Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Right. Tell Canelli to come in, will you?”

  Friedman nodded, left the office, raised a finger to Canelli, who was seated at his desk in the glass-walled squadroom. When Canelli acknowledged the signal, Friedman pointed to Hastings’s office. As Canelli got to his feet and began walking toward them, Hastings spoke to Janet Collier:

  “Remember, call me. We’ll compare notes.”

  “I’ll remember.” She didn’t look at him as she said it.

  10

  CARPENTER SHOOK HIS HEAD. It was a sharp, peevish gesture. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” His dark eyes were hot, feverish with denial. “Are you saying that Charles was a—a crook? A criminal? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not at all.” Hastings pointed to the documents stacked on the coffee table between them. “All I’m trying to do is clear up some inconsistencies. According to his bank statement, Hardaway received a total of twenty-five thousand dollars over a three-month period—in addition to what I assume was his regular salary. He also had three sizable mutual funds. Whenever we see money like that, especially in connection with a crime, then we need to have some answers. Where’d he get that much money? What’d he spend it on?”

  Carpenter sat on a red velvet and walnut sofa, facing Hastings on a matching antique loveseat. The small living room was turn-of-the-century Edwardian, painstakingly restored. The furniture matched the vintage decor: antiques and pseudo-antiques, plainly expensive. It was a characteristic of gay couples, Hastings believed, that they lavished money and care on their surroundings.

  Finally Carpenter spoke: “You’re saying—implying—that Charles was in something illegal.” With obvious effort, Carpenter raised his haggard gaze to make direct eye contact. “Is that it?”

  “Are you familiar with Charles Hardaway’s finances, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Not really. We kept separate, financially. We didn’t have joint bank accounts, nothing like that. The first of the month we paid the household bills, and that was it. We’ve taken several trips together. He always had plenty of money.” The bony shoulders lifted, a disclaimer. “That’s pretty much all I know.”

  Hastings drew his notebook from an inside pocket, riffled the pages, finally found the right entry.

  “Last night,” he said, “you gave me a pretty concise rundown on Hardaway. Born in Detroit, went to college, married early, had one child. A few years later, he—” Hastings hesitated, then ventured, “He came out. Then he moved to San Francisco—here, to the Castro. He got a job as a draftsman. Is that right so far?”

  Carpenter nodded reluctantly. He knew what was coming:

  “He moved in here,” Hastings said, “about three years ago.”

  “Right.”

  “Since then he worked as a draftsman. Correct?”

  Exhausted, Carpenter could only nod.

  “Last year, he made—what—twenty-five thousand, as a draftsman?”

  “More likely thirty thousand, maybe thirty-five.”

  “But, if his bank statements are any guide, he was actually bringing in maybe a hundred twenty-five thousand a year. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more.”

  No response. Only the haunted, hollow eyes, staring down at the Oriental rug.

  “So the question is, where’d the extra money come from? Not from his parents, it doesn’t sound like.”

  “No.” In the single word, Hastings could clearly hear a lifetime of bitterness. Whose lifetime? Hardaway’s? Or Carpenter’s?

  “I understand from Inspector Collier that your parents are quite wealthy.”

  Carpenter’s pale lips twisted in an embittered smile. “That’s right, Lieutenant, they are quite wealthy. Unhappily, I have no contact with them. Both of us—” As if he were suffering a spasm of physical pain, Carpenter broke off, began shaking his head. But, doggedly, he forced himself to go on: “Both of us, Charles and I, were orphans, in effect. It so happens that, yes, my parents are rich. And it so happens that Charles’s parents are working class. But, in both cases, we were embarrassments to them. So they cast us out.”

  “Charles had a wife.”

  “Yes. But they’re divorced, long ago. Charles was an embarrassment to her, too.”

  “He had a child.”

  “His wife married a lawyer. They’ve managed to keep Charles away from his son. That was the hardest, for Charles. That’s what embittered him the most.”

  “Charles’s sister.” Hastings consulted the notebook. “Helen. What about her?”

  “I called Helen after you left. She lives in Los Angeles, and she’s flying up this afternoon. She’ll make the funeral arrangements. It’s necessary, you see, that a member of the family make the arrangements.” He sat silently for a moment before he said, “Helen is a social worker. She’s very—very understanding. Very nice, really.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mr. Carpenter?” Hastings spoke quietly.

  “No,” the other man answered. “There’s no one. Except for Charles, there’s never been anyone.”

  11

  “BUT IT’S DONE.” BILLY, age fourteen, waved both hands vehemently. “I keep telling you, we got out at two thirty, because they canceled assembly. I was home by three, and I started right in. Besides, I only had homework in math and civics. And I—”

  “Billy—” Ann drew a deep, disciplinary breath. “It’s not the homework that concerns me. You’re done early, I’m glad. But the point is, I just don’t think you should be riding the Fillmore bus. I don’t think—”

  “But Tim’s mother’ll bring me home. I already told you that. If I get there, she’ll bring me home.”

  “Tim, I’m sure, has homework. He—”

  “Well of course he’s got homework,” came the plaintive response. “But I’m trying to tell you, we had a short day, because of the assembly. And I’m also trying to tell you that Tim did his homework when he got home, just like me. So—”

  Dan, age seventeen, broke in: “How come they canceled the assembly?” As he spoke he spooned a second helping of rice pilaf onto his plate. The older boy’s movements were smooth. If Billy was the volatile one, Dan was the thoughtful, deliberate one.

  Exasperated, Billy ignored the question. At elevated stridency, he spoke to his mother: “How about you drive me? I’ll do all the dishes before we go, and—”

  “Billy.” Her voice was firm, her expression grimly set. Privately, Hastings had labeled this Ann’s schoolmarm manner, hard as nails. She taught fourth grade in public school. She knew all the tricks. “It’s an hour, round trip. And I’ve got papers to correct. Lots of papers. So you—”

  Harmonically, the telephones warbled: the primary phone in the living room, an extension in the rear bedroom of the huge Victorian flat, and a portable phone that could be anywhere.

  “I’ll get it.” Quickly, Hastings put his napkin aside, walked into the living room, caught the phone on the second series of rings.

  “It’s Janet Collier, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes …” He turned his back on the archway leading to the dining room. Responding to her voice, he could feel the center of himself suddenly go hollow, an evocation of adolescence, that terrible time of uncertainty, of constant doubt.

  “Is this a good time?” she asked.

  “It—” He cleared his throat, began again: “It’s fine. No problem. What’ve you got?”

  “It’s Hardaway’s bank deposits. The big, round-figure deposits, they were all in cash.”

  This time, his visceral response was more complex. The imperatives of sex differed from the pleasure of an educated guess that had worked.

  “Do the withdrawals correspond to the deposits?”

  “Right down the line,” she answered promptly. “In every case, the withdrawals followed the deposits by just a few days. And they all were checks that went right into the mutual funds.”

  “What about before the time covered by the statements we have?”

  “Ah …” In her reply, he could cl
early hear her excitement. “Ah—that’s where it gets interesting.”

  “So are you going to tell me?”

  “Our documents went back to February,” she answered promptly. “Three months. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, the three months before that was a carbon copy, practically. Twenty-five thousand in big cash deposits plus salary checks. Fifty thousand in cash during a six-month period. And all the cash deposits are less than ten thousand dollars. Which means that the bank wasn’t required to report them for money laundering.”

  “What about the rest of the year?”

  “I checked over the past twelve months and it looks like the big cash deposits started just six months ago,” she said.

  He considered, then decided to say, “You did a good job. It’s not easy, I know, getting access to bank records.”

  “Thank you.” It was a formal answer.

  “What we need now,” he said, “is to get a handle on Hardaway. What kind of a person was he? How about his work record? Who’d he hang around with besides Carpenter? We know Carpenter has AIDS. What about Hardaway? Was he HIV-positive? What’d he spend his money on? We know he just bought an expensive car. What else did he buy? Maybe he had a sailboat. Or an airplane—who knows?”

  “Do you want me to work on it tonight?” she asked. “That bar—Toby’s—where Hardaway was last seen. Maybe …” Her voice faded. The message: she really wanted to spend the evening at home with her young son.

  “Tomorrow’s fine. You should get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, plan on checking at Hardaway’s place of business. Then make Toby’s, the neighbors, whatever you can find.”

  “What about Carpenter? Will you talk to him?”

  “Yes. The sister—Helen—and Carpenter, I’ll do them tomorrow morning.”

  “What about the address book? Anything?”

  “Not until tomorrow. This is Canelli’s bowling night. He’s running the addresses.” As he spoke, Hastings turned, looked into the dining room. Dan was clearing the table, his assignment for the week. Then he would serve dessert. On his side of the table, Billy was sulking. Ann was holding her temper. Grimly.

  “I’d better hang up,” Hastings said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the Hall.”

  “Right.” A pause. Then, in a more personal voice: “Good night.”

  “Good night.” He, too, paused a meaningful moment. “Sleep well.” As he spoke, he realized that he’d spoken loudly enough for Ann to hear. Involuntarily, his eyes sought hers as she sat at the dinner table. With both hands, she was twisting her napkin cruelly. Pain had darkened her eyes, tortured her mouth, drawn the muscles of her face taut.

  Signifying that Ann knew.

  For weeks—months—he’d suspected that she knew. A word, a glance, a quick flick of silence—all of it had confirmed that, somehow, Ann knew he’d fallen in love with another woman.

  12

  INSTINCTIVELY DEFERRING TO THE dominion of death, Hastings knocked discreetly. A moment later, on a night chain, the door opened just enough to reveal a woman’s face. It was a pale face. The eyes were dark and anxious, the mouth was thin and grim.

  “Helen Hardaway?” As he spoke, Hastings let his leather shield case fall open to reveal the badge. “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. Homicide.”

  “Oh—yes. Just a second.” The chain rattled, the door came open. But, rather than invite him in, Helen Hardaway stepped forward into the hallway. As she closed the door to her brother’s apartment, she whispered: “Randy’s sleeping. He’s exhausted. Can we talk here in the hallway?” She looked anxiously up at him. It was a mannerism, Hastings suspected, that was characteristic of Helen Hardaway. Never quite sure of herself, anxious to please, she would often look up into the faces of others, hopeful of approval.

  Hastings surveyed the small, meticulously decorated foyer before he said, “My car’s at the curb. Let’s talk there.”

  “You mean in a—” Apprehensively, she blinked. “In a police car?”

  Almost laughing outright, he said, “It’s an unmarked car, Miss Hardaway. Cross my heart.”

  “You’re making fun of me.” But she was smiling. The smile transformed her face, erased the anxiety, revealed a new dimension of warmth and insight into herself. This woman, Hastings decided, could be trusted. He gestured for her to precede him down the thickly carpeted stairs. Helen Hardaway’s body was thick but not fat. She moved with a curious rolling gait, the movement of her shoulders and buttocks suggesting a denial of femininity. Was it possible—probable—that Helen Hardaway was a lesbian? She wore a sweatshirt, jeans, and incongruous fuzzy pink slippers. Her dark brown hair was close-cropped. Across the back of her sweatshirt the logo read, EUCLID WAS RIGHT!

  “So you’re two years older than your brother.”

  “Yes.” Helen Hardaway nodded gravely. Repeating: “Two years.” She spoke as if she were pronouncing a benediction—or a eulogy. They’d been talking for almost a half hour, sitting in the unmarked car with its radio turned off. Hastings had been content to let her ramble, dwelling almost entirely on the childhood she’d shared with her brother, both of them emotional refugees from the tyranny of a vicious father and a cowed mother.

  “I was in my twenties,” she was saying, “when I first learned about Charlie—about his sexuality. I was sure it had been my fault. I was a mousy little girl. I don’t think I had three friends all the while I was in elementary school. So I’d con Charlie into playing with me. Sometimes I—” She broke off, bit her lip. Her eyes were focused far in the past, dim with remorse: “Sometimes I’d dress Charlie up in my mother’s cast-off clothes, and we’d play house.”

  Hastings decided to say nothing in response, decided not to look at her.

  “I used to laugh at him,” she said finally. “He could never walk in Mom’s high-heeled shoes. He’d always fall down. And I’d always laugh. He used to get furious.” Smiling wistfully now, she shook her head. “Poor Charlie.”

  “Did you see much of him during the last few years?” Hastings asked.

  “Two or three times, no more.”

  “You live in Los Angeles.”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother, Miss Hardaway?”

  “I guess it was February, almost three months ago. I’m a social worker. Family planning. There was a conference in San Francisco, two days, in the middle of the month. Charlie and I had lunch.”

  Three months ago … In his mind’s eye, Hastings reconstructed Hardaway’s bank statements, and the cash deposits. Was it possible that the money had come from Helen Hardaway, who had carried it from Los Angeles? Was it possible that she and her brother had been partners in a drug business run out of Los Angeles? He stole a sidelong glance at Helen Hardaway—and discarded the notion. Whatever else she was, Helen Hardaway was no drug pusher.

  “When you saw your brother in February, how did he seem?” As he said it, Hastings privately winced. It was an awkward question. Too vague. Too naïve. He would have expected more from a rookie.

  “‘Seem’?” she repeated. “In what sense?”

  “Did he seem worried about anything?”

  She thought about it, finally shook her head. “I wouldn’t say he was worried, especially. But you should understand, Lieutenant, that Charlie and I weren’t very close. Sure, I saw him only three months ago. Before that, though, it was more like two years.”

  “You kept in touch, though.”

  She shrugged. “Phone calls at Christmas, birthday cards, that was about it. We went through the motions.”

  “Was it his sexual preference? Was that it?”

  “No.” Sadly, she smiled, shook her head. “No, Lieutenant, it wasn’t his sexuality. It was Charlie. He could be a real pain in the ass. He was vain and self-centered and petty. He could also be vindictive.”

  “That’s not the picture I got from Randy Carpenter. He says he would’ve been lost without your brother to take care of him.”

&nbs
p; “Randy’s dying. He’s had to believe that Charlie was kind and true and generous. And who knows, maybe Charlie was wonderful to Randy. I hope so.”

  “How about Randy? What’s your evaluation of him?”

  “Randy’s sweet,” she answered promptly. “He’s kind and generous. He’s also very smart, and very sensitive. He’s funny, too. At least he was funny before he got sick. When he was working—he was an illustrator—he came down to Los Angeles a lot on business. Sometimes he stayed with me, and we’d always go out to a restaurant. Great restaurants.” Once more, sadly, she smiled. “I’ll miss Randy. I’ll miss him a lot.”

  “Was Charles HIV-positive?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “The drug they take for AIDS—AZT, I think …?” He let it go unfinished, an inquiry.

  “Yes. AZT.”

  “Does Randy take it?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  Seated behind his cruiser’s steering wheel, Hastings let his eyes wander idly down to the endless progression of tiny red lights blinking on the scanner mounted beneath the dash. This was his time for decision.

  Finally he decided to say, “I ask about AZT because I know it’s expensive. A hell of a lot more than an unemployed illustrator can afford.”

  “So?”

  “So where’d he get the money, supposing he’s on AZT? It doesn’t sound like his parents would chip in.”

  “Are you saying that you think Charlie might’ve been getting the money? Is that what you’re saying?” As she asked the question, her eyes widened incredulously.

  There it was, his opening.

  “In the last six months, Miss Hardaway, in addition to his salary checks, Charles has made bank deposits of fifty thousand dollars—all in cash, all rounded off. I’m trying to find out where that money came from—and where it went.”

  “Fifty thousand? Really?”

  “Really. And that—”

  “My God—” Awed, she turned to face him, her knee striking the barrel of the riot gun shackled to the floor between them. She muttered angrily, rubbed the knee. “You think someone killed him because of that money. Is that it?”