“So what I want from your son,” I said finally, “is a clear statement of everything he did last night, between the time he parked across from the Draper home until the time he returned here.” As I said it, I turned to Dan expectantly.
“Tell him, Dan.” Her voice was low, her eyes shadowed, uncertain. In that moment I realized that she was unable to control her son. I also realized that she was divorced. She was doing her best, but failing. Every policeman constantly encounters that same shadow of despairing doubt deep in the eyes of an unhappy woman.
Looking expressionlessly at his mother, the boy seemed to study her with disdainful disapproval. Then, turning to me, he said, “You’ve got it right—just like old Cindy said. We got there about eleven-thirty. I guess I probably left about twelve-thirty. Maybe a little later.” He smiled sardonically. “I wasn’t checking the time.”
For a moment I didn’t reply. Suddenly I wondered whether it could have been this boy who had bludgeoned Mrs. Draper to death.
Could he have flipped because Cindy Wallace wouldn’t put out for him? Had he then seen Mrs. Draper emerging from her garage, and focused his frustration on her? Teenagers, over the sexual edge, were incredibly unpredictable. Plainly, Dan Haywood was a defensive, spoiled, basically unhappy kid, loaded with enough hostility to trigger violence.
“While you were parked,” I asked, “did you see Mrs. Draper drive into her garage?”
He shook his head, then shifted abruptly in the chair, slipping farther down on his spine as he crossed one khaki leg over the other, ankle-to-thigh. He began twitching the dangling foot.
“Answer me, Dan,” I said quietly. “Don’t just shake your head.”
“All right,” he said. “Then no.” His voice was edged with a plaintive whine.
“You didn’t see her.”
“Right.” He bobbed his head loosely. “I didn’t see her.”
“Did you see anyone on the Draper premises? Any movement in the shrubbery, for instance?”
“No, nothing. I—” He frowned, then sat up straighter. “Hey—maybe I did, at that.”
I allowed a moment to pass, wondering why he’d changed his mind.
“You saw something, then.”
“Well—” He spread his hands. “I guess I did. I mean, people were walking by, you know, all the time. But now that I think about it, I did see this black guy kind of loitering around across the street.”
“In front of the Drapers’, you mean?”
“Around there. Yeah.”
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No. I remember that he was tall, though. Tall and skinny.”
I looked at him. “As tall as you are, for instance?”
Cautiously he met my glance, then frowned, looking away. “About as tall as I am, I guess.”
Then I asked, “Did you take Cindy Wallace to her door when you said goodnight, Dan?”
For a long moment he didn’t reply. Then, slowly, he said, “No. She—she went in by herself.”
I nodded, deciding not to press the point. I’d let him wonder for a while how much I knew about their quarrel.
“So then you came home,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Directly home?”
“Sure, directly home.” He looked at his mother, smirking faintly. “In bed by one.”
I pretended to think about it while I watched him shift in his chair, twitching his foot and gnawing at his lips. Plainly, now, something was bothering him. Did it concern Cindy Wallace or Susan Draper? Or both?
It was time to ease off—give him some slack.
Leaning forward in my chair, I decided to smile at the boy. “I guess that’ll be all for now, Dan. I’ll give my card to your mother. If you remember anything else, especially concerning the black man you saw, be sure and call me.”
He immediately got to his feet. He nodded to me once, jerkily, then left the room, ignoring his mother.
I sighed, searched in my pocket, and laid a business card on the small marble table. Then I raised my eyes to find the mother watching me, blinking rapidly.
“What’s it all about, Lieutenant?” Her voice was tight and low. “What’s it really all about?”
I decided to say, “I’m not keeping anything from you, Mrs. Haywood. It’s possible that your son could’ve seen Mrs. Draper’s murderer. If so, Dan’s an important witness.”
“The black man, you mean.”
“Hmm.”
She was sitting in what my wife used to call a “finishing-school posture”—feet flat on the floor, knees pressed primly together, hands gracefully clasped and resting on the knees. Mrs. Haywood, obviously, had class. Just as obviously, she had something on her mind.
Did she suspect that her son could have murdered the Draper woman?
Had she found his bloodstained clothing?
Had she found the weapon, concealed?
I saw her glance surreptitiously at her watch. It was 5:45, probably she had to prepare dinner. But my business there was unfinished.
“Do you have just the one child, Mrs. Haywood?”
She abruptly shook her head, as if the question required a quick denial. “No. I have a younger son. Age ten.”
“Two children.”
“Yes.”
I paused, thought about it, then asked, “Were you and your husband home last night? Between, say, eleven and one?”
She lifted her chin, saying in a low voice, “I’m divorced, Lieutenant Hastings.”
I nodded, smiling at her. “Same question, then. Different subject.”
She answered my smile, said almost wistfully, “Yes. I was home all night.”
“Were you still up when your son came home?”
“No. I went to bed about eleven-thirty.”
Again I paused, then said, “Does your son often stay out after midnight, Mrs. Haywood?”
Still sitting in her finishing-school position, she was looking down at her gracefully clasped hands; after a moment she said, “The answer to that, I’m afraid, is yes.”
“Did you know that Dan and Cindy Wallace were going out together last night?”
“Yes.”
“What did they do during the early part of the evening?”
“They went to a movie.”
“Do you know which movie?”
“I—I’m afraid not.”
“Where does Dan go to school?”
“Galileo.”
“Does he do well in his schoolwork?”
Very slowly, with obvious effort, she raised her head, meeting my eyes. Her chin was set firmly, but her wide gray eyes were painfully vulnerable. She drew a long, deep breath, raising her breasts taut beneath the leather jacket. She seemed to be in exhausted repose—a penitent drained by confession.
In that moment I felt myself stirred by her.
We were looking at each other, suspended together in a moment of questioning silence. Then, glancing away, she shook her head regretfully. “No, Lieutenant. Dan doesn’t do well in his schoolwork. Which is doubly embarrassing, since I’m a teacher.” She tried an unsuccessful smile.
I hesitated, then asked quietly, “Has Dan ever been in any trouble with the police, Mrs. Haywood?”
Once more looking down at her hands, she said, “Yes, he’s been in trouble. About a year ago.”
“What was the charge?”
“He and another boy got into a ‘hassle,’ as they call it, with a man on a streetcar. The man, apparently, was drunk, and the whole incident was terribly—unclear. But the two boys—Dan and his friend—spent the night in Juvenile Hall.”
“What was the disposition of the case?”
“The usual: probation, discharged to parental custody. Actually—” She paused. “Actually, my ex-husband appeared in court. He’s a psychoanalyst—a rather well-known psychoanalyst. He was very effective in court.”
In recognition of her double defeat, I said, “Divorce is a messy business. I know.”
She smiled w
ryly. “You’re a member of the club, then.”
“I’m afraid so. For nine years I’ve been a member.”
Again she drew a deep breath. “That seems like a long time. It’s been two years for me. And the second year seemed much, much longer than the first. At that rate of progression, I’ll never make nine.”
“It gets better with time. Or it aches less. Like everything else.” I looked at her, hoping she’d meet my glance. When she didn’t, I took my hat from the table. “Well, it’s near your dinnertime.” I rose. “I won’t bother you any more right now. Your son isn’t planning to leave town, is he?”
She’d risen with me; we were facing each other, a few feet apart. “He’ll be here through Christmas. Then he and his brother are going skiing, with their father.”
“Is their father remarried?”
She looked at me steadily. “Yes. He’s been married for a year.”
I nodded. “I know that feeling, too.” I turned and walked out into the hallway, conscious that she was following close behind. At the door, I turned. “Does your son have his own car, Mrs. Haywood?”
“No. He uses mine.”
“He was driving yours last night, then.”
“Yes. He—”
A hallway door slammed; a small boy appeared, striding rapidly toward us. He was a slender, quick-moving boy with large, solemn eyes. He stood close to his mother, studying me intently. Then, abruptly, he asked, “Are you going to arrest my big brother?”
“No, I’m not.”
He stepped away from his mother, standing spread-legged before me. He looked me up and down, ending his scrutiny at my hip. I knew he wanted to see my gun. He tilted his head up to look me squarely in the eye. “Good,” he said. And, turning, he strode determinedly away. He looked like a miniature general inspecting the troops.
I watched him for a moment, then turned to the woman. “You’re at least batting five hundred,” I said. “Maybe more, eventually.” Then, opening the door, I stepped out on the small stoop. A light December rain was beginning to fall. She switched on the porch light, then stood in the open doorway. With her arms folded, looking up at me, she seemed small and lonely.
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Haywood. I’ll be in touch with you. And don’t worry.” I saw her smile and nod. Then, moving my head toward the corner, I said, “We’re neighbors. I didn’t mention it, but I just live a block and a half from here.”
Her small, wistful smile widened. “Good.” She stepped back. “I’m glad.” She hesitated, then added, “You won’t get wet if you live that close.”
Feeling strangely foolish, I tipped my hat, then turned away. As I walked to the car, I realized that the prospect of a quiet evening, early-to-bed, seemed suddenly less inviting.
5
THE NEXT MORNING, BLEARILY waiting for the toast to pop, I grimaced to myself, recalling that I hadn’t discovered Mrs. Haywood’s given name. It was both a professional and a personal lapse. I couldn’t properly enter “Mrs. Haywood” in a workmanlike interrogation report. And I couldn’t properly conceive an erotic fantasy featuring a woman with no first name.
I was buttering the toast when the phone rang. Sighing, I lifted the receiver, automatically registering the time at 9:40.
“Lieutenant Hastings?”
“Yes.”
“This is Canelli, Lieutenant.”
“Hello, Canelli.” Propping the phone on one shoulder, I reached for the blueberry jam. Canelli was constitutionally long-winded. “What’s up?”
“Well, I was just writing up a report on that Moresco thing when we got a call on a double homicide, it sounds like. And the more I thought about it, considering that Lieutenant Friedman is out in the field and Captain Kreiger has an appointment for a physical, or something, the more I thought I should call you.”
“Is Lieutenant Friedman still working on the Moresco case?”
“Yessir.”
“How’s it look?”
“Her pimp did it, nickels to dollar bills. It was the old story: she was turning tricks on the side. That’s where Lieutenant Friedman is right now—him and Haskell are down at the pimp’s lawyer’s, or somewhere. He’s one of those pimps with lots of money—Cadillacs, and silk suits, and everything. There’s a D.A. guy there with them, so you know they’re pretty close.” He paused, then said, “Lieutenant Friedman told me to come down to the office, see, and do the paper work on Moresco. That’s because I can touch-type.”
“Hmm.” As he’d been talking, I was biting into the toast. Now, chewing furtively, I asked, “What about this double homicide?”
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. I mean, the call just came in from a radio car about two minutes ago. And the way it looks, this could be one of those with a lot of heat. It’s in a fancy apartment in Pacific Heights, and everything, with maybe a lot of rich people involved. Plus it sounds kind of messy. So I thought you should know.”
“Are any details available?”
“Two victims, a male and a female. Both dead from gunshot wounds. The cleaning lady discovered them about fifteen minutes ago, and fainted, then went into shock. That’s all I know.”
“How many prowl cars are on the scene?”
“Two. The lab guys are on the way. And I just notified the coroner.”
“Who’s in the office besides you?”
“Rawlings and Culligan. Markham and Sigler are coming down in about half an hour, but they’re already working on something—that Draper case, I guess. Everyone else is out, except that a couple more are coming down before noon.”
“All right, you and Culligan go on out to the Pacific Heights thing. What’s the address?” Laying the toast aside, I reached for a pad of paper.
“It’s twenty-seven thirty-one Jackson. Right near Scott.”
“All right. You get things started, and I’ll be along in twenty minutes. If you think you need more uniformed men, put in the call. When’s the captain due on duty?”
“About eleven o’clock, according to Communications.”
“I’ll see you in twenty minutes or so. If you see Markham on your way out, tell him I’ll be checking with him later on. Find out where he thinks he’ll be after lunch.”
“Yessir.”
I pulled to a stop, checked out with Communications, then switched off the radio. For a moment I sat quietly behind the wheel, feeling comfortably anonymous—truant. During the last few blocks I’d been thinking of the Haywood woman, idly imagining situations in which I could make the transition with her from a policeman to simply a man. If I’d met her at a party, I could call her today, inviting her out for dinner. But as a policeman—a potential threat to her son—I could be her natural enemy. If she were attracted to me, it would seem to her an unnatural attraction—a perversion, almost.
In nine years I’d become accustomed to almost all the lonely little rites and rituals of a policeman’s existence—the big and the little differences between myself and everyone else. I’d recognized, first, that the simple fact of a gun made the most significant difference: that cold, constant weight at the hip, on duty and off—forbidding the bearer certain small, insignificant freedoms: the right to wear sport shirts, or to romp spontaneously with children in the park, or to raise his arms too high when riding buses.
Next I’d learned the subtler facts of a policeman’s life: the isolated, anonymous, inbred camaraderie compounded of the secret knowledge that brutality among cops is more common than kindness, and cowardliness more common than bravery. Finally—very, very slowly—I came to realize that the essential difference between a policeman and a civilian is the stark, simple fact that a cop, day after day and hour after hour, deals with the human animal at its worst. A policeman’s stock in trade is human misery: robbery, rape, assault, murder. If someone isn’t frightened or angry or bleeding or dead, there’s no need for the police. A cop needs victims like a storekeeper needs customers: no victims, no job. And the job literally stinks, because the victims usually stink. If they�
��re drunk or frightened, they vomit. If they’re injured or dead, they void themselves.
So, slowly, a cop comes to realize that goodness and happiness and hope are merely happy human accidents that have nothing to do with him.
I drew a deep breath, and glanced up at the dark, overcast sky. Soon it would begin raining, and would continue, probably, all day.
I got out of the car and stood for a moment surveying the familiar scene: the cluster of curious onlookers, the official cars parked at odd, arrogant angles, the metallic voice of the police dispatcher droning monotonously through the muted sounds of the staid, affluent neighborhood.
The building at 2731 Jackson was typical of privileged San Francisco: two large, well-kept flats, probably forty years old, each with its separate entrance. In fact, it was similar to that in which the Haywoods lived. The rent, though, would be higher—easily twice as high, if the tenants had a view of the bay.
Sergeant Dave Pass, from Northern Station, stood at the door of the lower flat. Seeing me, he nodded, smiling and half-waving. Years ago, when I’d been a patrolman, we’d ridden together for a month or so. I’d been new on the job—an average rookie with too many memories. Pass had often covered for me, without comment or complaint.
As I strode up the short flagstone walkway, I glanced at the meticulously maintained shrubbery and the impeccably painted façade of the building. It was a completely restored Victorian, older than I’d thought and probably more expensive.
“Hello, Dave. How’ve you been?” I asked, shaking hands.
“Pretty good. I haven’t seen you since you made Lieutenant. How’s it seem?”
“The pay’s better and the job isn’t any harder, once you get used to letting someone else do the legwork.” I moved my head toward the door. “What’s it look like?”
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 3
