After two years of it I’d gradually slipped into the role of procurer. The right telephone numbers, I discovered, were as necessary as a credit card, or a constant smile, or an acceptable golf game.
I began arriving late at the office, after all-night sessions with clients. My afternoons and evenings became soggy, slow-motion spirals of smiling urbanity—always over a drink.
After three years of it, at age thirty-two, I realized that alcohol had slowly become essential to my precarious passage through each day.
After four years Carolyn and I agreed on a divorce. I couldn’t stay in Detroit; she couldn’t leave. She’d found another man. I didn’t care. So we—
“—really think I should be getting home,” Ann was saying.
I smiled at her—easing myself gingerly back into the present.
“Yes. All right.” I dropped a few bills on the bar, and walked behind her, out to the street.
“You said last night that you lived nearby,” she said, striding purposefully through the rain, head slightly bent, hands deep in the pockets of her raincoat.
“Just about a block and a half from you.” I debated taking her arm.
“Would you like to come to dinner sometime?” she asked. “I—I’d like to show my appreciation.”
“I’d be very glad to. I hope Dan won’t mind.”
“I hope so, too.”
We’d stopped at a corner, waiting for a cab and a sports car to pass. As we stepped off the curb, I took her arm. Subtly, I felt her respond.
17
I PARKED ACROSS THE street from Canelli’s cruiser, three doors down the block from the Draper house. Signaling Canelli to stay put, I got into his car, sitting in front. Switching off the radio, I told him about Dan Haywood’s statement. In another unmarked car, a young patrolman in plain clothes was keeping a lonely vigil, ignoring us. Watching him, amused, I realized that he was relishing his undercover role, imagining himself an inspector.
“Is anyone covering the back?” I asked Canelli.
“No, sir. Since this morning, there’s only been a man at the front.” He hesitated, then said, “It was Lieutenant Friedman’s order, I think.”
“Mmm.” I glanced at him. “How’re you and Friedman getting along, anyhow?”
“I haven’t seen him since this morning.”
“Have you bought yourself a jogging outfit yet?”
He grinned. “I’m waiting for Lieutenant Friedman. When he buys one, I will, too.”
I nodded, opening the door. “That’s probably wise. Well, I suppose we’d better get to work.”
The Draper house was brightly lit, but three rings of the doorbell didn’t bring a response.
“Maybe I should go around to the back,” Canelli said in a low voice.
“You’d have to go all the way around the block. All these houses are attached.”
“Maybe someone will let me through their—”
Suddenly, the door opened. Draper was dressed in an orange and black peony-printed Japanese robe. His feet were bare. His jowls were dark with a two-day beard. His long, thick hair was uncombed, falling tangled over one eye. He weaved unsteadily, squinting at us. Obviously, he was very drunk.
“Well, well.” He stepped back, gesturing us inside with a deep, elaborate sweep of his arm. “The lieutenant calls. Come in, Lieutenant. Pray do please come in.”
“Thank you.” I walked directly into the living room, leaving Canelli to come up in the rear, bringing Draper along. Sitting down, I checked the time: it was 11:15 P.M.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Draper asked, slumping into a deep armchair. “What brings you out in the rain, the night before the funeral of my late wife? Have you—” He burped. “Have you caught him yet?”
I slowly shook my head. “Not yet, Mr. Draper. But we’re working on it. The reason we’re here, in fact, is that we’ve uncovered some new evidence, and I wanted to—”
“It’s been two days, you know.” He burped again, then repeated ponderously, “Two whole days. My late wife would never understand such in—inef—” He cleared his throat. “Inefficiency. My late wife, you know, was a very efficient woman. Did you know that?”
“I can’t say that I did,” I answered briefly, settling back more comfortably. If he was stumbling into a talking jag, I couldn’t do better than simply to listen, prodding him gently.
“Oh, yes—” He nodded, eyes owlish, lips loose. “Yes, Susan was very eff—efficient. And filled with convictions, too—absolutely stuffed, if that’s the word I want. Loaded, maybe—absolutely loaded. She was a member of”—he held up five widespread, unsteady fingers—“of the league of Women Voters—” The index finger folded. “And the University Women. That’s two. In fact, she was almost president of the University Women, except that our house embarrassed her. And, of course, me. I embarrassed her, badly. Very, very badly.” He examined his fingers, frowned, and finally folded a second finger. “The Sierra Club, too. She was an incredible conservationist—absolutely incredible. Even before conservation was the thing to do.” The hand dropped heavily into his lap, forgotten. “She was also an organic gardener,” he said solemnly. “Did you know that?”
“She grew tomatoes the size of cantaloupe, and cantaloupe the size of—of—” He hesitated, frowning.
“Of basketballs?” Canelli supplied helpfully.
As Draper twisted jerkily, facing his new inquisitor, I frowned at Canelli, shaking my head. When Draper finally turned back to me, Canelli shrugged, lifting his eyebrows to me, apologizing silently.
“Basketballs,” Draper pronounced, “aren’t edible. Even my wife—my late wife—can’t grow a—couldn’t grow an ed—edi—edible basketball. Even with her frigging compost pile. Did I ever tell you about her compost pile, Lieutenant?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Did I ever show it to you?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” As he stared at me, he was frowning deeply, deciding something. “I should show you her compost pile,” he said finally. “A lot of people, you know, have never seen a compost pile.” He burped. “Have you ever seen a compost pile?”
“No.”
He turned to Canelli. “Have you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, my aunt has one. She’s an organic gardener, too, and—” Catching my expression, Canelli broke off abruptly.
“Susan’s compost pile had a lot of significance for her,” Draper said, his voice sloppily ironic. “A lot more significance than you might think, considering that it’s just a lot of garbage and horseshit, all mixed together. In fact, I remember telling her once that she thought more of that pile of horseshit than she did of me.” He looked up, assessing my reaction. “I was kidding, of course.” He paused, sighing dolefully, dropping his eyes to look down at his feet. “I’m a little gassed,” he said. “Tomorrow, you know, is the funeral. I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t even have the right kind of a suit. I’ve only got one suit that matches, and that’s brown. I mean, it’s a light brown, not a dark brown. Everything else is sports coats and slacks. That’s probably because I’m a free-lance photographer. As opposed, for instance, to a regular, working, respectable photographer.”
“People will understand Mr. Draper,” I said soothingly.
“Her parents are going to the funeral,” he said, scowling now. “They arrived last night, and they’re making all the funeral arrangements. They called tonight, in fact, to say that they’ll be picking us up tomorrow at precisely ten A.M., in the undertaker’s limousine. Actually, of course, they’d just as soon I didn’t go. They’d rather I didn’t go. They think that I—” He broke off, craftily clamping his jaw.
“They think that you what?” I asked quietly.
“They think that I was responsible.”
“For her death, you mean.”
He didn’t answer.
“You were responsible. You said so yourself. Do you remember?”
He sank deeper in the chair, inert. With his h
ead bent, his hands lying limp at his sides, I thought he’d passed out. But as I was arching my neck aside, trying to look into his averted face, he seemed to rouse himself.
“When I was eight years old,” he mumbled, “I left the gate unlocked, and our dog got out. He got killed. When my mother heard him howl, and saw him dragging himself into the gutter to die, she screamed at me that it was my fault. She loved that dog. Every day she used to brush him. Every single day. I remember that I used to feel jealous sometimes, watching her cooing, brushing that dog. Once, when I was mad at my mother, I remember saying that I wished the dog would die. She was brushing him when I said it. She whirled around, and for a second I thought she was going to hit me across the face with the brush. Her eyes, I remember, were wild. And her hair stood out from her head, like a witch’s. And those dog brushes, you know, have wires sticking out, like porcupine quills.” He lapsed into silence. Then: “It’s funny, but today I’ve been thinking about that dog, dragging himself into the gutter. His back was broken, so he could only use his front legs. And all the time he was howling. At first it was a very loud howling, so that everyone in the block came out to look. By the time he’d reached the gutter, though, it was just a low crying. And then he died.”
“Did your wife cry out when she died?” I asked, pitching my voice very low.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I didn’t hear her.” His voice was remote, as if he spoke from the depths of a trance. He sat motionless, chin sunk on his chest.
“We have a witness,” I said. “He saw your wife leave the garage and turn into the tunnel entrance. He didn’t hear her cry out. He must’ve been there, across the street, during the time she was murdered. But he didn’t hear a thing.” I paused, then added, “He didn’t see anything either, Mr. Draper. He was parked for some time, but he didn’t see anyone except your wife, either entering or leaving the entrance of your house.”
Watching him, I realized that the significance of what I’d said wasn’t registering. And now his head twitched, still with his chin propped on his chest. He seemed to be dropping off to sleep. I exchanged a glance with Canelli. I nodded to him, hopeful that a new voice would rouse the suspect.
“What the lieutenant is saying,” Canelli said loudly, “is that it looks like whoever did the job was hiding in the shrubbery, waiting for your wife. Like, he must’ve known she’d have to get into the house through the front door, instead of the garage. See?”
I realized that Draper was chuckling softly to himself. “I heard a joke once,” he said, “about cantaloupes the size of basketballs. Or maybe it was watermelons. Anyhow, it was about this girl who—”
“What did you do when you first heard your wife downstairs in the garage?” I interrupted. “Did you get out of bed?”
With great difficulty he roused himself, tossing back his theatrically long hair, painstakingly squinting at me. “Did you say you wanted to see the compost pile?” he asked. “I can’t remember.”
I sighed. “Mr. Draper, I want you to concentrate on what I’m going to say. Now—” I paused, hopeful that my silence would focus his attention, yet doubtful that I would succeed. “Now, we have new evidence—a statement by a witness—that contradicts some of the things you’ve been saying concerning your movements on the night your wife was murdered. For instance, you say that you left the house through the garage, then found your wife’s body, at about one-thirty A.M. Now, this new witness’s testimony, if it’s true, refutes that. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
He began to nod, then reversed himself, loosely shaking his head. His eyes were heavy; his head was sagging. His expression was utterly blank. He hadn’t understood a word I’d said.
I got to my feet, indicating with a slight movement of my head that Canelli should remain seated. “Do you mind if I have a look around your house, Mr. Draper?”
His gaze suddenly sharpened, craftily suspicious. “Why? What for?”
“I want to retrace your movements on the night of the murder. I’d also like to take some of your clothing with me, for laboratory analysis.”
“You think I killed her.” His voice was expressionless, his eyes round and empty. His mouth was pursed in a childlike pout.
“We don’t know who killed her, Mr. Draper. We do know that it’s necessary to cross check your movements on the night of the murder. You—”
“You’ll find blood, you know. I found blood myself, on my shoes. My pants, too. I must’ve been down on my knees. After that, I don’t remember anything, until I was phoning. I don’t know how I got back in the house.”
“So you’ve said.” I gestured toward the hallway. “Can I look around?”
“No.”
Regretfully, I drew a deep breath, watching him gather himself for a bout of alcoholic belligerency.
Should I give him his rights? Ask him to get dressed? Should I take him downtown? Now was the time to decide. I couldn’t search the premises without his permission. I could only take him away.
And the little girl. We’d take her, too. Instead of attending the funeral tomorrow, she’d be in the Youth Guidance Center, along with the delinquents, the subteen heroin addicts, the suddenly orphaned, the unclaimed and the unwanted.
But she’d at least be spared her mother’s funeral.
Now Draper was glowering up at me, his face flushed, his eyes hot. Seeking a means of keeping him off balance, I decided to ask, “Do you have a leopard’s head downstairs in your garage?”
Puzzled, he said, “Yeah. Why?”
“Can it be seen from the sidewalk?”
He smiled craftily. “If the garage door’s open, it can. I bought that head for twenty-five dollars, at an auction. I was going to use it for a prop. I did use it, in fact.”
I turned abruptly to Canelli, gesturing him to his feet. Pivoting back to Draper, I said, “We’ll let you go to bed now, Mr. Draper. You’re leaving for the funeral at ten tomorrow morning. Is that it?”
He nodded sadly, his sudden flare of bloodless belligerency past. “That’s it, Lieutenant. I’m afraid that’s it.”
18
“NOW WHAT?” CANELLI ASKED, walking beside me as I made for my car.
“Now we put someone at his back door, then see what happens. He knows we suspect him. Let’s see which way he jumps.” I pointed to his cruiser. “You make the call, then we can talk.”
I watched Canelli put in the call, then speak briefly with the patrolman on stake-out. I kept my eyes on Draper’s house, watching his shadow leap restlessly across ceilings. Once he stooped at the front windows, peering out unsteadily.
I’d often tried to imagine what a suspect was thinking, feeling, fearing. Watching Draper now, I was trying to conjure up what terrible phantasms must be tearing at his consciousness. It had been almost forty-eight hours since she’d died. For two days he hadn’t been out of the house. For two days he’d been casually encountering her effects, caring for their daughter, perhaps sponging the blood from his clothing, rechecking the hiding place he’d chosen for the weapon and the missing billfold.
If he’d killed her.
Did he still have the weapon and the billfold? Without them, tied to him, we’d never make a case. The bloody clothing he’d already discounted. The bloody smear on the doorframe wasn’t proof of anything. He’d been smart enough, or lucky enough, to tell a consistent story that covered his own inconsistent first statements.
Had he killed her?
Was Dan Haywood telling the truth?
Even dead drunk, Draper hadn’t really stumbled. He hadn’t damaged his position, and might have actually strengthened it. He’d accepted our suspicions without surprise or distress. He’d—
My car door opened. Canelli flopped into the seat, noisily exhaling.
“All set?” I asked.
“Yessir. Randall’s already rolling. Should be here in ten minutes. Is Draper still in there?”
“Yes. He’s wandering around.”
“Do you really think he kill
ed her?”
“If the Haywood boy’s telling the truth, it has to be Draper.”
“If.”
“Don’t you believe the boy’s story?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, Lieutenant. It’s your baby, not mine. I never even laid eyes on the kid. The only thing is, it seems like nothing Draper’s said has really been contradicted by evidence. On the other hand, that thumbprint blew the kid right out of the water.”
“It blew his first story out of the water.”
“They change their story once, though, there’s no reason they can’t change it again. I mean, I always figure that—Say.” He snapped his fingers, interrupting himself. “Say, I almost forgot what I was going to tell you, about the Manley thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, me and the lieutenant leaned on that Swanson chick, like you told me. And—”
“How’d it go, by the way?”
He thought about it, frowning. Finally he said, “I guess I’d have to say that it didn’t go too good. I mean, we couldn’t shake her. She wouldn’t even admit that Valenti was the kid’s father, which would’ve gone a long way toward establishing a motive.”
“She had other motives, though. Jealousy, for one. What about that phone call? Did she admit calling?”
“She won’t budge on that, either. She’s tough. Real tough. The only thing I can say, though, is that I could see her doing the job.”
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 12
