Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “What’s so important about it?” For the first time her glance sought Canelli. I saw her look him swiftly up and down with the lazy, expert eyes of a hooker. Then, returning her bold gaze to me, she said, “What’re you trying to pull, anyhow?” But her tone seemed almost plaintive now. Watching her slipping into an aggrieved role of outraged innocence, I was suddenly almost sure that she’d once been arrested. Somewhere, sometime, an anonymous cop had made my next half-hour a little easier. Someone had gotten to her—maybe with a fist in an alleyway, maybe with long, sweating hours in an interrogation room. Or maybe she’d been taken, forced to pay off, in cash and in bed. It happens. Often. Everyone thumps on a hooker.

  “I’m not trying to ‘pull’ anything, Miss Swanson. You say you didn’t phone Valenti last night. I accept that, for the time being, anyhow. Now I want to know how many times in the past six months you visited him at Miss Manley’s apartment.”

  Her eyes fell. Still gnawing at her lips, frowning pettishly, she muttered, “Twice.” Her voice was very low. Defeated, finally.

  “Why didn’t you want to tell us?” Canelli asked.

  Staring down at the plastic arm, she muttered, “You should be able to figure that out, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You didn’t want Dave Rawlings to know,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “All right, fine,” I said. “That’s what we want: answers. The truth. Clear?”

  She didn’t respond—again shifting in the chair, again recrossing her legs. I allowed myself a brief glance at the tight magenta creases gathered at her crotch. Then: “What was the purpose of these two visits, Miss Swanson?”

  “W—what’d you mean?”

  “Just what I say: why’d you visit Valenti? You must’ve had a reason.”

  “Sure I did. I wanted to see him. Talk over old times. We used to go around together a few years ago.” As she said it she looked at me with transparent speculation, gauging the effect of her seemingly spontaneous spasm of honesty.

  “Did you ask him for money?”

  Her startled sidelong glance was all the answer I needed.

  “How much money, Miss Swanson? How much did you—” A key rattled in the lock. Canelli and I exchanged a glance. Nodding to him and moving my head toward the hallway, I said to Jane Swanson, “I’m going to ask you to go into a separate room with Inspector Canelli. I want you to—”

  A dark, solemn-eyed boy was standing in the living-room doorway, silently eying us with the shrewd, calculating hostility of a slum urchin. Behind him stood a thick-set, dark man of about thirty-five. The man’s sullen watchfulness mirrored the boy’s. I rose, made the introductions, showed the shield and quietly suggested that Canelli take the boy and the mother with him. Immediately.

  The boy went to stand impassively at his mother’s side, staring up at Canelli. The woman reached out absently to touch the boy’s forearm with her red-tipped fingers. Her eyes were swinging uncertainly between Dave Rawlings and myself.

  Rawlings moved a bandy-legged, belligerent step into the room, standing glowering before me. He was a short, swarthy man with the self-conscious, narcissistic good looks of a Hollywood bit player. Watching him, waiting for him to speak, I thought fleetingly about the Los Angeles-Las Vegas glitter in Valenti’s past—the neon-tinted, love-for-hire illusions that produced the three of them: Valenti, Jane Swanson and Dave Rawlings.

  “What’s going on here, anyhow?” Rawlings was asking.

  “Karen Manley and Roberto Valenti were murdered last night,” I said. “We’re checking into it.” I turned to Canelli, gesturing again toward the hallway. I wanted to separate the two subjects before one of them remembered his rights.

  “Are you telling me,” Rawlings said, “that you think Jane did it, or something?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Rawlings. But I am telling you that she may have information that could help us solve a double homicide. I’m also telling you that you’re breaking the law if you make it difficult for us to get that information.”

  “You gotta have a warrant, though. You can’t just—”

  “We’re not searching the premises, Rawlings. And Miss Swanson invited us inside.” I turned my back on him. The woman was on her feet, irresolutely eying the hallway. The boy stood beside her like a small, baleful lover.

  Finally, tugging the boy impatiently along, she led the way to the first bedroom on the left. Canelli followed, closing the door behind them.

  “Sit down, Mr. Rawlings.”

  “I’ll stand. At least, until I know what’s happening around here.” He spread his legs, folding his arms belligerently, unconsciously bunching his shoulders—posing. I could imagine him at the beach, rippling his muscles, fondly oiling himself, frowning down at a small role of midriff fat.

  I turned to face him fully. Suddenly I didn’t like him. Just as suddenly, I wished that I could permit myself the pleasure of telling him so. Instead, in an even voice, I said, “Do you mind telling me whether you were here last night?”

  “Why’re you asking?” His dark, insolent eyes met mine squarely. He was going to play the tough guy.

  “I’ve already told you, Rawlings: we’re here checking background information that could help us with our investigation. Miss Swanson knew Roberto Valenti. She’s already given us some of the information we’re after. I want you to verify that information.” I spread my hands, trying to look pleasant. “It’s as simple as that. No one’s trying to hassle you. We’re looking for leads. Maybe you can help.”

  He looked at me for a long, silent moment. Then, with a single sudden, irritable movement, he drew off his windbreaker and sat down hard in the brown plastic chair, angrily tossing the wind-breaker on the couch. Sure enough, his arms and shoulders bulged with gymnasium muscles.

  Not changing my expression, I sat on the couch beside the windbreaker. “Were you here last night?” I asked again.

  “Until about eleven,” he answered grudgingly, looking past me with blank eyes.

  “You went out at eleven?”

  He nodded, insolently exaggerating the movement, allowing his eyes to close briefly.

  “Where did you go?”

  He looked at me, snorted, and then said resentfully, “I just went out. It was my night off, and it got too—heavy around here. I drove for a half-hour, maybe. Then I had a couple of drinks. Then I came on back. Period.”

  “Did you and Jane argue? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Again he bobbed his head sullenly.

  “You’re a bartender, is that right?”

  “Right. I work at the Interlude. In North Beach. Last night was my night off.”

  I paused, studying him. If he was telling the truth about last night, he couldn’t help me either confirm or deny Jane’s story. She would have called Valenti after Rawlings left.

  “Is the Interlude a pretty good place to work?”

  He studied me, making up his mind about the new, conversational tone in my voice. Finally, grudgingly, he said, “It’s all right. For San Francisco.”

  “Don’t you like San Francisco?”

  “No.”

  “Los Angeles, then.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, Los Angeles. Las Vegas, too. Any place but San Francisco.”

  I raised my shoulders with an indifferent, everyone-to-his-own-taste gesture that I didn’t feel. Then, casually, I asked, “What was Jane doing when you left last night?”

  He smiled bitterly. “She was getting ready for bed, which she probably told you.”

  “That doesn’t sound like much of an argument.”

  “Except that she was getting ready to go to bed with the kid. Which happens, as a matter of fact, to be what the argument was about in the first place.” He mouthed a long, sibilant “s-h-h-h,” letting the “it” go lewdly unsaid. His eyes snapped with suppressed fury as he turned away from me to glare at the far wall. “Women.” He spat viciously.

  “Is Jane divorced?” As I said it, I kept my voice neutral, merely
curious, hoping his anger would start him talking.

  He snorted. “She was never married.”

  I decided not to press the point, asking instead, “How long have the two of you been together?”

  “Too long.”

  “Answer the question, Rawlings.” I put an edge on my voice.

  “Almost a year.”

  “And before that she was with Valenti.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “She was with Valenti. We already know about it.”

  Again no response. But his eyes were smoldering, his fists clenched. His forearms were corded.

  “How many times,” I asked softly, “had Jane and Valenti seen each other in the past six months?”

  His eyes flashed to my face. “How many times do you say?”

  “I’m asking the questions, Rawlings.”

  “None, that’s how many times,” came the quick, angry response. “Zero.”

  I sank back, relaxed, against the couch, folding my arms and looking at him with a deliberate expression of amused, ironic sympathy.

  “Zero,” he repeated. “And if you say different, you’re a—” He twisted in the chair, turning away, elaborately ignoring me.

  I decided to turn up the heat. “It’s not what I say, Rawlings. It’s what she says—what she freely admits.”

  “You’re a f—you’re a liar. You’re trying to—to—” He clamped his jaw down hard on the rest of it.

  I got to my feet, went to the bedroom door and softly knocked. “Would you come out here a minute, Miss Swanson? The boy can stay there, with Inspector Canelli.”

  She came out almost immediately. Her back was straight, her eyes alert, defiant. She gave me a brief, vicious look, then walked ahead of me into the living room, casting at Rawlings the same look she’d thrown at me.

  “Well, what’s wrong with you?” she asked Rawlings. “What’re you looking at, anyhow?”

  “I’d hate to say. You wouldn’t like the sound of it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s supposed to mean that he says—” Rawlings moved his head toward me, still with his gaze locked in hers. “He says you’ve been seeing Valenti.”

  She looked once at me, her eyes round with wordless fury. Then she raised her shoulders in a slow, taunting gesture of utter indifference. “If you’d’ve asked me, I’d’ve told you. But you never asked. You—”

  He was on his feet. In two swift strides he’d reached her. They stood face to face, fists clenched, oblivious of me. Rawlings’ voice was a low, furious whisper. “I’ve been working my goddamn ass off in this crummy town, bringing the money home to you and that kid—his kid. And you’re running off screwing him, while I—”

  She laughed in his face—a high, harsh, vicious sound that flayed at him like a whip. “A girl’s got to have some fun. I mean, here I am, stuck with a kid and a so-called man. I’m not turning any tricks any more. You’re too goddamn pure for that. So I gotta—”

  He drew back his arm, ready to backhand her. Eyes bright, rigid with hatred, she screamed into his face, “Go ahead, you son of a bitch. You’re no good for anything else. So you might as well—”

  “Hold it, Rawlings. Sit down.” I grabbed his wrist. He twisted away, violently. I stayed with the wrist, twisting, pinning the arm behind his back. “Go limp, Rawlings, or spend the night in jail.”

  “I’d rather be in jail than here,” he said hoarsely.

  “Sit down.” I shoved him toward the brown plastic chair. Then, to Jane Swanson: “I want you to come downtown with us, Miss Swanson. I want a signed statement. The boy can stay with him—” I nodded to Rawlings. “It’ll take about an hour.”

  “Sure,” Rawlings shouted, “take her away. And sure, leave the goddamn kid. He spends most of his time with me anyway. She—she—” He didn’t finish it, but sat shaking his head like a groggy fighter between rounds, furiously opening and closing his mouth. Finally: “If you want any evidence against her, just ask. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  Ignoring him, I propelled her by one indignantly bucking elbow to the closet. With my free hand I tapped on the bedroom door.

  12

  I ASKED JANE SWANSON to get into the front seat of the cruiser. Drawing Canelli aside, I instructed him to take the woman downtown, brief Friedman, then ask Friedman to assist in a complete interrogation. I would phone Friedman with my own information and suggestions. Meanwhile I’d interrogate someone in the area who knew Jane Swanson and Dave Rawlings, trying for a corroboration of their movements last night.

  “Shall I come back for you, or what?” Canelli asked.

  “No. I’ll call for a radio car. When you finish with Swanson, drive her back here. Incidentally, find out what kind of a car she or Rawlings drives. Verify it with DMV. Then, if nothing much is doing here, you might stand by at the office. I want to interview Walter Manley alone, but I might need you later. I’ll let you know.”

  “Right.”

  “How’s Swanson look to you?”

  “Tough,” he said ruefully. “A real tough one.”

  I smiled, half-waving goodbye. At a corner drugstore I found a phone booth. Belatedly, I realized that Friedman was probably still out on his car heist. But in a half minute he came on the phone.

  “Did you get the car?” I asked.

  “Of course. No sweat. Brucie Boy and Billy Boy must’ve bucked themselves up with a couple of joints after they talked to you—maybe something heavier. Actually, it was a very profitable interview. Mitchell, particularly, is so entranced with the snotty sound of his own nasal voice—and so entranced with the idea of entrancing Brucie Boy—that he just can’t keep himself from talking.”

  “You’re rambling on like Canelli,” I said dryly. “I’m out here in the cold, you know, trying to solve a vicious double murder.”

  “Yeah. Well, briefly, Mitchell gave me a name. Al Goodfellow, San Francisco’s noted narcotics wholesaler.”

  “Was Goodfellow supplying Valenti?”

  “According to Mitchell. In pretty good quantities, too. Junk. All junk. And, still according to Mitchell, Valenti got himself spread a little thin financially, and Goodfellow was getting a little uptight about it. Valenti apparently decided he was going to introduce a credit system among his circle of sophisticated, affluent junkies. If it worked for Diner’s Club, he probably reasoned, it would work for him. But it didn’t. And Goodfellow didn’t understand. And, as you know, Goodfellow is in the habit of collecting his overdue accounts with guns and knives, et cetera. So our high-society caper seems to be taking a seamy turn.”

  “Of course, Mitchell might be telling us all this to take our minds off them—him and Bruce Manley. They could easily have decided to go back and do the job, maybe for the money in the house, maybe to triple Bruce’s inheritance.”

  “Well,” Friedman said slowly, “that sounds a little heavy. I mean, Bruce may not be your typical bright-eyed kid-brother type, but I can’t see him knocking off his own sister.”

  “Don’t forget the possibility of drugs. And besides, Mitchell could’ve done the job himself. He’d profit indirectly.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow, I’m having a couple of selected junkies picked up. As soon as they start drying out, I’ll offer them freedom in exchange for a little information on Goodfellow’s recent transactions.”

  “Do you think Mitchell is a junkie?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a beginning junkie. A skin-popper. I’ll do a little research on that, too.”

  “What about Valenti? Was he a junkie?”

  “No needle marks. It was all business with him, apparently. Karen wasn’t a user either.”

  “How about Bruce Manley?”

  “I’d guess he’s dragging a little behind Mitchell. Brucie isn’t as tough as he’s led himself to believe. He’s kind of chicken, in fact.”

  “I thought maybe Bruce and Billy were a love match. What d’you think?”

  “I’d say it’s an AC-DC si
tuation.”

  “Have you been able to find out whether Bruce inherits Karen’s estate?”

  “No. Lawyers, as you know, just don’t work that fast.”

  “Any word on the Volkswagen yet?”

  “No, but—Say, I almost forgot. We got a make on those unclassified prints the lab found on the Drapers’ outside garage door handle—the ones on top.”

  “Good. Who?”

  “That kid. Dan Haywood. I just got the word from Markham.”

  I said slowly, “His father is a big-shot psychoanalyst—a guy who likes to really stir things up, I gather. If you can reach Markham, you’d better tell him to go slow.” I paused, then added, “Tell him to check with me, on Haywood.”

  Friedman snorted ruefully. “The way these two cases are going, the whole Social Register seems to be—Oh, oh. Hold on a minute.” The line clicked dead. Then: “My first two selected junkies have arrived. I’d better go. One of them is prime—a good buddy of Goodfellow’s. The other’s already halfway up the wall. Are you coming in, or what?”

  I glanced at my watch: almost 5:30. “I don’t think so. I still have to interview Walter Manley. Maybe I’ll talk to Dan Haywood, too.”

  “Okay. I’m going to knock off about eight-thirty, I guess. We got some people coming over for Hanukkah week festivities. That’s Jewish for Christmas. What’re you doing for Christmas, by the way? Or, for that matter, what’re you doing for Hanukkah?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” I blinked, frowning at the phone. Then, changing the subject, I briefed Friedman on Jane Swanson. Five minutes later I was striding back to Rawlings’ building. The sky was almost completely dark; a light winter rain had started to fall. Even the neighborhood’s dingily curtained windows looked warm and dry.

  An embossed card inscribed Dwight Kellaway III was thumb-tacked to the door next to Dave Rawlings’ apartment. I pressed Kellaway’s buzzer, hopeful that Rawlings wouldn’t hear. Almost immediately the door was opened by a tall, gangling young man in his middle twenties. His sparse sandy hair was raggedly cut just below the ear. He wore wire glasses, a tattered Beethoven sweat shirt, nondescript slacks and no shoes. His face was long and angular: lantern jaw, hollow cheeks and an elongated nose. His ginger eyebrows were full and bushy; his bright blue eyes were quick and clear. His mouth was wide and expressive—a hip Ichabod Crane.