A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Okay—” Hastings nodded patiently, ready to wait out the amiable flow of Taylor’s rhetoric. But then the Edwin Corwin name began a deep reecho in the depths of his consciousness, followed by random fragments of memory.

  One of the great American fortunes.

  Court battles, custody trials.

  Edwin Corwin, poor little rich boy.

  The original robber baron, August Corwin, had been the equal of the Astors, or the Rockefellers, or the Vanderbilts. But in recent years ancestral blood had thinned, the branches of the family tree had begun to rot. And Edwin Corwin had been the result.

  And then, quickly, a more immediate image came clear: the Corwin mansion on Jackson Street, in Pacific Heights. Big, elaborate parties. Extravaganzas. Major production numbers.

  And, in the wee hours of a morning long ago, a girl, dressed like a Roman slave. Drugged out. ODed. Dead.

  Hushed up. Big money, high-priced lawyers, deals made behind closed doors. One law for the rich, one law for the poor.

  “Are we talking about the Edwin Corwin?” Hastings asked. “The multimillionaire?”

  “That’s him,” Taylor answered, cheerfully derisive. “That Edwin. He’s crazy, but he’s rich.”

  “And you met Meredith Powell through Edwin Corwin.”

  “Right.”

  “Was Meredith an artist?”

  “No.”

  “Interested in art?”

  Taylor smiled. “I don’t know whether she was interested in art. But Corwin was definitely interested in Meredith Powell. Or, at least, as interested as he gets in women.”

  “Women as opposed to men, you mean?”

  “No,” Taylor answered, “I mean anyone, man or woman, as opposed to himself.”

  “Ah—” Hastings nodded. “He’s egocentric, then.”

  “Edwin Corwin has got to be the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever known,” Taylor answered. “And I speak from firsthand knowledge. I mean, I’m self-absorbed. But Edwin is possessed by himself. Absolutely possessed.”

  “You said he was crazy. What’d you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” Considering the question, Taylor paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, for openers, Edwin is self-delusional. Do you know anything about his history?”

  “I’ve read about him, like everyone else.”

  “Well, then, you know that the family tree narrowed down to Edwin and his mother and his aunt. There was his grandmother, too. Lady Macbeth. But she died at age ninety-five, not too long ago. While she was alive, the old woman and her two daughters spent all their time in court, fighting over the Corwin fortune. Now it’s just the two daughters—and Edwin. And, of course, the legal battles go on. Edwin’s fifty years old now, give or take. He inherited a fortune when he was eighteen, and another fortune when he was twenty-five, something like that. But he was totally fucked up long before he was eighteen. His mother saw to that. Apparently he was kicked out of several schools for corrupting the morals of his tender young classmates.” Taylor paused, let his eyes wander reflectively away. “He was probably a pitiful spectacle, one of those poor little rich kids trying to buy friendship. And, in fact, he’s still at it—still buying people, or trying to. And he’s still a pitiful spectacle, really. He comes on like Caligula. But sometimes you get a glimpse of the confused little kid peeking out.”

  “How’s he buying people now?”

  “The art world—especially modern art, so called—is riddled with trends and fads, sad to say. And people like Edwin have enough money to set a trend. He’s got galleries in San Francisco and Dallas and Santa Fe and New York. And he’s just opened one in Los Angeles. So if he decides an artist is hot, then he’s hot—at least for a while. All of which means there’re dozens of artists standing in line to kiss Edwin’s ass. And the incredible thing is, he does all this on pin money. Apparently his grandfather, the male chauvinist pig, put it in his will that when Edwin reached thirty or whatever, he could make the final decisions on the investment of the Corwin billions. As distinguished, you understand, from the measly millions he got when he turned eighteen. Whereupon Edwin apparently fell in with some wacky financier, so called, who talked him into taking a flyer on a couple of really far-out schemes. Like cornering the world silver market, or buying control of Belize, his own private country, things like that. And the result was that he lost maybe half the whole fortune. Which can happen, of course, if you gamble with million-dollar poker chips. So the result was that his mother and his aunt got worried enough to quit fighting between themselves and go to court and restrain him. Meaning that he can’t touch any principal. Meaning, in turn, that he’s limited to maybe a million dollars in income a year. Or maybe it’s only a half million. Anyhow—” Taylor gesticulated. “Anyhow, he’s on a budget. Just like the rest of us.”

  “Are his galleries successful?”

  “That depends on how you define success, I suppose. Actually, Edwin’s eye isn’t terrible. It’s just not nearly as good as he thinks it is. But, of course, no one’s about to tell him. Not even the critics, a lot of them. They just seem to go with the flow. Maybe they like being invited to his parties.”

  “So—” Hastings gestured to Taylor’s paintings, all of them mind-stretching abstracts. “So now is it your turn?”

  As if he’d been pinpricked, Taylor grimaced. “My turn to kiss Edwin’s ass, you mean?”

  Hastings decided not to reply.

  “I guess it is my turn.” Taylor spoke softly, ruefully. “Of course, I believe that I’m the exception, the only one of Edwin’s protégés with real talent. Which is a little like thinking you’re not really going to die, I guess.”

  Cass Tanguay shifted, gestured impatiently. “Give yourself a break, for God’s sake.”

  As Taylor looked at her silently, his expressive face revealed a complex play of contradictory emotions. Watching, Hastings could clearly see affection flash between them. But it was an affection complicated by both competition and artistic tension: two willful, forceful people, in contest.

  In contest, and in love.

  A moment of tight, decisive silence passed. Then, letting it go, Taylor snorted, turned to Hastings. “So what’s this all about, Lieutenant? The newspaper account wasn’t very specific. How’d Meredith die?”

  “She was found murdered in Golden Gate Park. We think she was actually killed somewhere else, and we’re trying to get some idea of her movements Wednesday night between, say, eight o’clock Wednesday and two A.M. on Thursday morning.”

  Taylor promptly shook his head, shrugged, spread his hands. “I can’t help you there, Lieutenant. I’ve seen Meredith Powell exactly twice, both times at one of Edwin’s orgies.”

  “Orgies?”

  Taylor’s muscle-knotted lumberjack’s face broke into a quick grin. “I exaggerate. Orgies aren’t exactly Edwin’s style. He’s too anal to let the program get out of hand. Call them mass erotic homages to Edwin.” Satisfied with the phrase, he nodded puckishly.

  “Who was Meredith with?” Hastings asked.

  “At the party?” Taylor asked. “Or, rather, homage?”

  Aware that time was passing, Hastings answered cryptically, in departmental officialese: “Yes, sir.”

  “She was with Edwin, of course. She was one of his conquests, I assumed. Or, at least, one of his handmaidens.”

  “Handmaidens?”

  “Sure. If Edwin wanted something—a goblet of wine, for instance, that was her function. She was there to gratify Edwin’s every whim—or, at least, his public whims. His private whims, of course, are a matter of avid speculation.”

  “Are we still talking about Meredith Powell?”

  “We’re talking about Meredith Powell and others.”

  “You say Corwin is about fifty.”

  “About.”

  “Describe him, will you?”

  “He looks like one of those neurotic, tyrannical ballet masters. He’s real skinny, no more than a hundred fifty pounds, if that. He’s got one
of those deeply lined faces. You know—a road map of all his assorted neuroses. It’s a real narrow, cruel face. Deep, intense eyes. Small mouth that never smiles. He combs his hair forward, like Napoleon. And, God, he acts like Napoleon, too. His whole thing is manipulating people, cutting them down. He’s a practicing sadist.”

  “What color is his hair?”

  “Gray. Or, rather, graying. Edwin would never deign to color his hair.”

  “Thick hair?”

  “No. Sparse.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “Not tall. Five eight, maybe. He’s actually a shrimp, when I think about it. Like Napoleon. Or like a retired jockey. Take your pick. Why?” Interested now, Taylor leaned forward. “Why’re you asking?”

  “There’s a man we want to question. We think he’s average height, average weight, maybe a hundred seventy. Twenty-five or thirty. He’s white. Dark hair, probably thick.”

  “Does he know Edwin, hang around with Edwin?”

  “We’re not sure. Why?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Because that description could fit a psycho named Charles.”

  “Charles? Charles who?”

  Grimacing, Taylor shrugged, shook his head. “Just Charles. He’s a conceptual artist.”

  Hastings frowned. “A conceptual artist?”

  “You know—like Christo. Which is where Charles probably got the idea of just using Charles. He’s a bona fide, certified creep. And his art is creepy, too. It’s too bad you weren’t here a month ago. Edwin gave Charles a show in the small gallery in front—” Taylor waved a hand. “He painted the whole room black, and the floor, too. There was just a dais in the center of the gallery, draped in black velvet. There was an open casket on the dais. It was lined in white satin. A pig was lying in the casket. With an ornamental dagger stuck in its chest. The pig wore a red cardinal’s hat, trimmed in gold.”

  Hastings swallowed. “You’re kidding.”

  “Actually”—Taylor sighed—“it was pretty effective. But then the pig started to stink. Apparently it wasn’t embalmed; an artistic oversight.”

  “And Charles knows Edwin. Is that what you said?”

  Grimacing again, Taylor answered, “There’re lots of rumors circulating about the relationship between Charles and Edwin. You can take your pick. Some say they’re lovers. Or bisexual, and lovers sometimes. Some say Charles is Edwin’s procurer. In any case, Charles is Edwin’s gofer, his alter ego, whatever. Incidentally, you didn’t miss Charles by more than a few minutes. He could still be in the gallery, for all I know. He manages the place for Edwin.”

  Instantly Hastings rose. “Give me a description. What’s he look like? What’s he wearing? What kind of car does he drive?”

  Eyes snapping avidly, Taylor spoke quickly, tersely. “He’s about thirty, I’d say. It’s hard to tell. He’s always dressed in dark suits, double breasted. Always a white shirt, formal tie, black shoes, always shined. He looks exactly like a funeral director. Real pale, pasty face; dark eyes. Dark hair, too. Straight, dark hair. He never smiles. He definitely pulled the wings off flies when he was little. Still does, probably.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Hell, no. But Gloria probably does, at the reception desk. She might not tell you, but she probably knows.”

  “What kind of a car does he drive?”

  “It’s a blue Fiat convertible. Good-looking car,” Taylor admitted grudgingly.

  The three of them were standing now, closely facing each other, sharing the sudden, muted excitement. Hastings took out a card, handed it to Taylor.

  “If you think of anything else, call me. Leave a message, if I’m not there.”

  “Right.”

  “And don’t mention this. To anyone. Is that clear?”

  “That’s clear.”

  1:10 P.M. Outside the phone booth, two teenage girls were waiting, both of them staring at him coldly, one of them holding up a quarter. Pretending to talk on the phone, Charles turned his back on them. The booth was across the street from the gallery, and four doors west. The Honda was parked three doors east of the gallery. The Fiat was parked on Gough Street, safe from discovery. He would wait until—

  Behind the gallery’s plate-glass window a figure materialized, coalesced, became a man—a big man—the detective, opening the door, walking briskly to the Honda. This was a man with a purpose, clearly revealed in the pattern of his movements, the set of his head, the swing of his arms. The man got into the Honda, pulled out of the parking place, a loading zone. As the Honda drew abreast of him, Charles turned away, avoiding the stares of the girls. Then he slipped two dimes into the slot, dialed the gallery’s number.

  “The Corwin Gallery.”

  “Gloria.”

  “Hi.” It was her customary flat, disinterested greeting. Long ago he should have demanded that Edwin fire her.

  He hadn’t planned his opening question, a mistake. Was he beginning to make mistakes?

  “I—ah—I wondered, has anyone been asking for me?”

  “As a matter of fact, Charles,” she answered, “someone was looking for you.”

  Clearly, he could hear the pleasure in her voice, the smug, sadistic satisfaction. His respiration, he knew, was quickening. Palms wet, shirt sweat-sticky at the armpits. Breath too short, voice too tight. “Well? Who was it?”

  “It was a policeman.” Her voice silky, venom-syruped. “A cop. Homicide, in fact.”

  “H—” His throat closed, the body master of the mind. He swallowed, cleared his throat. “Homicide?”

  “His name is Hastings. Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “What’d he—” Once more the words died. “What’d he want?”

  “He wanted to talk to you. I told him he just missed you. He asked for your address and phone.”

  “Did you—did you give them to him?”

  “I figured I should.” A pause. In the silence he could visualize her face: the small, smug smile, the eyes slyly slanted. “After all, he’s the law.” Another pause. Then, mock-innocently. “That was right, wasn’t it?”

  “The law. Yes. Sure. But I—” As his voice caught again, he realized that he had no choice. He must break the connection, free himself from her venom.

  1:20 P.M. As Hastings pulled away from the curb and entered the stream of Hayes Street traffic, he was visualizing Friedman’s face when he heard the news. In Friedman’s lexicon of favorite targets, politicians and fat cats, unspecified, shared top billing. Even the outside chance that they could tie a can on Edwin Corwin would make Friedman’s day.

  1:25 P.M. At the other end of the line, Luis answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Yes. This is Charles. Let me speak to Mr. Corwin.”

  “Mr. Corwin is upstairs, sir.”

  “All right.” He broke the connection, consulted a slip of paper taken from his wallet, dialed the pay phone again. On the fourth ring, the call was completed.

  “Hello.”

  “Edwin.”

  A pause. On the static-sizzling line, tension cracked. Tension, and the emanations of sudden fear.

  But fear could galvanize. Terror paralyzed, but fear could be salvation’s goad, the forest primeval, bloody in tooth and claw.

  These random images, these strange, unpredictable flashes. He’d never experienced them before, not like this.

  “Yes?” Edwin’s voice was wan. Were images flashing for Edwin, too? “Yes? Wh—” Edwin’s voice had clogged in his throat.

  At the thought, Charles felt himself sustained. Strengthened. Ready. As Edwin mewled, he triumphed. Tooth and claw. Jungle law. Universal. They’d already established that, he and Edwin. He was the hunter, the executioner. Edwin was the high priest.

  “I’m talking from a phone booth. And I want you to listen. I want you to listen very carefully. Do you understand?”

  “Y-yes. I understand.”

  “The man we talked about, he’s a policeman. A lieutenant. And he’s been at the the gallery.”


  “Oh, no. No.”

  “Yes. He didn’t ask about you. But he asked about me. That’s all I know. But I think we should—”

  “How did he …?”

  “Listen. Just listen. I don’t want to talk too long.”

  “Y-yes. I see.”

  “I think I should leave. I think that’s best. I’ve been thinking about it. He spent a half hour, at least, at the gallery. It gave me time to think, to plan. And I think I should fly to Los Angeles and then go to Europe. Portugal, maybe. On a buying trip, I’ll say. Primitives.”

  “But they—do they—?”

  “As far as I know, they don’t connect us, you and me. I don’t think you’re involved. But we can’t—”

  “M-maybe I should go, too. Maybe we should both—”

  “No. That’s wrong. Absolutely wrong. If we both go—disappear, suddenly—they’ll make the connection. You understand that, don’t you?”

  As he heard himself say it, heard his own voice, heard the strength, he realized that he was smiling. Edwin was quaking, he was smiling. How loud was the crash when the mighty fell.

  “Yes. I understand.”

  “Good. Now, here’s what you’ve got to do. You’ve got to get me some money. There’s still time to get to the bank. Get fifty thousand in—” He hesitated. “It’ll have to be in cash.”

  “But that much money in cash. I can’t get it, not so soon.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Edwin. Gloria gave the police my address. Everything. I can’t even go home. I’m phoning from a pay phone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes—I understand.” It was a cowed, craven response. Edwin Corwin, no longer the master, now the slave; ecstasy incarnate.

  “We’ll meet tonight at the Legion of Honor, the north side. Drive the Jag, so I’ll recognize you.”

  “Th-the north side?”

  “Where we shot that video last year, with Parker. Drive up and park in front of the courtyard. I’ve just been out there, driven the route. We’ll meet there at nine o’clock.”