating a murder. And we’re here because you called to say you’ve got some information for us. So, if you don’t mind, we’ll take the information and run.”

  Still playing at his game of one-upmanship, Justin asked, “How many people do you suspect of killing Rebecca?”

  Instead of replying directly, Friedman took a moment to consider. Then, modifying his previous impatient manner, he said, “We think we know who actually fired the shot that killed her. It was a man named Hoadley. And we think we know who hired him. It was probably a woman named Sally Grant. But, still, we don’t think we’ve gotten to the bottom of it.” He spoke directly; his manner was one-to-one. On appearance, Friedman had suddenly decided to take Justin into his confidence.

  “Why haven’t you gotten to the bottom of it?” Justin asked.

  “Because Sally Grant was murdered last night.”

  For a long, inscrutable moment Justin studied Friedman. Then he turned to me, saying, “It was because of Sally Grant that I called you, Lieutenant.”

  “How do you mean?” Again, I felt awkward and silly, asking the question.

  He allowed another long, solemn silence pass before he said, “Early this morning—sometime after midnight—I awakened suddenly. I’d had a dream, a terrible, blood-spattered dream. I saw a woman’s head disappear. It was—” He broke off, shaking his head and momentarily closing his eyes. His face was pale; his voice trembled as he said: “It was worse—it hurt me more—than the vision I saw of Rebecca, dying. Rebecca, at least, wasn’t disfigured. But Sally Grant—” He slowly, somberly shook his head. Then: “Her death was terrible. It was a monstrosity.” Now his voice was almost inaudible. His eyes had lost their focus. Watching him closely, I wondered whether he’d fallen into a light trance.

  “Do I understand,” Friedman said, “that you think you woke up at the moment Sally Grant died? You saw her die, and the vision shocked you awake. Is that it?”

  Calmly, Justin turned to face him. His voice was quiet and steady now; his eyes had come back into a kind of dreamy focus. His hands rested limply on the lion-headed chair arms. “I don’t know when she died,” he answered. “Do you?”

  “We think it was between two and three A.M.” Friedman answered matter-of-factly. He was still playing his con man’s game, pandering to Justin’s portrayal of the mystic.

  Or was it a game? I wondered.

  Did Friedman believe what he was hearing and seeing? Watching him, I couldn’t be sure. His heavily lidded eyes, as always, were unrevealing.

  Justin agreed. “Yes, that would be about right.”

  “Did you see anything else, besides what you’ve described?” I asked. “Anything that could help us?”

  If Friedman could play the game, so could I.

  If it was a game.

  Justin looked at me benignly for a moment before he gravely inclined his head. “I think so. Yes.” But he didn’t continue.

  “Well—” I gestured impatiently. “Well, what is it?”

  “Before I tell you what I saw,” he answered, “you must understand how shocked I was, by the blood. Because then you’ll understand how confused my impressions are. It was like a movie taken by a mad cameraman. It was terrible. Ghastly. And it—” He broke off, searching for a phrase. “An
d it immobilized me,” he said finally. “For a while, I was helpless. I couldn’t even call out for help. I couldn’t think of anything but the blood.”

  Murmuring something sympathetic-sounding, Friedman spoke solicitously as he said, “Let’s start at the beginning. Did you see anything before she was killed?”

  Justin frowned at the question. Then, with his pale eyes again unfocused, as if he were searching some dim, distant vista, he said, “At first—last night—I didn’t see anything. But just now—just as we talk—I think I see something. I see—” Momentarily he closed his eyes. His sparse eyebrows drew together. And then, slowly and decisively, he nodded. “Yes. I see two cars. First, I see a large dark car, with Sally Grant inside.”

  “Just Sally,” Friedman said. “No one else?”

  “No one else,” Justin repeated. “I see her driving to some place high above the city. And then, almost immediately, another car drives up. It’s a smaller car, and there’s a man inside.”

  “Can you describe him?” I asked.

  Justin shook his head. “No, I can’t. I only know that it’s a man. Not a woman.”

  “All right. What happened next?”

  “The man gets out of his car, and walks over to the large car. He walks very slowly. He’s frightened—terrified by what he’s come to do. I feel his steps dragging on the gravel of the parking lot, as if someone is holding him back. But he keeps walking. Finally he comes to the large car. He opens the door and gets in. He closes the door, and turns to face the woman—Sally Grant. She begins talking. She’s frightened, too. Badly frightened. Soon they’re arguing—calling each other terrible names. And then—”

  Suddenly Justin shuddered sharply. As he’d been talking, his voice had thickened almost to a drunken slur. His eyes had rolled up; his mouth had fallen slightly open. His head slumped against the chair back. His hands were white now, clamped hard on the lion heads.

  “And then, the man reaches inside his jacket, and takes out a gun. It’s a small gun—a pistol, stuck into his belt. And—” Another shudder, more violent than the first. “And then, the next moment, her head exploded in blood. The blood was everywhere, inside the car.”