A Death Before Dying (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

Beginning and ending, the chimes.

  Church bells, chiming both the beginning and the ending. Wedding bells.

  And now the chimes that warned he was coming. The man with no name.

  8:35 PM

  As they walked together toward the short walkway that led to the Bell house, Hastings said, “I grew up near here. Our house was on Thirty-ninth.”

  “I guess I knew that,” Friedman answered. “Somehow, though, I always associate you with Detroit.”

  If they’d been across a dinner table from each other, or across a desk, with Friedman’s lazy-lidded eyes on him, the eyes that saw everything, revealing nothing, Hastings knew the observation would cost him. Whenever he talked about his years in Detroit, he was unable to keep the pain of memory from showing. But here in the darkness, both of them walking anonymously side by side, duty-bound, he could answer calmly, casually, “Actually, I was in Detroit for only a few years.”

  A few years. Yes. Add them up, take the total, admit to the terrible toll: Two good seasons with the Lions. His name in the paper, first for football, then, far bigger spreads, the stories of his marriage to Carolyn Ralston, socialite. Followed by the third season of football, in which Claudia was born—and his knee was ruined. Followed by a job working for his father-in-law, the PR job he could never define, but which included a corner office and a secretary who’d graduated from Swarthmore—a job involving too many drinks with too many clients: visiting VIPs, most of them football fans, all of them horny.

  Followed by Darrell’s birth.

  Followed by more drinking—a lot more drinking, on the job and off.

  Job?

  Followed by the divorce.

  Followed by the final trip to the airport, his last ride with his father-in-law’s driver. At the airport, the driver hadn’t even bothered to help him with his bags.

  Inside the Bell house, lights were burning brightly. The house was built on a narrow lot, over the garage. Moving quietly, the two men ascended the short flight of Spanish-tile steps to the front door. Out of long habit they opened their jackets, each man loosening his revolver in its holster.

  Hastings pressed the doorbell button, stepped back. Since he’d already spoken to the suspect, he would take the lead.

  But, inside, there was no sound of movement, no sign of life. Another press of the button—and another. Nothing. Hastings stepped forward, held his breath, pressed his ear to the door. Still nothing. He tested the door, which was solidly locked. In the door’s peephole prism, no movement was refracted. Hastings stepped back, returned his shield case to his pocket, stood staring at the door.

  “At times like this,” Friedman observed, “I can’t help taking the cost accountant’s view. I mean, here we are, two lieutenants, making pretty good money. What’s it cost the taxpayers, portal-to-portal, for us to be here, shooting this blank?”

  “Except that we don’t get overtime. Only the troops. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Except that we get to take time off. Unofficial time off, in the field. Or didn’t you know?”

  “Maybe we should find a phone and call. Her husband works nights. Maybe she doesn’t answer the doorbell when he’s gone.”

  “From the number of lights she’s got on,” Friedman said, “and from the feeling I get, I think she’s in there.” He stepped forward, made a ham-handed fist, and banged on the door, calling out, “Mrs. Bell!” He knocked again, harder. “It’s the police, Mrs. Bell. Open the door, please.” He stepped to the door, ear against the panel, listening. Finally he stepped back. “Maybe we should’ve covered the back. After all, she’s a suspect, at least in your opinion.”

  “Is that a dig?” Hastings asked sourly.

  “No.”

  “Anyway, these houses are all attached. So there’s no way we can cover the back unless we climb fences. That means dogs.”

  “Let’s call her, what the hell. Maybe she—”

  “The police, did you say?”

  It was a man’s voice, behind them. Startled, both men turned. A man stood at the bottom of the stairs. Light falling on him from the Bells’ brightly lit front window revealed a paunchy, balding man wearing a “Go ’49ers” sweatshirt.

  “Can we help you?” Friedman asked.

  “I live next door.” The stranger pointed. “I heard you say you’re from the police.”

  “That’s right.” Palming his shield case, Friedman led the way down the narrow stairs. “We’re looking for Teresa Bell. Have you seen her tonight?”

  With the three of them standing beside the driveway, the man was studying Friedman’s badge with great interest. Finally he said, “God, that’s pretty impressive. Gold, eh?”

  “Gold-plated,” Friedman answered dryly. “It’s your tax dollars, remember.”

  “Hmmm …”

  “May I have your name, sir?”

  “Sure. It’s Penziner. Bernard Penziner. I live next door.” He pointed again. “And I was working in the garage, on my car. There’s an alternator problem, I think. It’s cranking out the volts, but not enough amps. And I heard you pounding, and hollering ‘police.’ So, naturally”—as if to apologize for his curiosity, Penziner spread his pudgy palms—“naturally, I thought I’d take a look, see what it was.”

  “And have you seen Mrs. Bell?” Friedman persisted patiently.

  “Tonight, you mean? Now?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, no, I haven’t. But she never goes out at night. Almost never, anyhow. At least not since—” He frowned, broke off, began again: “So it wouldn’t mean much that I haven’t seen her. What’s it all about?”

  “We’re conducting an investigation, and we think she might be able to help us. This is Lieutenant Hastings. I’m Lieutenant Friedman.”

  “Huh.” Speculatively, Penziner looked from one man to the other. “Two lieutenants. Big deal, eh?”

  “I notice,” Friedman said, “that she has a lot of lights on. Do you think she might be in there, and not answering the door?”

  Looking up at the windows, Penziner was frowning thoughtfully. “Well, I was just going to say …” His voice trailed off. Then, clearing his throat and turning to face Friedman squarely, raising his chin and standing straighter, as if he were a private reporting to a superior officer, Penziner said, “I don’t know what it is that you’re investigating, Lieutenant. But the truth is—the fact is—maybe about a half hour ago, maybe a little longer, I heard a real loud noise over here.”

  “What kind of a noise?”

  “Well …” Penziner elevated his chin again, cleared his throat again. “Well, at the time, I thought it could’ve been a shot.”

  The two detectives exchanged a quick, meaningful look. Hastings turned away, walked quickly to his cruiser, raised the trunk lid. The service light inside the trunk was inoperative, but he found the pry bar. He closed the trunk and began walking back to the Bell house, pry bar concealed, as Friedman finally succeeded in persuading Penziner to return to his garage and close the door.

  “Okay,” Friedman said. “Let’s do it. Ring first. Right?”

  “Right.” Hastings pressed the bell button again, listened carefully, then inserted the pry bar between the door and the jamb. He braced himself, then began increasing the pressure until the door suddenly snapped and swung open. Hastings laid the bar on the small tiled porch, drew his revolver, and stepped into the interior hallway.

  Yes, he could smell it: the stench of excrement and urine and blood, overlaid with a lingering tang of cordite. This was the odor that defined the homicide detective’s job, the smell of violent death.

  She lay in the entry hall, less than ten feet from the front door. She lay on her back, one arm flung wide, one arm folded across her stomach. Her eyes were half open, as if she were staring sidelong at something she found distasteful. Her mouth was agape. She wore a plain cotton housedress, the kind that Hastings’s mother used to wear, he suddenly remembered. Her skirt was slightly raised, her feet slightly spread. Her entire torso,
shoulders to stomach, was blood-soaked. The blood that had pooled on the hardwood floor was still fresh, still glistening.

  Guns drawn, the two detectives went from room to room, checking out the closets and the shower stall, looking under the beds, verifying that the door to the rear garden was securely bolted from the inside. Except for the two bedrooms and the one bathroom, all the rooms were lighted. Nothing had been disturbed: drawers were in order, a woman’s purse on one of the beds was intact. As the two men returned to the body, Friedman holstered his revolver and said, “He probably rang the front doorbell, got admitted, and killed her immediately, as soon as he closed the door. Then he left.”

  With his handkerchief covering the interior knob, Hastings was experimenting with the front-door latch. “It has a spring lock.”

  “Rats. I was hoping he’d used a key to lock up.”

  “The husband, you mean.”

  “You know the first rule—if a woman’s killed, it’s probably the husband. And vice versa.” Friedman took out his own handkerchief, went to a telephone attached to the hallway wall, and put in calls to the coroner and the police lab. Then he returned to the hallway, where Hastings was studying the body.

  “With all this blood,” Friedman said, “it looks like the bullet hit a main artery.”

  “Or the heart.”

  “Yeah—the heart.”

  In silence, the two men stood motionless, side by side, looking down at the body. Finally, Friedman drew a long, deep breath. “Well, so much for the theory that Teresa Bell killed Hanchett.” His voice was hushed, an involuntary response to the specter of death.

  “They’re connected, though. They’ve got to be connected. Whoever killed Hanchett had to’ve killed her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Sense?” Friedman snorted. “You want sense, in this business?

  “So what’s the plan?” Hastings asked. “You’re the senior officer.”

  “First,” Friedman answered, “we get Canelli, or some other underling, to come and take charge, so we aren’t stuck here all night. That’s first. Command officers need their sleep, remember. Then, obviously, one of us talks to that guy next door—Penziner—while the other one of us makes sure the husband—Fred Bell—reported for work tonight. And then we wait for the prelims, tomorrow morning. Especially, we wait for the word from Ballistics.”

  “Why especially Ballistics?”

  “Because,” Friedman pronounced, “I have a feeling that the murder weapon was a forty-five Colt automatic. Presentation model.”

  9:30 PM

  It was beginning again: the trembling, deep within. Even here, safe in his own living room. Even now, long after it was over.

  The flash of memory that caused the trembling—what had triggered it? Was it her eyes? Those round, manic eyes, the eyes that first turned surprised, then turned anxious—

  —and then turned to stone.

  Or was it her voice? The last of her voice, rattling in her throat?

  Or was it the twitching? The fingers and the feet: busy, fretful little movements, as if she sought to pluck at his sleeve, like a beggar on the street.

  Had he drawn the drapes? It was essential, he knew, to draw the drapes. Yet it was an effort to raise his eyes to the window. And only then did he remember: he’d drawn the drapes before he left. First he’d drawn the drapes. All the drapes. And then he’d dressed. It had all been carefully planned: the dark jacket, the jeans, the wide leather belt for the gun. Then the cap. And, finally, the surgical gloves. And then he’d taken the pistol from under the mattress—the pistol and the clip, fully loaded. And then he’d—

  The pistol.

  He still had the pistol. Incredibly, the pistol was still thrust in his belt. He’d meant to throw the pistol in the sewer, only a block from her house. One particular sewer, its grating large enough to accept the pistol. But he hadn’t done it, hadn’t gotten rid of the pistol.

  And therefore he was trembling.

  So it wasn’t her eyes, remembered, that made him tremble. It was the pistol thrust in his belt, flesh of his flesh, a cold steel tumor.

  A cancer that could kill again.

  11:15 PM

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Hastings broke off a piece of French bread and dipped it into the thick, fragrant split-pea soup. Two days ago, a cause for celebration, Ann had made a large potful of the split-pea soup with ham hocks. The jumbo-sized bowl before him, she’d announced, was the last of the batch, defended from Billy and Dan by heroic means. Sitting across the kitchen table, sipping herb tea, Ann was looking gravely at him over the rim of the teacup. Hastings knew that look. Ann had something on her mind.

  Had Victor Haywood called?

  Yes, almost certainly, Victor had called. It was that kind of a look.

  She would, he knew, wait until he’d finished eating. It was part of their unspoken agreement: never begin an argument while either partner was eating.

  So, when he’d appreciatively cleaned the bowl with a last scrap of French bread, and had drunk some of his milk, Hastings said, “Let me guess. It’s about Victor.”

  She sighed, a ragged, tremulous exhalation. Was her hand unsteady as she placed her teacup in its saucer? He couldn’t be sure.

  “Isn’t it always about Victor?”

  He decided to make no reply.

  “He says you did eight hundred dollars’ damage to his car.”

  “That’s bullshit. That’s utter bullshit. A hundred, maybe. Not eight hundred.”

  “The door is creased, he says. And the whole side of the car has to be painted.”

  Creased? Could the door have been creased? Had he looked for a crease, looked for damage?

  No, he hadn’t looked, not really.

  He drained the glass of milk. “It was a dumb thing to do. I—Christ, it’s been a long time since I’ve done something like that, lost my temper. I wonder what his deductible is. Two hundred?”

  “He wasn’t talking about deductibles.” Ann spoke in a low, tight voice. Her blue eyes had darkened, a sure sign of her distress. When he’d first known her, it was the eyes he’d always remembered whenever they were apart and he was thinking of her. And the line of her jaw, too. And her just-right nose, and the particular curve of her lips. And the sweep of her tawny blond hair as she moved her head.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, touched her hand. “I should’ve known he wasn’t talking about deductibles.”

  She made no response to the touch of his hand. Her eyes were growing darker, not lighter.

  “He’s talking about court,” she said. “About going to court.”

  He snorted. “For a dented door? I thought Victor was smarter than that.”

  “He is smarter than that.” She drew a deep breath, looked at him squarely, with deep, reluctant gravity. “He isn’t talking about deductibles. He’s talking about custody.”

  “Custody?”

  “You don’t know him, Frank. Once he says he’ll do something—once he makes a threat—he goes through with it. Always. It—it’s part of his personality.”

  “He won’t get custody of the kids after five years of divorce.”

  “He’s married. He has a stable home. He makes lots of money. If he gets the right judge—a dinosaur …” She let it go bleakly unfinished. Now her eyes were downcast, dispirited. Ann hated controversy, hated the prospect of confrontation.

  “I’ll talk to him, Ann. I—I’ll apologize. Swear to God.”

  “It won’t help. I know what happened. Just listening to him, I know what happened. You threatened his masculinity. Victor can’t stand that. Physically, he’s a coward. When you threatened him physically, you—” She broke off, searching for the phrase. “You exposed him, brought the whole house of cards—his pasted-up public persona—tumbling down.” She smiled ruefully. “That’s a pretty labored metaphor, but …” On the Formica table, her forefinger began moving, as if she were drawing random designs in sand.

  “What ac
tually happened,” he said, “was that he got the best of me. I know better than to lose my temper. But he got to me with his goddamn”—he opened his hand, closed it to make a fist, struck the table with rigidly suppressed fury—“his goddamn superiority. If I—if I hadn’t hit his goddamn door, I’d’ve hit him.” He tried to smile, to reassure her. “And then we’d really be in trouble.”

  “He hates you, Frank. He’s always hated you, I suppose, because you’re soiling goods that once belonged to him. That’s how he thinks, you know.”

  “He’s sick. He’s supposed to treat people’s neuroses. But, Christ, he’s—he’s—” Angrily, he broke off. Releasing energy, he rose, put his dishes in the sink, ran water into them. She hadn’t risen with him. Instead, she sat as before, shoulders slumped, staring down at the table, still tracing random designs on the Formica. He went to her, took her shoulders, gently raised her to her feet, and turned her to face him. Then he drew her close, held her steady. When he felt her respond, felt her arms come around him at the waist, that one particular touch, he whispered into the hollow of her neck, “Let’s go to bed. Okay?”

  He felt her nod, felt her arms come closer around him. She’d forgiven him, then. For causing them trouble—serious trouble, maybe—she’d forgiven him.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1990 by Collin Wilcox

  Cover design by Michel Vrana

  978-1-4804-4723-3

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