Victims

by Collin Wilcox

  I’d arranged for us to arrive at the airport more than an hour before Kramer’s flight left. Earlier, he’d called his wife, who was in New York, raising money for a legal defense that would no longer be necessary. He’d also called Marie Kramer, and talked to her for more than an hour. He hadn’t tried to contact John, who was staying at his grandfather’s house.

  We got coffee and sweet rolls at the airport restaurant, and found a table close to the windows, with a good view of the airport. The day was clear and bright, and hardly a minute elapsed between airliners either landing or taking off.

  “I’ve always liked airports,” Kramer said, looking out the window. He gestured to the busy runways. “This is where it’s all happening, you know. It’s where everything comes together.” Since he’d been released, only hours before, he’d obviously recovered his self-confidence, his poise. With his hair carefully combed, clean-shaven, with his trousers pressed and his shoes shined, he looked like the same man I’d first interrogated Saturday morning: a smart, aggressive, executive-style winner. Gone—but probably not forgotten—was the man I’d interrogated only two days later: the haggard, harassed man with the haunted eyes and unsteady hands, dressed in the orange prison jump suit, sitting hunched behind the interrogation room’s chipped steel table.

  We sat in silence for a moment, each of us staring out across the airport. The time was almost eleven o’clock. Kramer’s flight left at noon. In a half hour, the boarding process would begin.

  I took a deep breath, and began the speech Friedman and I had so carefully planned. First I told Kramer that what I was about to say was unofficial, that I would deny ever having said it. Then I told him everything: all the facts, all the theories—all the reasons why Guest would probably never come to trial. Not unless, I finished, we could develop new evidence.

  “My God,” Kramer breathed, staring at me with an almost palpable intensity, his dark eyes boring into mine. “Do you really think that’s the way it happened?”

  I nodded. “I think that’s the way it happened. But, as I said already, that’s totally off the record. I’ll deny ever having said it.”

  “What’d Marie say? What’s she think?”

  “I think she agrees with me about her father. But that’s off the record, too.”

  “She didn’t tell me,” he mused. “When I talked to her this morning, she didn’t tell me anything about all this.”

  “I wouldn’t expect her to tell you. Not over the phone, anyhow.”

  “The bastard,” he said, letting his outraged gaze wander out across the airport. “The sick, conniving bastard.” He let a moment of silence pass, then once again turned his eyes on me. “He’s crazy, you know. Really crazy.”

  I shrugged. “In court, ‘crazy’ doesn’t count. Not his kind of crazy, anyhow.”

  He nodded. Now I could see calculation come into his eyes as the meaning of what I’d said began to register. “So what you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “is that you can’t touch him. Not legally.”

  “When you say ‘legally,’ you’re talking about the D.A. Not me. I just investigate. You know that.”

  “But you don’t think there’s much chance he’ll be indicted.”

  “Not unless I can get a confession, or develop new evidence, I don’t think there’s much of a chance. New evidence—solid new evidence—is all that’ll force the D.A. to act.”

  “So that’s what you hope to get from me. New evidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” he answered, “you’re out of luck, I’m afraid. I’ve already told you what I know. Everything I know.”

  “You’ve told me everything you know about the murder, about Friday night. But what d’you know about Guest—about the way he operates, about the corners he cuts?”

  “You’re looking for leverage. Is that it? A wedge.”

  I nodded.

  For a moment Kramer looked at me. Then he shook his head and smiled. It was a hard, humorless smile, without hope.

  “Alexander Guest doesn’t cut corners.”

  “Everyone cuts corners.”

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m on your side. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see that bastard in jail. He’s a—a monster. He ruined his wives’ lives, and he ruined Marie’s life. He tried to ruin my life, too. And, barring a miracle, he’s probably going to ruin John, too. So I’d do anything—anything—to see that Guest gets what’s coming to him. But I’m a realist. In my business, only the realists survive. And I’m telling you that I don’t think Guest will ever go to jail. Never.”

  “He killed a man. You know it, and I know it. And he knows it, too. It happened. It won’t go away.”

  The grim smile returned. “‘Murder will out.’ Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve made it happen.”

  Now the smile warmed. “You’re a stubborn bastard, aren’t you? You’re—” Suddenly he broke off. I saw his eyes widen, saw his jaw slacken with amazement as he stared at some point behind me, across the restaurant. I twisted in my chair, to follow his gaze.

  Marie Kramer and John stood just inside the doorway of the restaurant. The boy was dressed in a miniature blue blazer, gray flannel trousers and a preppy maroon cap. Both mother and child carried a variety of mismatched suitcases and nylon duffel bags—plus a boy’s baseball bat and fielder’s glove, and a pair of miniature skis.

  With one hand braced on the table, as if for support, Kramer rose slowly, incredulously to his feet. Marie Kramer spoke to the child, apparently telling him to stay near the door. She placed the baggage she was carrying on the floor beside the boy. Then, tentatively, she began walking toward us, her dark, tortured eyes darting from me to Kramer. Her face was twitching uncontrollably, an animated mask of naked misery. Gordon Kramer advanced a few hesitant paces to meet her. For a moment they stood motionless, face to face, both of them mute. Then Marie dropped her eyes and dug into her purse with awkward, blundering fingers. Finally she withdrew an airplane ticket.

  “Here—” She handed Kramer the ticket. “It’s for John. One way.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

  One

  HANEY WATCHED HER TAKE a key from her purse, watched her fumble, watched her finally slip the key in the lock. But the lock refused to turn. Mumbling, she twisted the key, struggled with the knob, twisted the key again. When they’d come up the stairs, their arms circling each other’s waists, she’d missed a step, giggling as she fell against him.

  She’d had—how many drinks had she had? Eight? Ten?

  Walking from the bar to his car, thigh to thigh, they’d blundered giddily down the sidewalk, as heedless as two drunken teen-agers, and just as horny.

  If she’d had eight drinks, or ten, then he’d had—he frowned, calculating. He’d had two drinks, at least, before they’d started drinking together. Two drinks, or maybe three. Say three. Meaning that, if she’d had eight, then he’d had eleven. And if she’d had ten, he’d had thirteen.

  They should’ve taken a cab. He should’ve left the car, insisted they take a cab to her place. But he’d told her about the car. And, predictably, it had excited her: a Ferrari. Also predictably, she’d never ridden in a Ferrari, never known anyone who’d owned a Ferrari.

  Did she know, could she comprehend, the magnitude of her own predictability? Did she realize how perfectly she fitted the stereotype of the San Francisco single? Every word, every gesture, every innuendo was a cliché: her body, her clothes, her mannerisms—everything fitted, with no surprises, nothing left to the imagination. She’d been amazed how much he’d been able to tell her about herself, amazed at the accuracy of his guesses: the kind of job she had, the kind of place she lived in, the kind of man she’d married—and then divorced. Estelle Blair, insurance rate clerk. Late twenties. Salary, probably twenty thousand. During the workweek, she toiled at her desk. At night she watched TV, perhaps went to a
movie, perhaps took a Spanish class. Then, Thursday night, she tidied up her apartment, laid in some chilled white wine for Friday evening—and some orange juice, perhaps, for Saturday morning. Friday morning she dressed with special care, making sure that her breasts and her buttocks were displayed to maximum advantage. Then, after work on Friday, she made her way to Vanessi’s. She …

  The lock clicked; the door swung open. Still giggling, now playing the part of the deliciously naughty schoolgirl, she dropped the key into her purse and stepped inside, striking her shoulder on the doorframe.

  Their night’s adventure was about to begin.

  In the tiny entryway, Haney closed the door, tested the latch, then turned to the darkened living room. Framed by the outside light of a floor-to-ceiling window, she stood beside a couch. As he moved toward her, he glanced quickly around the room. Was it a studio apartment, so called, with no bedroom? Did the couch, therefore, make into a bed? If it did, and if she chose not to break their rhythm by the effort required to convert the couch into a bed, then they had two choices: screw on the couch, with their legs hanging off, or else screw on the floor.

  Behind her now, he drew her close. She responded instantly, fitting her body fiercely to his as he caressed her breasts, her belly, her pubis. Reaching behind, her hands found his buttocks as his tongue explored the corded flesh of her neck below the ear. Breathing harshly, she suddenly twisted her body in his arms, facing him fully. She was on her toes; her body was writhing, incredibly alive, pressed savagely to his, demanding that the raw, wild rhythm of his body match hers.

  Then, tearing her mouth from his, she moaned: “Oh, Jesus. Come on. Jesus, come on.” She drew him to the couch, drew him down on top of her as her hands stroked his genitals, then fumbled at his belt buckle.

  Two

  KATHERINE HANEY LAY ON her back, staring at the ceiling. Beside her, also lying face up, Jeffrey Wade blew a lazy plume of smoke toward the ceiling. In the darkness, Katherine’s lips curved into a small, wry smile. They’d been lovers—extramarital lovers—for only two months. But, already, habit patterns were emerging: small, subtle predictabilities. After he made love, after he’d dutifully held her close for a few minutes, he inevitably rolled away from her and lit a cigarette. He’d asked her once whether she minded his smoking, afterwards. She’d answered that, yes, she sometimes minded. He hadn’t responded—and hadn’t asked the question again.

  She glanced at the clock and sighed. Soon, she would get out of bed, get dressed, go home. She looked at the chair where her clothes were neatly hung. Two months ago, she’d thrown her clothes on the floor, her clothes mingled with his, proof of their passion.

  “When’s James going east?” He spoke slowly, in a low, rich voice. Like his habits of movement, his speech mannerisms were deliberate. From the very first, she’d realized that Wade was playing a part, acting out a role. But the part he played was engaging: a moderately young, moderately successful “downtown” real estate salesman. In certain circles of with-it San Franciscans, it was a role he could manage with convincing assurance.

  “He’s leaving on Tuesday,” she answered. “He’s going to Dallas first, then on to New York.”

  “When’ll he be back?”

  “Friday, probably. Or maybe Monday.”

  “Why don’t we go to Mexico for two or three days? Acapulco.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Why not?” A note of petulance underlined the question.

  “No reason, particularly. I just don’t want to go.”

  “With me, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  In a moody silence, he blew another plume of smoke toward the ceiling. Finally he said, “I don’t really understand what it is you think you’re doing, Katherine. I mean, here we are, in bed. And your husband, you say, is probably in someone else’s bed. It’s a—an arrangement, you say. An understanding. But with us it’s never more than a succession of one-night stands, not really. We get together, we get it on for an hour or two, and then you get dressed and go home. That’s it. That’s all there ever is.”

  Aware that irritation was agitating the tensions that sex had just soothed, she chose to say nothing. After only two months, Jeffrey Wade was joining that lengthening procession of querulous men who couldn’t content themselves with the simple act of physical love she offered. Always, they wanted more.

  “Why don’t you call your lawyer?” The petulance in his voice was more insistent now, demanding an answer. “Get a divorce, for God’s sake. Give yourself a break.”

  “What you really mean is that you want me to give you a break. You. Not me. You.” As she spoke, she pushed herself up in bed. With love’s afterglow fading so fast, she was conscious of her bared breasts, conscious of his eyes on her. She was aware, too, that her voice was cold. How could it happen so fast? One moment they were languorous lovers. A moment later they were talking like strangers. All because he imagined that an orgasm gave him the right to manage her life.

  She heard him laugh: one short, sharp, bitter exhalation. “You’re a hard case, Katherine. You really are. Why don’t you lighten up? Smile a little. Just a little.”

  She answered in a low, even voice: “You said you wanted to go to Acapulco. I said I didn’t want to go. The reason I don’t want to go is Maxine. She’s eleven, and she’s in the sixth grade. When she comes home from school, I try to be there. I don’t always make it, but I try. Which is why I don’t see myself running off to Mexico. Which is also, incidentally, the reason I’m not going to divorce James. I’ve already been divorced. Twice. Maxine already has one father and one stepfather. That’s enough. At least for now, that’s enough.”

  “The loving mother.” Now he was mocking her. “I had no idea.”

  “Just a mother,” she answered, measuring the words with icy precision. “That’s enough. Just a mother.”

  Three

  SITTING ON THE COUCH with his back to her, Haney groped in the darkness for his undershorts. He felt her naked body moving against the bare flesh of his buttocks. With his head down, still groping, he couldn’t keep the room steady, couldn’t keep the floor from tilting, couldn’t keep the walls aligned. In his throat he felt the bitterness of bile. Would he be sick? Having already humiliated him once, would his body shame him a second time?

  Who was she, this woman named Estelle Blair, this floozy he’d found on a bar stool who had witnessed his disgrace, his impotency? A few hours ago, she’d been unknown to him. Yet now she was the single person, the only person on earth, with whom he shared this shameful secret.

  He’d told her the truth, told her that never before had it happened to him. No matter how much he drank, he could always get it up.

  Did she believe him?

  No.

  Even in the dim light cast by the single window, he’d seen the disbelief in her eyes, heard the derision in her voice.

  If she laughed at him, if she snickered, he’d hit her with his fist. He’d leave her bloody on her cheap, cold-to-the-skin Naugahyde couch.

  He found his undershorts, drew them up over his knees, over his buttocks. His trousers were next, a mound of shapeless cloth on the floor.

  “It’s the booze,” she was saying. “Let’s try it again, sometime. Any time.”

  With his trousers up to his mid-thighs he rose, steadied himself with one hand on the arm of the couch, drew up the pants. As he buckled his belt and checked to see that his wallet was safe, he heard her speak again:

  “What you did—you know—with your hand, that was fine. I feel fine. Really fine.” But, as she spoke, he could hear amusement in her voice. Amusement—derision—he could hear it all, searing his consciousness.

  “I’m glad you feel fine.” He turned away, toward the line of light on the floor that marked the hallway door. He had taken just one step when he heard it: a giggle, then a laugh. He whirled, raised his arm, swung his clenched fist, felt the fist strike flesh.

  Buy Night Games Now!

&n
bsp; All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  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 © 1984 by Collin Wilcox

  Cover design by Michal Vrana

  978-1-4804-4684-7

  This 2013 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.mysteriouspress.com

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE LT. HASTINGS MYSTERIES

  FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

  AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  Available wherever ebooks are sold

  Otto Penzler, owner of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan, founded the Mysterious Press in 1975. Penzler quickly became known for his outstanding selection of mystery, crime, and suspense books, both from his imprint and in his store. The imprint was devoted to printing the best books in these genres, using fine paper and top dust-jacket artists, as well as offering many limited, signed editions.