Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “It could be.” He watched her for a moment, then said, “What d’you think?”

  “What do I think?” Suddenly she guffawed. Repeating derisively: “What do I think?” Now her eyes were hot, angry. Good. Angry subjects often spoke before they thought.

  “It wasn’t a joke, Miss Hardaway.”

  “I know it wasn’t a joke, Lieutenant. I’m not laughing out of merriment. I’m laughing instead of crying. Maybe it’s because I remember Charlie trying to walk in those goddam high heels. Maybe I’m laughing now like I laughed then. Maybe—” Suddenly she broke off. She began to cry: dry, wracking sobs that shook her whole body. As a child might, she dug her fists into her eyes.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Hastings said. “What about the fifty thousand, Miss Hardaway?”

  In reply, she shook her head sharply, a denial. About to touch her shoulder, an effort to comfort her, he hesitated, then withdrew his hand. For Helen Hardaway, the touch of his hand would not be welcome.

  13

  “THERE YOU ARE, LIEUTENANT.” Canelli laid the accordion-folded printout pages on Hastings’s desk. “The address book. All done.” Canelli leaned back in Hastings’s visitor’s chair, crossed his pudgy legs, and watched anxiously as Hastings scanned the documents. Weighing in at a roly-poly two hundred thirty, Canelli bore a remarkable physical resemblance to Friedman. Their faces were similar: round and swarthy, with dark eyes and small mouths. But there the similarity ended. Almost never did Friedman’s expression reveal what he was thinking, or feeling. In contrast, Canelli’s face was a constantly running display of his inner self. Canelli was the squadroom innocent, the only homicide inspector in recent memory whose feelings lay so near the surface. Consequently, because he neither thought like a cop nor acted like a cop, Canelli had scored a remarkable string of successes. On the streets, it was as if Canelli were invisible to those whose livelihood depended on being able to spot a cop and act accordingly.

  Hastings drew the printouts closer, scanned the pages: names, phone numbers, identifications. In less than half the entries, addresses were included. Occasionally an explanatory note was added. The first entry was Jerry Adams, 649-0250, followed by “picture framing.” On a separate sheet Canelli had written in longhand: “147 entries, 8 unlisted. Pac Tel contact: Monica Gross,” followed by a phone company number.

  “You’ve been busy,” Hastings said, nodding approval.

  Canelli’s reaction was a long, gratified exhalation. Once more, he’d managed to please. “Ah.” He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Lieutenant. Anything new on the case?”

  “I talked to his sister this morning. She said Hardaway was a real asshole.”

  “Did you tell her about that money?”

  “Yes. She didn’t have an explanation. It didn’t come from her or her family, though, and she doubted whether Hardaway was involved in drugs.” Hastings pointed to the printout of the address book. “Anything there?”

  Frowning heavily, brow furrowed earnestly, Canelli shook his head. “Not that I could see. But I didn’t—you know—dig into any of the entries. I mean, most of them are just ‘Tom’ and a phone number. And ‘Tom,’ even if the phone company adds ‘Smith’ to it, what’ve you got? I mean, it isn’t going to be ‘Tom Smith’ and then ‘Mafia,’ or ‘drug dealer,’ or anything like that. How about Janet Collier? How’d she do at Hardaway’s bank?”

  “It looks like fifty thousand in the last six months. Cash. With corresponding withdrawals.”

  “Jesus …” Shaking his head, Canelli said, “That’s a lot of money for a meek, mild-mannered draftsman.”

  “This morning,” Hastings said, “when I talked to Helen Hardaway, I didn’t get a chance to talk to Randy Carpenter, which I want to do now.” He consulted his watch; the time was almost four o’clock. “While I’m talking to Carpenter, how about if you spend some time at Toby’s?”

  “Toby’s? Is that—” Between Canelli’s eyes, two lines of consternation appeared. “Is that the gay bar that …” Apprehensively, he let it go unfinished.

  Anticipating an objection, Hastings nodded decisively, all business. “Right. Look, even though we’ll obviously follow up on the money angle, this still might’ve been a gay-bashing after all.”

  “You mean—ah …” Canelli’s face was a study in discomfort.

  “If Hardaway was followed from Toby’s, which is possible, then Toby’s is obviously the place for us to start.”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess so. But—”

  “After you’ve done Toby’s, come back to the Hall. See if the computer comes up with anyone with a pattern of priors that fits. You know how it goes. Punch in gay-bashing, see what you get. When Janet Collier’s finished with the bank stuff, tell her to help you out. The two of you can work together.”

  “Oh. Well.” Plainly pleased, Canelli smiled. It was a shy, small boy’s smile. In the presence of a desirable woman, Canelli clutched. “Well,” he said again, “sure. That’s fine.”

  “When you got the names in the victim’s address book from the phone company,” Hastings asked, “did you also get a record of Hardaway’s billings for the past six months?”

  “Yessir.” Canelli pointed to a manila folder on Hastings’s desk. “In there.”

  “Okay. You and Collier work on that, too. The phone company can give you the subscriber for every call.”

  “So—” Canelli cleared his throat. “So you want me to—what—spend a couple of hours at Toby’s first. Then I go to work on Hardaway’s outgoing phone calls. Is that it?”

  “That’s it. Problem?”

  “Well, gee, Lieutenant, it’s just that I—ah—I don’t think I’ll fit in, at Toby’s. I mean—you know—someone’s got to be a particular type, to—ah—” Once more, the other man broke off. His soft brown eyes were pleading for a reprieve. Causing Hastings to concentrate more closely on paper shuffling.

  “What I mean is,” Canelli began, “I don’t—”

  “This guy’s been dead for almost two days,” Hastings said. “Not only do we not have a clue, we don’t even have a plan, not really. Got it?”

  With deep reluctance, Canelli nodded. “Got it.”

  14

  AS HASTINGS WAS ABOUT to press the doorbell, the apartment door opened.

  “Oh.” Startled, Helen Hardaway stepped back into the apartment. Then, relieved, smiling: “Lieutenant. Sorry.”

  “How’re you doing, Miss Hardaway?”

  As she’d done earlier, she stepped out into the hallway, closed the door behind her, lowered her voice: “My mother’s flying in from Detroit. I’ve got to pick her up at the airport.”

  “Have you made funeral plans?”

  “Tentatively. I wanted to see whether Mom would come.”

  “Do you think the funeral will be in San Francisco?”

  “I’m sure of it. My father …” She set her mouth grimly, hardened her voice. “He wouldn’t want it in Detroit.”

  Rather than reply, Hastings gestured to the closed door. “Is Randy awake?”

  “He’s pretty—vulnerable. But he’s awake. Do you want to talk with him?”

  “Please.”

  She turned, pushed open the door, called out: “Randy. Lieutenant Hastings is here.”

  From inside the apartment, Carpenter’s voice was indistinct, disembodied: “Tell him to come in.”

  Hastings thanked the woman, entered the apartment. Just as he’d done on their two previous interviews, Carpenter sat on the antique sofa. His face was a death’s head of despair. Perspiration beaded his forehead, streaked his face. His dark hair, lank and sparse, was plastered to his skull. Gripping the sofa’s red velvet arms, Carpenter’s hands were knob-knuckled and bony. The backs of the hands were blotched purple.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again, Mr. Carpenter. But there’ve been some developments that I have to ask you about.”

  “Developments?”

  “Yessir. You see—”

  “Is it the money? Is that it?”

/>   “Yessir, that’s it. We—”

  “Charles bought a twenty-thousand-dollar car. And other things, too. Charles had a taste for the good life. It’s not a sin, you know.” His voice was a wan, wasted monotone. There was no passion, no conviction. There was just the words, each word an effort.

  “When we talked about that money, Mr. Carpenter, we were talking about twenty-five thousand over a three-month period.” A pause, for emphasis. “Now we’re talking about fifty thousand over six months—all of it cash. The deposits were in cash, none for more than ten thousand dollars. Which, as you may know, is the amount beyond which the banks have to screen cash deposits.” Another meaningful pause. “The reason is drugs—the effort to turn up drug transactions. Money laundering, in other words.”

  “But—”

  “Fifty thousand in the last six months, Mr. Carpenter. That’s unexplained income. Unexplained and undoubtedly unreported to the IRS.” Hastings broke off, watched the other man’s face for a reaction. There was nothing. There was only exhaustion.

  “The two of you have lived here for three years,” Hastings pressed. “Is that right?”

  Carpenter nodded: a bobbing of his head, supported by the loose yellowish cords of his neck.

  “Answer the question, please.” The command was clipped, framed in officialese. During their first two conversations, Hastings had deferred to this frail, sad man who had lost his lover—and who was about to die. But the city and county of San Francisco was paying him to find a murderer. Other municipal employees—social workers, doctors, nurses—they would collect their pay as they eased Randy Carpenter’s passage from life to death.

  “Three years,” Carpenter answered. “Yes.” Repeating: “Three years.”

  “Did you buy things together?” Hastings extended a hand in a gesture than included the small, elegantly furnished living room with its Oriental rugs and polished oak floors and a pair of museum-quality Chinese vases displayed on a black teak refectory table. “These antiques—your sound system—did you buy them together?”

  “Some things we bought together. Some separately.”

  “You haven’t worked for—what—a year?”

  “A little less than a year.”

  “Meaning, I assume, that Charles Hardaway began picking up more and more of your living expenses. Maybe all of them.”

  For the first time, Carpenter’s eyes sharpened, focused on Hastings.

  “No,” Carpenter said sharply. “No. I pay my own way.”

  “How?” Deliberately, Hastings spoke harshly, coldly. The time for compassion had passed.

  “Th—” Momentarily the other man faltered. Then, with pale defiance: “That’s none of your business, Lieutenant.”

  “Your parents? Family? Do they pay?”

  “No.” Carpenter flared. Repeating vehemently: “No.”

  “Do you take AZT?”

  With the question, Carpenter’s frail defenses began to fail. The exhaustion returned to his face; his voice dropped to a low, indistinct mumble as he said, “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “You’ve already answered it, if you could see your face.” Projecting a kind of reluctant pity for his victim, Hastings shook his head.

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking AZT.” Now Carpenter spoke angrily, a flicker of defiance that quickly faded.

  “Certainly not. But AZT’s expensive. Very expensive, I’m told. I’d like to know where the money comes from.”

  “I don’t have to—”

  “It was Hardaway, wasn’t it? He figured out some scam, to raise the money.”

  Carpenter began to shake his head doggedly. But now his eyes shifted, slid speculatively aside, then returned to engage Hastings. In that moment, transparently, there was a change. Until now, this moment, Carpenter had been telling the truth. He’d been too exhausted to lie.

  Until now.

  “It was Hardaway.” Hastings spoke softly. On this moment, a knife’s edge, the whole case could teeter. If he could gain the other man’s trust, allay his fear, he could discover the truth.

  “Tell me, Randy.” It was both a plea and a command, both a request for help and an offer of help. “Don’t let it all get dragged through the mud. You’ve got enough problems without that. Just tell me how it went, and I’ll do everything I can for you. And for Charles, too. It’s not like he didn’t have a reason.”

  As Carpenter listened, he began to smile, a wry, ironic twisting of his pale lips. As if to taunt his tormentor, he began to shake his head, mimicking the same mocking pity that Hastings had offered him. “You’re very good at what you do, Lieutenant. You’re a lot more perceptive than you seem, I can see that.”

  “Thank you.” Hastings’s smile, too, was ironic, but he decided to say nothing more. Whichever way it went, here and now, win or lose, he’d done everything he could.

  Finally Carpenter said, “I think you’re an honest man, Lieutenant. I trust you. But I can’t help you, about the money. Things we wanted”—he, too, waved a hand to encompass the room’s decor—“we talked about what we’d buy. But we never talked about our bank balances. Never.” The last word was spoken with grim finality. For a moment, Carpenter had wavered, about to confide in Hastings, about to tell the truth, tell what he knew.

  But the moment had passed; Carpenter’s face was closed now. Once more, truth had lost out to the lie, to expediency.

  Acknowledging defeat, Hastings rose. On his feet, looking down at Carpenter, he said, “The AZT—did you pay for that? Was it your money?”

  Carpenter nodded wearily. “My money. Yes.”

  “Are you going to tell me where the money came from?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I’m not. Sorry.”

  “You might be making a mistake, not telling me. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I realize that. Thank you, for warning me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Then, surprising himself, Hastings said, “Good luck.”

  “Thank you. And to you, too.”

  15

  WALKING SLOWLY, CARPENTER WENT to the front window, drew back the drapes. Yes, across Collingwood, Hastings was just swinging open the driver’s door of an American sedan, certainly an unmarked police car. Appreciatively, he watched the detective’s movements as he entered the car. In the vernacular, Hastings was a hunk, a pleasure to behold. Men like Hastings, so secure in their own aura of physical dominance, moved with a kind of calm, silky assurance that was all the more sensual because it was utterly unself-conscious. Hastings was a calm, quiet, confident man. Was he married? Certainly, once, he would have married. But now? Something in the detective’s reticence, perhaps a protective device, suggested that Hastings was alone—looking, but not committing himself. Sometime in the past, Hastings had been traumatized. Did he now march with the rest of them, the walking wounded?

  Carpenter turned away, went into their bedroom. From the bookshelf, he took down the dog-eared paperback copy of Catcher in the Rye, turned to page 100. He sat on the bed, propped the book open. With the phone on the bed beside him, he touch-toned the area code, then the penciled number at the top of page 100: 824-4076. Three rings, and the connection was made:

  “Yes?”

  Mercifully, it was his voice. Not her voice. His voice.

  “This is Carter.” It was the code name they’d agreed on.

  “Yes …” Conveying caution, yet also conveying warmth. He cared, then. Incredibly, he still cared.

  “I wanted to tell you that—”

  “Just a second.” There was the sound of the phone being put down, followed by the sound of a door closing. Where, Carpenter wondered, was this special phone situated? In his study, his own private place?

  “Yes. I’m back. How’re you doing?” The depth of the voice, the modulation—the magic—all of it confirmed the bond between them.

  “I have some bad news. Some terrible news, really.”

  “What is it?” Now, audibly, there was caution in the other man’s voi
ce. But, still, the warmth was there. The caring.

  “It’s Charles. He—two days ago, Tuesday, about eleven o’clock at night, he was killed. He was walking home from Castro Street, and someone killed him. Beat him to death.”

  “Oh, my God. Charles.”

  “Yes. Charles.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t’ve called on this number. But I—I had to try. I had to tell you.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Between them, a short silence followed. Until, speaking now more guardedly, the other man said, “We’d better hang up. Tomorrow, I’ll send you a letter. Tomorrow, definitely.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry. Very sorry, about Charles.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “No.”

  After another silence, the other man said, “This won’t change anything. Nothing. You understand.”

  “Yes. I understand.”

  16

  HE CAREFULLY REPLACED THE telephone in its cradle, pushed back his chair from the desk. But to what purpose? Did he intend to rise? Why? Certainly not to leave his study, this sanctuary of last resort. Here, now, he was safe. Here, now, he could decide what must be done—or not be done.

  First, though, it was necessary to acknowledge whatever providence had timed the call to find him alone in the house. If, as Shakespeare had written, there really was a divinity that shaped one’s ends, then this was his first proof of divine providence.

  Charles, dead.

  A beating, Randy had said. Death. Meaning that one potential problem was solved. Because Charles had questioned Randy about their meeting. Ever since, Charles had tried to discover the secret they shared.

  Charles, dead …

  Was it murder?

  Was it an execution? Could the labels be switched? Semantics. Word games. They were, after all, his stock in trade, divinities that would surely shape his ends, rough-hewn though they were.