“How was he dressed?”
“Oh—” Persse shrugged. “A jacket and pants, like that. He was bareheaded. I remember that, because it was raining, and I remember thinking he’d get wet if he walked far without a hat.”
“Was his hair dark or light?”
“Dark.”
“What time was this, that you saw him?”
“Probably about twelve-thirty, maybe one o’clock.”
“That’s late,” Hastings said. “For someone in school, that’s late.”
“Yeah—well—” Persse shrugged. “It doesn’t happen very often.”
“How’re your grades? Pretty good?”
“B average,” Persse answered promptly. “I’m going to Yale.”
Hastings nodded, pocketed the notebook and pen, and rose. “Okay, Lee, thanks a lot. You’ll be here, I assume, if we need to talk to you again.”
Instantly Persse’s face tightened. Another shadow crossed behind his clear blue eyes.
Signifying what? Revealing what?
“Wh—” Persse licked at his lips. “What’s it all about, anyhow? I mean, that sounds pretty heavy, when you tell me to, you know, don’t leave town, or anything.”
With both of them on their feet, facing each other, Hastings let a long, silent beat pass as he stared at Lee Persse. Then, speaking very quietly, Hastings said, “What it’s all about is that Meredith Powell died last night. Someone killed her.”
“Oh, no.” As if to deny it, push back the truth, Persse raised his hands, palms forward. “Oh, God. No.”
4:45 P.M. Aware that he was holding his breath, Hastings opened the door and stepped into the half-light of the garage—
—and saw it, parked along the far wall: a silver Mercedes roadster. Probable value: forty, fifty thousand dollars.
A condo in one of the city’s most expensive neighborhoods, original paintings and sculpture, a fifty-thousand-dollar car. No marriage license, no visible means of support. She’d been thirty-six. She’d gone from a rented house in the Sunset District to a condo on Nob Hill—and then to a thicket in Golden Gate Park, finally to a drawer in the morgue, in thirty-six years. Born naked into the world, died naked, tossed beside the roadside.
He walked to the car, used a handkerchief to try the driver’s door. It swung open; the interior lights came on. He leaned inside, looked at the floor in front. Except for a sprinkling of debris, there was nothing. Carefully he pushed the driver’s seat forward. Nothing, on the floor, or the backseat, or the package shelf. He returned the seat to its upright position and saw the electronic wand that controlled the garage door. After a moment’s thought, he noted the position of the OPEN button, then folded the wand in his handkerchief. He swung the car door shut, went to the trunk, and found the key on Meredith’s ring that opened it. Even in the dim light he could see traces of dirt on the carpeting of the trunk, and dead leaves. He closed the trunk, went to the garage door, and pressed the OPEN button, through the handkerchief. He would find the nearest phone and call Friedman. He would then return to the garage and wait with the car until the lab crew arrived. He would supervise the removal of the car to the lab. He would sign the police seal and see that it was posted on Meredith’s door. He would see that the door was padlocked.
Then he would go home. If Ann hadn’t started dinner, he would offer to take her out. Just Ann, not her two sons. Over dinner, he would tell Ann about Meredith—about the way Meredith had lived, and about the way she’d died.
9:15 P.M. Tonight he would remain aloof, allowing his mind to expand through time and space, counterpointing the babble of the rabble below.
Yes, the babble of the rabble …
Had it just occurred to him, this glitzy phrase, this garish little rhyme? Where did the words come from? Where had they gone? Everyone on earth, it was said, had breathed an atom of Julius Caesar’s dying breath. Did words likewise live on? Was Caesar’s death rattle still extant, somewhere in the void?
No.
Caesar’s last exhalation was measurable. Theoretically measurable. Words, though, were lost. Yet soldiers marched and died because of words. Cities burned.
Dead in the dust, dead in the morgue.
Rabble. Babble. Dabble.
Even through the closed door he could hear them at play, the rabble, babbling. Gregory was doing the music, Cynthia the choreography. Food and drink, courtesy of the house. Cocaine courtesy of the culture, catch as catch can.
Decor, courtesy of Charles.
Continuity, courtesy of Charles.
And, last night, resolution courtesy of Charles, that pallid young man who was consumed from within: giant worms, feeding on corruptible flesh. The more Charles consumed, the longer the worms grew, the more insatiable. Just as Charles, babble and rabble, was insatiable.
Sitting in the intricately carved chair, one hand on each of the lion’s heads that adorned the arms, he allowed his eyes to close. It was necessary, now, to release his thoughts, let them go free. He must follow where the tendrils of the mind burrowed.
The smaller the tendril, the more dangerous. Because tiny roots found tiny fissures. Then, when roots expanded, the structure could collapse.
Seeking, penetrating, expanding, finally exploding.
Thoughts destroyed. Swords pierced armor. Flesh rotted. Worms wriggled in eye sockets.
Rabble.
Babble.
Dabble.
FRIDAY FEBRUARY 16
9:20 A.M. FRIEDMAN DROPPED a file folder on Hastings’s desk and sank into the visitor’s chair. He unwrapped his first cigar of the day, lit it, and sailed the smoking match into the paper-filled wastebasket, his customary morning sally.
“How’s it going?” Friedman asked. “Anything?”
Hastings described Meredith Powell’s apartment and detailed his conversation with Lee Persse. Listening, Friedman reclined at his ease, his heavily lidded eyes half closed, his broad, swarthy face expressionless. When Hastings finished, Friedman pointed to a large manila envelope, marked “M. Powell, #N 11659 A, Personal Effects.”
“Anything there?” Friedman asked.
“An address book and a checkbook and some keys. The check stubs go back almost a year.”
“Ah, check stubs—” Friedman nodded, elaborately sagacious. “Give me a checkbook, and I’ll tell you what the subject eats for breakfast—and what he uses for hemorrhoids, too.”
“Well—” Hastings pushed the envelope across the desk. “Be my guest. I didn’t find a hell of a lot. We’ll know more, of course, when we get a warrant to look at the bank records. She wrote checks for about two thousand dollars a month. And there were regular deposits of four thousand a month. Plus four deposits during the year for odd amounts.”
As Hastings spoke, Friedman clamped the cigar in his teeth and opened the envelope, spilling out the contents. Squinting, head tilted against the smoke, Friedman found the check record and quickly scanned the entries. “Her expenditures—” Friedman tapped the checkbook with a thick forefinger. “They’re for odds and ends. Visa and American Express, mostly. Where’s the rent payments, and the mortgage payments, and the car payments, and the insurance?”
“Maybe she owned the condo and the car.”
Friedman took the cigar from his mouth, raised his eyes, and studied the other man for a long, thoughtful moment before he said quietly, “Come on, Frank. From everything you tell me—every inference we can make—she was a sensational-looking woman, and some guy was paying her bills.” Still eyeing Hastings steadily, Friedman let an uncompromising moment of silence pass. Then he pointed to the file folder he’d brought. “I’ve made a list of things that I’ve got in the works. When we get the answers, I figure we’ll have a better handle on this thing.” He flipped open the folder, consulted a list, and recited: “Who owns the building she lived in? If she rented, who’d she rent from? If she owned a condo, who’d she buy it from? Who’s the car registered to—and who paid for it? From what you say, her art collection was worth a bundle
. I know a guy who’s plugged into the local art scene. Maybe he can identify the artists, or the galleries the paintings came from.”
“As long as you’re checking—” Hastings reached across the desk for the address book. He opened it, riffled the pages to “P,” and pointed to an entry that read simply “Dad (818) 824-4076.” “As far as I know, her only living relative was her father. That’s a Los Angeles number. I tried it last night, but it’s been reassigned. Her father’s name was—is—John Powell. Can you check him out?” Hastings spoke crisply, the professional plying his trade. Then, quietly, he added, “Someone should be told. About her death, I mean. So arrangements can be made.”
“No problem.”
“Tell him I’ll meet him at the airport, find him a place to stay.”
“Right.” Friedman made a note. Then, pointing to the address book, he asked, “What’s that look like? Anything?”
Aware that he felt as if he were breaking faith with Meredith, Hastings admitted, “There isn’t much. Most of the entries are just single words and phone numbers. Like ‘Plumber’ and a phone number. Or ‘Marge’ and a number.”
Friedman had put the checkbook aside and was riffling the address book. He sighed, shook his head, closed the address book. He drew reflectively on the cigar before he said, “It’s always sad, going through a victim’s effects. I mean, usually—” He shrugged, shook his head, sighed again. “Usually there’re a few names in the address book, and a few bucks in the bank, and maybe a few snapshots, and that’s about it. You tag everything, and write a report, and you ship the body off to the morgue, and that’s all there is. The end.”
Dropping his eyes, Hastings made no reply. Finally Friedman levered his two hundred and forty pounds out of the chair and picked up his folder and the manila envelope. “I’ll get started on this,” he said. “I already told the lab to have preliminary reports by early this afternoon. I’ll assign Meyers to start checking the numbers in the address book. I’ll handle her father, though, try to run him down.”
“Yes—” Hastings nodded.
“What about her apartment?” Friedman asked. “Is the lab on that?”
Hastings nodded again. “They’re there now. Canelli’s with them.”
“Canelli called in. I told him to be here about two o’clock. How’s that sound, for a meeting?”
“That sounds fine,” Hastings answered, his voice dull. Ann had brought home work last night, and her two sons, as usual, had turned dinner at home into a high-volume discussion of sports and rock music. So it hadn’t been until they were in bed that he’d been able to tell Ann about Meredith—about how she’d lived, and how she’d died. As he told the story, Ann had touched him gently, with compassion. Feeling the caress, he realized that she was hearing more than just the story of Meredith Powell. They’d talked until almost two o’clock, exchanging childhood stories. Then, gravely, they’d made love. And this morning, they’d—
“—about you?” Friedman was saying. “What’re you going to do?”
“When I saw her at Four-fifty Sutter,” Hastings said, “she’d just seen a shrink. There’re two stubs in her checkbook for checks made out to Dr. Price. And there’s a psychiatrist named Price at Four-fifty Sutter, on the same floor with my eye doctor.”
“Good.” Friedman nodded approvingly. “I talked to the media people yesterday, but there wasn’t anything on the TV that I know of, and nothing on the radio. It made the Sentinel this morning, on page five. Do you want me to keep after the TV guys? Yesterday there wasn’t the Nob Hill angle, the big-money angle—the beautiful lady with her exotic car. If you want to do it, if you think we could show a profit, we could probably get some ink on this. What’d you say—should we trade a couple of crazies confessing for the chance of finding a witness or two?”
Hastings considered, finally nodded. “Sure. Let’s do it. Give them the block on Hyde Street. Not the address, just the block. Maybe someone else saw that guy driving her car into the garage and then leaving.”
“Right.” Friedman waved airily, his accustomed parting gesture. But then, at the door, he turned. “It’ll work out. I have an intuition.”
“Good.”
11:30 A.M. “You understand,” Miss Perkins said, “that Dr. Price can only give you a few minutes. He’s fitting you in.” A thin, fretful woman with anxious eyes and a petulant mouth, Miss Perkins spoke primly, properly.
Hastings nodded. “I understand.”
Miss Perkins nodded in return, eyeing the detective covertly as he leafed through a copy of Sunset. When she’d pressed him for the reason he wanted to see the doctor, he’d told her only that it was police business involving a patient. When she’d asked for the patient’s name, he declined to answer, giving no explanation. Plainly, Miss Perkins concluded, this big, uncommunicative man was accustomed to behaving as if he spoke for the totality of police authority. It was a mentality that was universal among policemen, Miss Perkins suspected, bred in the bone. Or, more accurately, conferred upon graduation from the police academy, the same invitation to arrogance that doctors got, graduating from medical school.
Yet, to be fair, the policeman could be excused for his natural inclination to remain aloof. Like soldiers and fliers and others who shared high-risk professions, Lancet had said in a recent article, policemen faced the constant risk of violent death, a factor that both unified them and also estranged them from the general populace. On some beats, Miss Perkins had read, it was war: a remorseless war that never ended. Result: Statistically, only dentists had a higher suicide rate than policemen. At least, according to Lancet.
11:45 A.M. “Murdered?” As he said it, Price’s face puckered disapprovingly, as if Hastings had committed an unforgivable faux pas. The psychiatrist was a small, spare man, almost totally bald, with a narrow, pinched face, a permanently pursed mouth, and small, skeptical eyes. He was dressed in an expensively cut three-piece suit, a stiff white collar, a paisley printed red silk tie, and matching breast pocket handkerchief. “When?”
“It happened sometime Wednesday night. She was discovered yesterday morning, in Golden Gate Park. We’re still waiting for the autopsy results, but it seems pretty obvious that she was strangled. And then—” Suddenly, inexplicably, his throat closed. “Then her body was dumped in the park.”
“That’s—” Price’s tongue tip circled the tightly compressed oval of his lips. Seated in a black leather swivel chair behind an elegant walnut and rosewood desk, Price spread both hands on the polished wooden surface, as if to brace himself. Plainly Price was unwilling—or unable—to continue without first mastering his emotions. “That’s incredible.” Now he frowned. “Wednesday night, did you say?”
Watching the other man, Hastings nodded. “That’s right.”
Now Price let his impersonal eyes lose focus as he allowed a long moment of calculating silence to pass. Then, decisively refocusing his eyes on the man across the desk, Price spoke crisply, coldly. “So what is it that I can do for you, Lieutenant?”
“You probably knew more about Meredith Powell—more about her life, and her problems—than anyone else.”
“Oh?” It was a cautious response. He let a moment of impersonal silence pass. Then: “Why do you say that?”
“Because I knew her, too. We grew up together.”
“You did?” In spite of himself, Price spoke spontaneously, visibly surprised. “Really?”
Allowing a slow, deliberate beat to pass, matching his interrogation-room expertise against Price’s bag of psychiatric tricks, Hastings held the other man’s eyes with his.
“I had lunch with her on Tuesday, Mr. Price.” The substitution of “Mister” for “Doctor” was carefully calculated.
The vexed frown returned, concealing the other man’s surprise, perhaps his discomfort. “You had lunch?”
“Right.”
Once again letting his eyes lose focus, Price sat silently, still with his hands placed flat on the desk, still very erect in the expensive black le
ather chair. Finally, after what could have been a reluctant decision, he said, “I saw her on Tuesday.” Another pause. Then, warily, Price asked, “Did she tell you?”
“Yes, sir, she did. That’s why I’m here.”
The frosty frown returned. The eyes narrowed, then steadied. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Lieutenant.”
“I think,” Hastings said, “that Meredith was involved with a man who frightened her. And in this business, when a woman’s killed like Meredith was killed, we look for her husband, or her lover. That’s why I’m here. I’m looking for a name.”
“Well, in that case, Lieutenant, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.” As he spoke, Price drew back a gleaming white cuff, consulted a gleaming gold watch.
“Did Meredith tell you about the affair she was having?”
“Meredith told me a lot of things,” Price answered curtly. “All of them confidential. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lieutenant, there’s a patient waiting.”
Making no move to rise, Hastings said, “I can understand why you wouldn’t want to divulge information about someone who’s still living. But Meredith Powell’s dead. And I intend to do everything I can to find out who killed her.”
“Does that include causing me to screw up my entire patient schedule, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir, it doesn’t. I’ll gladly come back. Just tell me when.”
“I’ll call you.”
“When?”
“Today. This afternoon.”
Hastings rose, placed his card squarely in the center of the impressive desk. “If I don’t hear from you, you’ll be hearing from me.
Price’s only response was a precisely measured inclination of his bald head.
2:10 P.M. Hastings pushed open the door marked HOMICIDE and entered the squadroom. He glanced across the room, and through the glass partition saw Friedman talking on the phone in his own office. Seated at one of the squadroom desks, Canelli smiled and lifted his hand, a characteristically tentative wave of greeting. In response, Hastings inclined his head in the direction of his office, at the opposite end of the hallway from Friedman’s. Canelli nodded and began pawing through the papers that littered his desk. As Hastings entered the hallway he caught Friedman’s eye. Friedman nodded, held up two fingers. Hastings entered his own office, hung up his tan gabardine raincoat, then turned to his desk and his “in” basket. Sorting through the interrogation reports and surveillance reports, he found a personal letter: a blue envelope, addressed in longhand to him. The handwriting was small, slightly uneven. The return address was 2152 Hyde Street.
A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 11
