“Not yet, Mr. Draper.”
“Do you think you will?”
“I can’t really answer that, except to say that it may depend on how much you can help us.”
He raised his head slowly, meeting my eyes. The process seemed to require great effort.
“How can I help?” As he said it, his handsome face seemed to be shrinking on itself. The eyes were suddenly more prominent; the actor’s mouth distended. For a moment I thought of Dorian Grey: instant, incredible aging.
“Inspector Markham showed you her purse, didn’t he?” I asked quietly.
He nodded.
“Was anything missing—anything but the wallet?”
“Not—” He cleared his throat. “Not that I could see. Is—is that important?”
“It could be important. A lot of these crimes, you see, are committed by narcotics addicts—people desperate for money. They steal whatever they can find, and turn it into money, usually by pawning whatever they steal. So if your wife had a valuable ring, for instance, that had been stolen, it might’ve been a lead for us, because it could turn up in a pawnshop.”
“Yes. I—I see.”
“But you can’t recall anything that was missing,” I pressed.
“No. Nothing.”
“Have you given Inspector Markham a complete list of her credit cards and charge-a-plate accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I allowed a moment to pass, then said, “Her wrist-watch, I noticed, was still on her wrist.”
Not replying, he abruptly stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, then sat staring sightlessly down at the floor. His hands, resting on his knees, were clenched knuckle-white.
“The way she was lying,” I said slowly, “the wristwatch was in plain view. I especially noticed it last night, because the angle of light from the street lamp in front of your house made the watch very obvious.”
His only reaction was to catch his breath sharply, then slowly exhale in a long, ragged sigh.
“Did your wife have any enemies, Mr. Draper?”
He slowly, doggedly shook his head. His hands were still tightly clenched.
“Answer me, please,” I said quietly. “I know it’s a tough time for you. But we need answers. And time may be important.”
Still shaking his head, he said indistinctly, “No. No enemies.”
“Your wife worked at the Welfare Department, I understand.”
“Y—yes.”
“Was she a social worker?”
He nodded.
“And where do you work, Mr. Draper?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“Are you employed by anyone?”
“No. I—I’m self-employed.”
“Do you work out of your home?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of photography do you do?”
He unclenched one fist, vaguely waving a soft, pale hand. “Anything I can get. Portraits, advertising shots. Anything.”
“Are you reasonably successful, would you say?”
As if puzzled, he frowned petulantly. “Wh—what’s that got to do with it—whether I’m successful or not?”
“It’s what we call background information, Mr. Draper. We try to find out everything about a victim—everything about his life, his family situation, his work. Sometimes, when we add it all up, we get a picture that means something.”
“But—” His puckered, perplexed face now seemed to reflect an almost childlike disappointment. “But you should be out trying to—to find the man. The one who killed her.”
Ignoring the remark, I sat looking at him steadily, until he finally dropped his eyes. Then, deliberately, I asked, “Were you and your wife on good terms, Mr. Draper?”
Slowly, wonderingly, he raised his eyes, frowning and blinking, as if he couldn’t comprehend. Then the muscles of his face began to bunch together in a twitching imitation of righteous, outraged anger.
“Of course we were on good terms.” He hesitated, then: “We—we were married. For ten years.”
I suppressed a smile. As a motive for murder, marriage topped the list. I said, “You were on good terms with your wife, then. You never fought.”
“Well—” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But we—”
“What about yesterday, Mr. Draper? Was it a usual day? A normal Sunday?”
For a moment he simply looked at me as if he hadn’t heard. Then, allowing his head to sink, he mumbled, “Perfectly normal.”
“Did you stay home all day? The family, I mean.”
“Yes. It—it was raining. Besides, we were wrapping Christmas presents. Susan—my wife—wanted to get some presents off today. To her folks, in St. Louis.”
“So nothing unusual happened yesterday? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody left the house until about eight-thirty, when your wife went to the movies.”
He nodded.
“I was wondering,” I said slowly, “why your wife went to the movies alone.”
“To save on baby-sitting,” he said dully. “We took turns.”
I nodded, studying him silently—until he again dropped his eyes, fumbling for another cigarette. Then I reached for my hat, perched on a corner of the coffee table.
“Well,” I said, “I’ll be on my way. If we discover anything, we’ll be sure and let you know. I suppose you’re going to be here in the house.”
“Yes, I—I guess so. I—I really can’t—” He didn’t finish it, shakily lighting the cigarette.
I fingered the crease in my hat, watching him as he sucked ravenously at the cigarette, drawing a glowing quarter-inch, deeply exhaling. Then, taking the cigarette from his mouth, he studied the burning end intently, oblivious to me. I saw him begin to swallow rapidly, at the same time blinking and frowning, his face and forehead glistening with sweat.
“If I hadn’t bolted that door when she left,” he said indistinctly, still staring at the cigarette, “she’d be alive right now. It was my fault—all my fault.”
I looked at him a moment, then rose to my feet. “Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Draper. Everyone in the world. I’ll be going now. We’ll be in touch with you whenever we find out anything.”
He nodded loosely, then shook his head, and slowly, mechanically, raised the cigarette up to his mouth, as if the process required all his concentration and most of his strength.
I let myself out, closing the door softly behind me. As I was descending the front steps, I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask about the little girl, whose name I still didn’t know.
3
MARKHAM WAS SITTING IN the back seat of my car, listening to the radio. I slid into the front seat, twisting to face him.
“Anything?” I asked, nodding to the radio as I turned down the volume.
“No.”
I glanced at my watch: 4:25 P.M. Twenty minutes, and I’d have to find a phone, report to Kreiger. I put my hat on the seat beside me, then slowly massaged my closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. Markham, I knew, hadn’t had any more sleep than I’d had. But at twenty-eight he looked alert and clear-eyed, on top of the job. Which was another reason, I thought wryly, for not liking Markham. That, and his cold, vicious temper. He’d been on report twice during the past three years for using unnecessary force subduing suspects in custody. Both the suspects had been black. One had gone to the hospital with a ruptured spleen. The other eventually died.
I’d only once seen Markham hit a man, but I’d never forgotten it. He’d coolly watched for an opening, then stepped in close, dropped one shoulder, and hit the suspect just below the heart. The blow traveled only a few inches, but the suspect had dropped in his tracks. I’d been standing so that I could see Markham’s eyes: killer’s eyes, expressionless, except for an almost imperceptible glint of pleasure.
Still, Markham was an intelligent, hard-working, conscientious cop. He could think on his feet, and he wasn’t afraid. He was cautious,
but willing to gamble in the crunch. His sadistic temper had never distorted his judgment. And he was ambitious; he’d already passed his sergeant’s exam, and was rising on the list. When Kreiger made Chief of Detectives, and Friedman made Captain, Markham would probably be my co-lieutenant. I didn’t like the idea, but I couldn’t think of a more qualified man.
“How’s it look?” I asked, gesturing toward the Draper house.
Markham took a moment to adjust his tie, then said, “According to the background information, the Drapers didn’t get along. He’s too lazy to make much of a living, and she didn’t let him forget it. About half the time he’s minding the kid while she works—worked. One neighbor, apparently the local gossip, said that Mrs. Draper’s father sends them checks all the time—even made a big down payment on their house. All of which bugs Draper, especially when he’s drinking, which seems to be a lot of the time. Anyhow, the basement is filled with empty bottles. According to my informant, Mrs. Draper refused to throw out their empty liquor bottles because she didn’t want to make a bad impression on the garbage man.”
“What did Draper tell you about his movements yesterday?”
Markham eyed me for a moment, thoughtfully scrubbing his heavy five-o’clock stubble. “I thought you were just talking to him.”
“I was.” I said it quietly.
“Well,” he answered reluctantly, “Draper says it was just an ordinary day. But their next-door neighbor—the gossip—says that she heard them arguing from about seven o’clock until Mrs. Draper went to the movies. No one else seems to’ve heard it, though.”
“Did you talk to the little girl?”
His glance slid aside. “No. Not yet,” he answered shortly. “I was going to do that next.”
“Does it look like a regular mugging to you?”
He eyed me cautiously, alert for a trap. “It looks more like a mugging than a husband-and-wife thing. Draper might not be any prize, but he’s no Yo-Yo, either. He’s smart. And murdering your wife in the front entryway with an iron pipe isn’t very smart. Not compared to pushing her down a flight of inside stairs, for instance, then finishing her off.”
“Where was he when the uniformed men arrived?”
“In his daughter’s room, checking on her.”
“How long did it take the uniformed men to answer the call?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered reluctantly. Then, defensively: “We haven’t checked everything out yet. I haven’t even been able to make a decent search for the weapon. There’s just Sigler and me, you know.”
I nodded, deciding not to make the elapsed time of the radio car’s response an issue. Markham would find out before I saw him tomorrow. If I didn’t press him, he’d volunteer the information, offhandedly. Markham resented direct orders.
I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes, and I’d have to leave, still without anything new for Kreiger. Irrelevantly, I was remembering the moment when I’d waited for my cue during the high school senior play. It was a moment that could still come back in uneasy dreams.
“How about witnesses?” I asked.
He moved his head toward the pink-and-white house directly across from the Draper place. “The only thing I’ve been able to turn up is over there: a sixteen-year-old girl named Cindy Wallace. Last night she and her boyfriend were parked about where we’re parked now, from approximately eleven-thirty till one. I couldn’t get her away from her mother, but I get the impression that Cindy and her boyfriend were necking. I also figured out, from the way the car was parked, that the boyfriend would’ve been facing the Draper house, assuming they really were necking. Which, as a matter of fact, they might not’ve been really doing. At least, not all the time.”
“How do you mean?”
“I got the impression that they might’ve had an argument. Anyhow, she let it slip that she went into the house by herself. Then she let it slip that her boyfriend stayed parked in front of the house for ten or fifteen minutes after she went inside. I figured he might’ve been sitting in the car steaming at her.”
“Who’s her boyfriend?”
He’d anticipated the question, sliding his notebook smoothly from his pocket. Everything Markham did seemed smooth, effortless, self-contained. “Here it is,” he said. “Dan Haywood. He lives at seventeen sixty-one Greenwich.”
“That’s just a couple of blocks from my place,” I said, surprised. “Just around the corner, I think.”
Not commenting, he slid the notebook back into his pocket.
“Do you think he might have something for us?” I glanced at my watch.
Markham shrugged. “Maybe. I thought I’d go over there later.”
“I’ve got to phone the captain,” I said. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll talk to this Dan Haywood on my way home. If I get anything important, I’ll get back to you through Communications. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning. In the meantime,” I said, “maybe you should question Draper again. I can’t tell whether he’s in shock or worried stiff. But the book says the husband is suspect number one. And the book is usually right. So if you think you want to get a search warrant, go ahead.”
He nodded in grudging agreement, leaving the car without looking back. As I watched him move smoothly, self-confidently across the street, I was thinking that he moved like a stereotyped Western badman, stalking his prey down a dusty, deserted street.
I was also thinking that because I’d suggested it, he would delay getting the search warrant, hopeful of breaking the case on his own terms.
4
I’D BEEN RIGHT ABOUT 1761 Greenwich; the address was one of a pair of sizable flats, a block and a half from my apartment.
As I pressed the buzzer, I glanced around the neat, well-maintained premises, then noted the expensive wooden shutters in the Haywoods’ lower flat. Rent, I calculated, between two-fifty and three hundred. Husband and wife probably college-educated, kids probably overprivileged. Not much to worry about; not much contact with the police, if you didn’t count traffic tickets.
On the second ring, I heard footsteps approaching. As the door opened, I checked the time: 5:15 P.M. Kreiger was fifteen minutes into his news conference, faking it.
A tall, good-looking teenager stood in the doorway—a blond boy with a five-dollar razor cut, wearing an expensive wool sweater, wrinkled khaki slacks and stained, run-over tennis shoes. He held himself with the casual, offhand arrogance of the surfer—a young, golden beach god, accustomed to admiring stares.
I identified myself, verifying that the boy’s name was Dan Haywood.
“Are your parents in?” I asked.
“No,” he answered shortly. He was standing squarely in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. His eyes were calm and steady, unrevealing.
“When do you expect your parents?”
He shrugged. “My mother’s downtown shopping. My father—won’t be in.”
I nodded, shifting my weight as I took a long, silent moment to look him up and down, deliberately.
“What’s it all about, anyhow?” he asked.
Pausing another deliberate moment, I decided on a casual tone as I said, “I’m checking out a statement that we received from Miss Cindy Wallace, concerning her movements last night. She said she was with you from approximately eleven-thirty until one. Is that right?”
“Did you say you’re a lieutenant?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded, pressing his lips together in an expression of cool, show-me speculation. “That’s pretty high up, just to be checking on what old Cindy was doing last night. I mean, you can’t be after her for anything very heavy.”
I drew a deep, weary breath, recognizing the beginning of an old, familiar routine: the games that tough, street-wise teenagers play, impressing each other.
“How old are you, Dan?” I asked quietly. “Sixteen?”
He nodded. His eyes, almost level with mine, were watchful. His wide, well-shaped mouth mocked me faintly.
“Last nigh
t was Sunday,” I said. “Why were you out so late on a Sunday?”
He smiled, enjoying our little game. “This is the first day of Christmas vacation, Lieutenant.”
I looked at him, not saying a word, until he began to shift uncomfortably, finally dropping his eyes. Then I asked casually, “What’ve you been doing all day, Dan?”
He shrugged loosely, allowing his head to sag to one side. The mannerism, I saw, was a habit. “A bunch of us took off down the Skyline, hitting the beaches.”
“Isn’t it a little cold to be hitting the beaches?”
He smiled smugly. “We keep warm.”
“What time did you leave this morning?”
“Just before noon. We got back a couple of minutes before you came. They just dropped me off.”
“You didn’t talk to Cindy today, then.”
“No.”
“Did you hear any news reports today—see any papers?”
His eyes widened. I recognized that expression, too: the uncertain child peeking from behind a mask of worldly teenage cynicism.
“Hey—” His voice slipped higher. “Are you telling me that”—he swallowed, involuntarily stepping back—“that something’s happened to Cindy?”
“No, Dan. I’m just saying that—” I saw his eyes dart over my shoulder. Turning, I saw a small, good-looking woman standing on the sidewalk a few paces behind me. She was tentatively, inquiringly smiling. She wore boots, a heavy wool skirt and a short leather jacket. Her hair was a thick, tawny blond, tied with a bright paisley scarf. Her eyes were gray, her manner calm and appraising. She was carrying three sizable packages, Christmas-wrapped.
“This is my mother,” the boy said defensively.
I touched my hat, identifying myself—watching her quick eyes dart apprehensively to her son, then back to me. With open reluctance she preceded me into the comfortably furnished living room. We sat facing each other across a small marble coffee table. The boy lounged slouching in the doorway, pantomiming street-corner insolence.
“Why don’t you sit down, Dan?” I gestured to a nearby chair.
Shrugging, he sat down, sighing deeply.
Turning to Mrs. Haywood, I told her sketchily about the Draper murder, and about Cindy Wallace’s statement concerning her son. As I talked, I watched her expression change from frowning, finger-twisting foreboding to quick, eye-widened alarm at the mention of murder. Finally, as I concluded, she seemed plainly relieved, relaxing back into her chair, unclasping her fingers. Yet, somehow, the gestures calculated to signify relief seemed subtly forced. Her eyes seemed too bright, her posture too ostentatiously at ease.
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 2
