“You really do look like hell,” Friedman was saying. “What’d you do, dig a foxhole?”
“I—”
“You should go home. Wash. Have a—” He caught himself. “Have a tall 7-Up. Let Culligan and Canelli handle that car thing.”
“What car thing?”
“Didn’t Canelli tell you? Between volleys?”
“Listen, Pete. I don’t feel like—”
“All right, all right.” He held up a placating palm. “The plain, unvarnished truth is that, in an incredible burst of speed, the lab found traces of Karen Manley’s talcum powder in Kellaway’s car. Traces of rug fiber, too. It has to be verified, but that’s just a formality.” He grimaced. “Canelli scores again. By accident, as usual.”
“What’s been done about it?”
“Nothing except a stake-out. Kellaway’s still in his apartment; I just checked, in fact. But everyone was waiting for you to retire victorious from the field of battle. Which you have. With small thanks to the walkie-talkie chaps, apparently.” He paused, eying me—waiting for me to speak. When I didn’t respond, he said in a quieter voice, “I’d be glad to handle Kellaway personally. Except that it’ll have to wait for a while.” He gestured to Draper’s window-shattered house.
I sighed, checking my watch as I reached for the ignition key. It was eleven o’clock. Incredibly, only an hour and a half had elapsed since I’d left Kreiger’s meeting.
“Tell Canelli to meet me in front of Kellaway’s apartment house at noon. Or, better yet, tell him to meet me on Stanyan Street, around the corner.”
“You’re an iron man, Lieutenant. A lesser mortal would be shell-shocked by now.”
“I’m shell-shocked, all right,” I said curtly, starting the engine. “I figure I’m out at least a hundred bucks in ruined clothing.”
“You look it,” he said dryly, heaving himself heavily out of the car. “You still haven’t responded to my Hanukkah invitation, you know.”
As I groaned, he again held up a hasty palm, backing away, mock-bowing.
“The funny thing is,” Canelli said softly, “this guy sure doesn’t act like a murderer.” He was unbuttoning his jacket as we approached Kellaway’s door. “He was very nice—very cooperative.”
“If you can spot a murderer by the way he acts, you’d better patent the process.” I motioned him to the opposite side of the door. After a quick glance up and down the hallway, I knocked firmly.
Immediately I heard the sound of footsteps. As the door opened I felt my muscles tighten. My jacket was unbuttoned, my service revolver loose in its holster.
Kellaway was dressed as he’d been the day before. He stood relaxed in the open doorway, his arms and legs slung at odd, loose angles.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “The whole gang.”
“Can we come in?” I asked quietly.
“Sure.” He led us into the living room, gesturing me to the same psychedelic box I’d used the day before. Canelli, according to plan, remained standing.
“I hope you’ve got my car,” Kellaway said. “I have to be at work in a couple of hours.”
“What hours do you work, Mr. Kellaway?”
“Two o’clock to ten.”
“Is that the shift you worked Monday?”
He opened his mouth to respond. Then, instead of speaking, he slowly moistened his lips. The light was dawning. His eyes narrowed. For a moment his jaw sagged, giving his face a fleeting look of vacuous stupidity. Then, again licking at his lips, he nodded slowly. His eyes were locked with mine.
“What time did you get home Monday night?”
“Ab—about ten-thirty, I guess.”
“What’d you do then?”
“I started writing. I write every night, from about ten-thirty to about two-thirty in the morning. I thought I told you that.”
“Were you here, in your room, all that time?”
“I—” He swallowed, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing noisily. “I went out about one, I guess it was. To the liquor store. I told you that, too.”
“Did you walk to the store?”
“Certainly. It’s just around the corner. Listen—” He shifted limb-by-limb on his makeshift couch. “Listen, what is all this, anyhow? I mean, I don’t mind you taking my car to be checked. And I don’t mind talking to you. But—” He flopped a long arm across his knees. “But I’d like to know, at least, what you’ve got in mind.”
For a long, deliberate moment I studied him. His eyes were steady, his hands relaxed. Altogether, he was projecting a better than average image of puzzled innocence. I glanced thoughtfully at Canelli, debating. Finally I told Kellaway exactly what we’d found in his car—exactly what we suspected. Then I gave him his rights.
During the entire time I’d been talking, Kellaway’s eyes hadn’t once left my face. Now, as I finished, he gave a low whistle, moving his head in a slow, stunned arc.
“That is some scenario, Lieutenant. That is really some scenario. The way your script’s going, I’ll be doing page fifty in the pokey.”
I spread my hands. “You can’t account for your movements during the time of the murder. A white VW was observed at the scene. Your car contains unmistakable physical evidence placing you at the murder scene.”
“Placing the car at the murder scene. Not me.”
I surveyed him for another long, silent moment, again holding his eyes. And, again, his gaze didn’t falter. Most detectives, whether they realize it or not, rely on the “eye test” above all else. I was no exception.
“Was your car parked on the street Monday night?” Canelli asked.
“Yes. Down about a half block.”
“Was it locked?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“According to the lab,” Canelli said, “there weren’t any marks of forcible entry on your car. No indication that the ignition was jumped, either. Plus, VWs have a theft-proof setup, just like American cars.”
Helplessly, Kellaway shrugged. For the first time I saw a look of fear in his eyes.
“Does anyone else have a key to your car?” I asked.
He shook his head. Then, turning to face me squarely, he asked, “Why would I kill them? Why?” His voice slipped to a high, plaintive note, sounding almost like young Haywood.
“For money, maybe.”
“Money.” It was a tight, desperately derisive hoot. “You think I’d kill someone for money, for God’s sake?” He shook his head like someone sinking into shock. Then, in a lower voice: “Christ, I’m a refugee from the privileged classes, Lieutenant. My father is a capitalist. I admit that it’s distasteful for me to ask him for money, at age twenty-six. But I’d a lot rather ask him than go out and commit murder.” Involuntarily he smiled, ruefully. “Well, maybe a lot rather is a little strong.”
“Have you often asked your father for money in the past year?”
“No.”
“Have you ever asked him during the past year?”
He hesitated, finally saying, “Well, I did need an extra hundred when I made the down payment on my car.”
“Did your father give it to you?”
He shifted uncomfortably, for the first time dropping his eyes. “Actually,” he admitted, “my, ah, mother got it for me.”
“Do you use drugs?”
“No.”
“Narcotics?”
“No.” His reply was edged with plaintive indignation.
“How about grass?”
“Well—” He shrugged. “Once in a while, if someone offers, I—” He broke off, glancing at me with quick apprehension. He’d just realized that he was confessing to a felony. I looked away.
“Does anyone else use your car, Mr. Kellaway?” Canelli asked.
He sighed, shaking his head.
“No one?”
“No.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” I pressed him. “I’d advise you to think about it. Very carefully.”
“I’m sure. I don’t like to loan—” He p
aused, his eyes sharpened. He’d remembered something—or concocted something, protecting himself.
“I’ve only had the car for about nine months,” he said slowly, “and the only time anyone ever drove it but me was”—he swallowed, glancing at me with transparent apprehension—“was when Jane asked to borrow it, a month or two ago.”
“Jane Swanson, you mean.”
“Y—yes.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll go have a talk with Miss Swanson. Meanwhile, I don’t want you to leave the premises. Do you understand?”
“But I—I’ve got to go to work.”
“At what time?”
“I leave about one-thirty. And now I don’t even have a car,” he said plaintively.
“It’s only twelve-thirty. We’ve got an hour. We’ll get back to you in time. Maybe I can arrange a ride for you.”
We left him seated on his rumpled couch, looking about him with soft, sad eyes.
22
“WELL,” SHE SAID, “GUESS who’s back?” Her voice was heavily sarcastic. She stood with hip thrust out, one hand on the doorknob, the other propped against the frame.
“Can we come inside, Miss Swanson? We have some questions to ask you.”
“Ask them here.”
“We’d rather come inside.” I let my voice go flat.
“Oh, fer—” She flopped her wide-braced arm flat against her hip. Turning away, sighing loudly, she walked heavily down the hallway. She was wearing open-toed pink plastic sandals, sequin-studded. The apartment, I noticed, was even more disheveled than it had been the day before.
“Okay,” she said, throwing herself petulantly into the brown armchair. “What now?”
“Is Mr. Rawlings at home?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Shopping, I guess.” She shrugged. “At least, he said he was going shopping. For whatever that’s worth.”
“Where’s the boy?”
“He’s out, too. They’re getting some Christmas presents.”
“Your son seems to spend a lot of time with Rawlings.”
She snorted. “Whenever Dave starts to go out, which is most of the time, Jerry always raises so much hell that Dave has to take him. It’s boredom, believe me. Not hero-worship. An apartment’s no place to raise a kid.” She surveyed the clutter with a bored, brooding stare.
Nodding noncommittal agreement, I sat silently, watching her with cold speculation. Soon she began to fidget, moving restlessly in the chair. She couldn’t meet my eye for more than a few seconds at a time.
Finally I said, “We’ve just been next door, Miss Swanson. Talking to Dwight Kellaway.”
“Big deal.”
“Do you know Mr. Kellaway?”
“Sure. We’re neighbors. Remember?”
“Do you, ah, spend much time with Mr. Kellaway?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m trying to find out how much time you spend with each other—how well you know each other.”
“Oh.” Lazy-eyed, she nodded derisively.
I leaned toward her, dropping my voice. “How many times a week do you see Mr. Kellaway, Jane? For how long, each time?”
She began to bluster, but couldn’t quite make it. Finally, eyes sullenly shifted aside, she mumbled, “I guess I see him a coupla times a week. For two, three hours.”
“What’d you do, when you see each other?”
“What’d you mean by that, exactly?”
“I mean, do you drink coffee—go for walks—just talk? What?”
“Well, mostly, I just go over there. Sometimes we drink a little wine. We listen to music, too. And just—talk.” Her eyes flicked quickly up to mine, trying to assess the effect of her words.
“You’re good friends, then.”
She shrugged indifferently. “Neighbors—friends. Who knows?”
“Do you ever borrow things from Kellaway?”
“What kind of things?” She smirked. “Sugar?”
“I was thinking about his car. Did you ever borrow his car? His Volkswagen?”
Her first reaction was a glance of quick puzzlement. “Why d’you want to know that?” Her voice was low, cautious.
“Just answer the question, Jane.”
“How come it’s ‘Jane,’ all of a sudden? It was ‘Miss Swanson’ a coupla seconds ago.”
“Sorry. I forgot my manners. Same question, different name.”
Her sullen, sidelong look was scornfully contemptuous. “Big deal.”
“The car,” I said quietly. “Yes or no.”
She shifted irritably. Flapping a hand, she said, finally, “Sure, I borrowed his car once. What’s the big deal? Is there a law against borrowing someone’s car?”
“How long ago did you borrow it?”
“A month ago, maybe. I forget.”
“Why’d you need the car? Can’t you use Rawlings’ car?”
The cautious puzzlement was back in her eyes, watchful now. “Sure I can. But it just so happened that Dave’s car wasn’t working.”
“So you borrowed Kellaway’s car.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do with the car?”
“I drove it, what’d you think?”
“Where did you drive it?”
Again she shifted uncomfortably. I was getting closer. But closer to what?
“What did you do with the car?” I repeated. “I want an answer.”
“Why? What’s so—”
“I’m investigating a murder, Miss Swanson. Maybe you’ve forgotten that, but I haven’t. And we’ve just come into possession of evidence that makes it necessary for us to find out who’s been driving Mr. Kellaway’s car.”
As I said it, I could see her eyes widen. Her hand, resting on the arm of her chair, was bunching into a tight white-knuckled fist. She sat arched forward in her chair, staring at me intently.
“Are you telling me that Dwight’s car was used by the murderer?” Her voice was suddenly a harsh, hushed whisper. She knew something—something that frightened her.
I considered a moment, watching her closely. Then, very quietly, I said, “That’s what I’m telling you, Miss Swanson.”
“It—it was Dwight?”
“It could have been. It had to’ve been someone with access to his car—someone with a key, or the chance to have a key made.” I paused. Then, with solemn emphasis, I said, “According to Kellaway’s statement, the car has only been out of his possession once—when he loaned it to you. So, according to our physical evidence, the person we want is either you or your friend Kellaway. Or both.”
“Or neither one,” she whispered. She was staring past me with unfocused, shock-glazed eyes. Then, speaking in a dull, disembodied voice, she said slowly, “Dave made me borrow Dwight’s car. His was broken down, he said, somewhere out on the Bayshore. He needed a car so he could pick up a spare part, and fix the trouble. At least”—she swallowed—“at least, that’s what he told me.”
I exchanged a look with Canelli. His full mouth was drawn up into an exaggerated, chin-puckered expression of cherubic surprise. Eyebrows raised, he was slowly waggling his head, thinking it over.
“I thought it was funny,” she was saying, her voice still hushed. “Dave said that it wouldn’t do any good for him to ask—that Dwight would never loan the car to him. And Dave had to have it, he said. We had a hell of a fight about it. We—” Her voice trailed off.
“But you did get the car,” I prompted.
“Yeah, sure.” Suddenly she seemed listless, indifferent. She sighed once, deeply. Then she forced herself to relax, leaning back in the brown plastic chair. She shook her head incredulously—as if she’d just discovered that she’d been cheated in a con game and had decided to take it philosophically.
“How long did Rawlings have the car in his possession?” I asked.
“A coupla hours, I guess. Who keeps track?”
I glanced at my watch. “When do you expect Rawlings back?”
“Who knows? He—” She broke off, struck by a sudden, stunning thought. “Jesus, he’s got Jerry with him. He’s got my kid.”
Watching her, I made my decision: she was telling the truth. Her innocence, even her outrage could be faked. But not her sudden fear for the boy.
“Does Rawlings have a gun?” I asked.
She nodded. Under her breath she was muttering a string of obscenities, doggedly damning Rawlings.
“Where does he keep the gun?”
“Under his shirts.”
“Show us.” I jerked my chin to Canelli. Then, to the girl, who now seemed stunned: “Hurry up. Show us the shirts.”
When she still didn’t move, I grasped her elbow, roughly pulling her to her feet. Canelli was beside her, urging her along, her feet stumbling in her sequin-studded sandals.
I traced a twenty-five-foot cord, finally finding the phone on the floor, covered over by discarded newspapers. I dialed Communications, asked for Friedman. Informed that he was still in the field, I ordered that he be contacted in his car and connected to Jane Swanson’s phone.
The girl was coming out of the bedroom, her eyes empty, her hands hanging limp at her sides.
“The gun’s gone,” Canelli said.
“What kind of a car does Rawlings drive?” I asked the girl.
“It’s a Pontiac. A red GTO, with a black vinyl roof.”
“How old is it?”
“Two, three years. I forget.”
“Do you know the license number?”
“N—no.” She sank down slowly on the coffee table, sitting round-shouldered, slumped, staring dully at the floor.
“Is the car registered to Rawlings?”
“I guess so.”
“Do you know whether—”
“Here’s Lieutenant Friedman, sir,” came the dispatcher’s voice in my ear.
“Pete?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way back to the office from the Draper thing—at about Fulton and Twentieth Avenue. What’s up?”
Concisely I outlined the situation, asking for a DMV computer check of Rawlings’ license number.
“You want me to drive over there?” Friedman asked. “I’ve got Markham with me.”
“All right. The suspect could show up any time. We’ve got two men on stake-out here—in two unmarked cars. You’d better alert them to the new situation. I don’t have a walkie-talkie. Be sure and tell them about the kid.”
Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 15
