“Six, seven months, I’m not really sure.” She smiled ruefully. “I’m trying to block it out, obviously.”
Thoughtfully, Hastings nodded. A distraught mother whose child had died because Hanchett had decided to give an organ to another child … it was a possibility worth exploring. Both witnesses had said the murderer was a man. But all they’d seen was a figure wearing slacks and a jacket and a cap. The closest streetlight had been a hundred feet away; the block was badly lit. The closest witness, the pizza deliveryman, had been at least fifty feet from the victim.
He opened his notebook. “What’s this woman’s name?”
“Her name is Bell. Teresa Bell.”
“Do you know her husband’s name?”
She frowned—“It’s Fred. I’m almost sure it’s Fred.”
“Do they live in San Francisco?”
“Out in the avenues.” She smiled. “Not too far from where we grew up, Frank. The old neighborhood.”
He returned the smile, closed the notebook, moved forward in his chair. “Thanks, Susan.” He rose. “I’ve taken enough of your—”
Her phone warbled—a different, louder note. Was it an alarm? Yes, he could see it in her face as she listened briefly. He could hear it in her voice: “Okay. Two minutes.” Quickly she rose. “Sorry, Frank. Duty calls. You know how it is.”
“I know how it is. Thanks, Susan. Can I use your phone?”
“Dial nine.” She hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, went to the door. “Let me know. Promise?”
“Promise.” He watched her leave the office, closing the door as she went. Sitting in her swivel chair, he touch-toned Homicide, asked for Canelli.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, but Canelli isn’t—oh, wait. Here he comes now. Just a second.” And, moments later, Canelli came on the line.
“Hi, Lieutenant. How’s it going?”
“I was just going to ask you the same question.”
“Well, his wife took it pretty cool, Lieutenant. Very cool, in fact.”
“What time did you talk to her?”
“It was twenty minutes after two when I finally got there.” As Canelli spoke, Hastings could hear him suppressing a yawn.
“And?”
“Well, she was alone in the house. It’s a real fancy house on Jackson, near Scott. I mean real fancy. Big bucks. Real big bucks.”
“Had she been asleep, did you think, when you got there?”
“Hard to tell. Like I said, she was real cool, made me show my ID, the whole nine yards. All this with the night chain on the door. So, jeez, with her coming on so strong, not letting me in, and demanding that, you know, I tell her what it was all about, me standing on the goddamn stoop, well, jeez, I didn’t have any choice. I mean, I had to tell her through the crack in the door that her husband was dead. So then—finally—she let me in.”
“She wasn’t upset, eh?”
“Not that I could see, Lieutenant. Mostly—well—if I had to pick a word, I guess it’d be ‘hostile.’ I mean, we just stood in the hallway, you know? She didn’t even ask me in, or anything. It was like—you know—I’d delivered a real smelly load of fish or something, and she couldn’t wait for me to leave. And—oh, yeah—the first thing she asked me—after I told her that her husband was dead, and that he was shot by an unknown assailant on the street—the first thing she asked me was where had he gotten killed. What street, what address? Well, even though I knew we weren’t giving out that stuff to the press, or anything, not now, at least, I figured that, jeez, I couldn’t very well refuse to tell her. So I told her it happened on Green Street. I mean, I figured she’d find out anyhow, sooner or later. So I—” Partly to catch his breath, partly because of uncertainty, Canelli broke off. Hoping for the best, he waited for Hastings to speak. The pause was Hastings’s cue. “That’s right, Canelli. What else could you do?”
“Ah.” It was a grateful sigh. “Right. What else could I do?”
“So how’d she react, when you gave her the location?”
“She didn’t really react, not that I could see. She just wanted me to leave—get lost, it seemed like. So then, the next thing I know, I’m standing on the goddamn porch again, looking at the door.”
“I think I’ll talk to her. Then I’ll come in. Tell Lieutenant Friedman I’ll be there by about noon. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure, Lieutenant. Okay.”
10:50 AM
“If you’ll please take a seat”—the uniformed maid gestured to a large leather armchair—“Mrs. Hanchett will be right with you.”
“Thank you.” As Hastings sank into the luxury of the chair, he glanced around the room. It was a small study. Two walls, floor to ceiling, were bookshelves. A third wall was dominated by a huge, multicolored, leaded-glass window that was certainly an authentic antique. There was a library table and a leather-topped desk, also antique. Another leather lounge chair matched Hastings’s chair. The desk chair, on casters, was also leather. The wall behind the desk was covered with framed pictures, certificates, and mementos.
“Would you like some coffee?” the maid asked. “Rolls?” She was Filipino; her café au lait face was as smooth as polished stone, and just as bland. Her voice was expressionless.
“No, thanks.”
“Mrs. Hanchett is with …” The maid hesitated, searching for the right word. As the silence lengthened, she began to frown. “She’s with the undertakers.”
“Ah.” Hastings nodded. “Yes.”
The maid nodded politely in return and turned toward the door, which she left open as she walked out into the spacious entry hall with its curving staircase that led up to the second floor. The door was carved oak, thick enough to have come from a castle. The massive handle was brass.
A maid; a Pacific Heights town house; bookcases filled with leatherbound books; a Jaguar; a young, beautiful lover: Hanchett had had it all.
But the Jag was in the police lab. And Hanchett was in a drawer at the morgue, awaiting the autopsy surgeon’s knife.
From the hallway came the sound of voices, hushed male voices, a restrained woman’s voice. Contracts in their pockets, the morticians were departing. Through the open door, Hastings saw two men in dark suits gravely shaking hands with a dark-haired woman wearing beige slacks, and a loose-fitting brown sweater. Slim but full-bodied, carrying herself with the arrogance of a desirable woman aware of her own desirability, Mrs. Brice Hanchett bore a remarkable resemblance to Carla Pfiefer. Had Hanchett’s choice of lovers followed a pattern?
She was coming toward him now. With her dark, elegant, arrogant good looks, with her chin raised, shoulders and hips working together, moving as provocatively and as economically as a model might, she came into the study, swung the door closed, and took one of the two deep leather chairs facing him. All of it—the entrance, closing the door, sitting down, crossing one slim leg over the chair—was accomplished as if it were one movement, smoothly choreographed, flawlessly executed.
Carla Pfiefer, the girlfriend, was a sensual, exciting woman.
But the wife had the class.
After Hastings introduced himself, Mrs. Hanchett said, “I’ve already talked to a homicide detective this morning. Do you know that?”
Hastings nodded. “Inspector Canelli. Yes. This is a—a follow-up. I’ve just finished talking with Inspector Canelli, as a matter of fact.”
Watching him with her dark, calm eyes, she made no response. Her face revealed nothing. It was a lean, aristocratic face. The mouth was small and firmly set, the nose aquiline, slightly pinched.
Like I’d delivered a load of smelly fish, Canelli had said.
Score another one for Canelli.
As, still, she waited calmly, her eyes effortlessly meeting his.
“I’m sorry it had to be so late when Inspector Canelli rang your doorbell,” Hastings began. “But it’s departmental policy to notify the next of kin in person, not by phone.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Is there anything I can do, Mr
s. Hanchett? Anything I can help you with?”
She smiled, a slight, humorless movement of her impeccably drawn lips. “You can catch whoever did it.”
“That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Hanchett.”
She frowned. It was the first spontaneous expression she’d revealed since she’d made her entrance. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s beginning to look like your husband might’ve been killed last night for personal reasons.”
The frown deepened, the nostrils thinned, the mouth hardened. “What d’you mean, ‘personal reasons’?”
“I mean enemies.”
“Enemies?”
“Whenever someone’s killed, we look for two things—motive and opportunity. So, we’re trying to find someone with a motive for killing Dr. Hanchett. Usually, in a killing like this—a street killing—it’s either a fight or else it’s robbery. Sure, there’re the nuts, the random killers who kill for kicks, or because their voices tell them to do it. And it’s possible that your husband’s killer was one of those. But my hunch is whoever killed your husband did it for a reason.”
“What kind of a reason?”
“Usually it’s either gain or revenge. Or jealousy, one of those three.” He decided to smile, to make a gesture of invitation. “Take your pick. Please. We need all the help we can get.”
“Lieutenant …” She let a hard, deliberate moment pass. “I really don’t have time for guessing games. And I don’t have the patience, either. Not this morning.”
“Sure. I understand.” Briskly he withdrew a notebook from an inside pocket. “This won’t take long, Mrs. Hanchett. I’ve already been to BMC, and I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of Dr. Hanchett’s, uh, professional situation. So now, if I can get a rundown on his personal life—his relatives, his family situation—then I’ll be on my way.” Expectantly he clicked his ballpoint pen, at the same time experimenting with another smile.
“What is it you want, exactly?” Her voice was cold, impersonal. But something stirred in the depths of her eyes. Was it caution? Concern?
Concern for what? Why?
“I’d like vital statistics. From his driver’s license I know he was fifty-two years old, and I know he lived at this address. But that’s all I know. And I need more. Lots more.”
“He was married before,” she said, reciting now. “And so was I. His first wife’s name is Fiona. She lives on Washington Street, not too far from here, in fact. They have a son. John. He lives with his mother.”
“Is that Fiona Hanchett?”
She nodded. “Yes. She never remarried.”
“What’s your name—your given name?”
“It’s Barbara.” She hesitated, then decided to say, “Barbara Gregg Hanchett.”
“How long have—were—you married to Dr. Hanchett?”
“Almost four years. It’ll be—” She broke off, bit her lip. “It would’ve been four years in two months—November.”
“You were married before. Could I have your first husband’s name?”
Instantly she bristled. Hastings recognized that mannerism: the upper-class matron harassed by a mere civil servant.
“Why do you want my first husband’s name?”
Tactically, his response was textbook-clear: never answer a hostile question.
“Have you ever seen a transcript of a murder trial, Mrs. Hanchett?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“A transcript can run to thousands of pages, the most minute detail. That’s what this business is all about, Mrs. Hanchett. Details.”
Jaw set grimly, eyes bright with rigidly suppressed anger, voice edged with bitterness and scorn, she said, “His name is Edward Gregg. He’s remarried, and lives on Cherry Street. He’s a lawyer. A very rich, very successful lawyer. He’s forty-five years old, and—” Contemptuously, she shrugged. “And I’m forty-three, if that’s the kind of detail you’re looking for. We—Edward and I—have a daughter named Paula who’s a model and lives in North Beach.” About to say more, she frowned, then fell into a brooding, patrician silence.
Calling for a calm, cool response: “Thank you, Mrs. Hanchett.” He flipped a notebook page, made a final entry, flipped the notebook closed, returned it to his pocket, the businesslike policeman doing his job. “That’s very helpful.”
“Good.” Sitting in her chair, chin lifted, back arched, legs elegantly crossed, a finishing-school posture, she nodded, a slight, stiff-necked inclination of her impeccably coiffed head.
All of it making an irresistible target.
Holding her gaze, Hastings let a beat pass. Then, quietly, he said, “Did Inspector Canelli tell you the, uh, circumstances surrounding your husband’s death?”
“Circumstances?”
“It happened a little after ten P.M., in the eleven-hundred block of Green Street. That’s on Russian Hill, between Hyde and Leavenworth.”
She made no response. But, deep behind her violet eyes, something shifted. He’d touched another nerve. Or was it the same nerve?
“Would you like to hear the details?” Hastings asked. “Or would you rather not? Your choice.” Aware that whichever way she answered he could only win, he was also aware of the smugness he felt. Friedman’s favorite targets were the rich and the famous. Sometimes Hastings could understand why.
“Do you mean that—” Watching him attentively, she broke off. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, tighter. “Do you mean that you know how it happened? Why it happened?”
“We’ve got two witnesses. There’re probably others, there usually are. It can take time for witnesses to come forward. But we have a good idea of Dr. Hanchett’s movements right up to the time the shots were fired.”
“And?” As she spoke, she held her finishing-school pose. If it was a performance, it was flawless: the lady of the castle, composed, ready to receive tidings that would daunt a lesser person.
The only possible response was the truth. “Well, he—Dr. Hanchett—spent approximately two hours in the company of a woman named Carla Pfiefer, who lives at eleven-forty-eight Green Street.” Covertly watchful, he let a second pass. Her face remained rigid. Another second. Then it began: raw, elemental hatred, clouding the eyes, twitching at each corner of the beautifully drawn mouth, constricting the muscles of the throat. Her voice dropped to a low, clotted whisper:
“So you know about it—about them?”
Silently, he nodded.
“She’s not the first, you know. She’s just the latest.”
“I know.”
“You’ve talked to her, then.”
“Yes. Last night. Today or tomorrow, I’ll probably talk to her again.”
“What’d she say? What’d she tell you?”
“I—ah—I don’t think I should get into that, Mrs. Hanchett. It’s—”
“Did she talk about me? That’s all I want to know—whether you talked about me.”
“No,” he answered quietly. “No, we didn’t talk about you.”
She was breathing more deeply now, round, taut breasts thrusting against the cashmere softness of her sweater. Her chin was still raised, her posture still disdainfully stiff. But she’d lost control of her mouth, and her eyes were balefully fixed. Finally: “Was it a man? Was the killer a man?”
“We don’t know that.” He looked at her attentively. “Why?”
“Because her husband,” she said, biting off each word, “is insanely jealous of her, that’s why.”
Until he could keep his voice level, his expression neutral, Hastings made no response. Then: “Her husband works at BMC. He’s a doctor. Is that correct?”
“Yes. A surgeon.”
“Has he ever made any threats against Dr. Hanchett?”
For a long moment she sat rigid, each hand clamped on the arms of her chair. Finally, after carefully clearing her throat and once more elevating her flawless chin, she said, “That’s up to you to find out. You find the murderer, Lieutenant. I’ll bury my husband.”
&
nbsp; 10:55 AM
“Please, Jonathan, don’t scratch. It only makes it worse, when you scratch.”
“But it itches.”
“I know it itches. But if you scratch, it’ll get infected. Remember what the doctor said.”
“Have you ever had poison oak?”
“No, I never have.” Wearily, Jane Ryder smiled down at her son. Should she send him to school tomorrow? School had only been in session for seven days, since Labor Day. If she let him—
“Has Dad ever had poison oak?”
“Yes. He told you that last night.”
“I think I’ll watch TV. Can I have a cookie?”
“How about a bran muffin?”
Resigned, Jonathan sighed. “Okay.”
“First, though, I want you to go outside and pick up those papers in the hedge. Take a wastebasket. Then come back for the muffin.”
“Aw …”He began scratching at his chest, where the poison oak was the worst.
“Jonathan—don’t scratch. Please.”
“Aw …”
“Here.” She took the plastic wastebasket from under the sink. “Pick up those papers and put them in the basket, and then empty the basket into the garbage can. Then come back and have your muffin and milk.”
Carrying the wastebasket hugged close to his stomach, he waited for her to open the kitchen door. He stepped out into the bright, warm September sunshine and walked along the side of the house to the small front garden. He unlatched the gate, placed the wastebasket on the sidewalk. Did his mother mean for him to pick up just the advertising circulars? Or did she mean for him to pick up the candy wrappers and bits of paper, too? There were germs on paper like that, lying in the dirt. He sighed—and scratched his chest. Didn’t his mother care whether he caught something from germs? One day she told him always to keep his hands clean, because of germs. But now, today, she—
Dark metal gleamed in the space between the thick-growing hedge. Something was lying on the ground. Using both hands, he parted two branches—
—and saw the pistol.
It was an automatic, and it looked real. Never before had he seen a make-believe gun that looked so real. He squatted, picked up the gun. It was heavy, the heaviest gun he’d ever felt. Not plastic, but metal. Just like a gun: a real gun, that could shoot.
A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 27
