As always, whenever he ruminated on the circles of power he’d begun to penetrate, Weston felt soothed, focused. Accordingly, after drawing a long, deep breath, he instructed his secretary to hold his calls. Then, from memory, he touch-toned the Best campaign manager’s private line.
The call was picked up between the second and third ring.
“This is Barton Sobel.”
“Yes. Barton, this is Bruce Weston.”
“Ah. Bruce. What can I do for you?” The question was asked calmly, without inflection.
“I’ve—ah—just had a call from Robert Brown.”
There was a brief pause, then a slight but significant change of inflection as Sobel said, “How long ago?”
“Just now.” Weston consulted his watch. “Ten fifteen. Five minutes ago. No more.”
“Is it something you can’t handle?”
“So far, no. But I thought I should call you, put you in the picture.”
“Good—and you’re on top of it.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Oh, absolutely. I just thought I should pass it on. Keep you current.”
“Of course. Thanks. Good-bye, Bruce.”
“Good-bye, Barton.”
21
EVEN AT A GLANCE, Hastings could see the excitement in Canelli’s eyes. Walking behind him, Collier carried the inevitable manila folder and was smiling in spite of herself. In response, Hastings felt the warmth of anticipation, of restrained exuberance.
“Let me guess,” Hastings said as his two inspectors sat across from him at his desk. “The messenger service.”
Smiling broadly, Canelli nodded vigorously as Collier opened her folder. “You got that right, Lieutenant,” Canelli said. “And guess which service.”
Covertly, Hastings sighed. Among all the homicide inspectors he’d ever commanded, only Canelli played guess-who.
“Hermes.”
Once more, Canelli nodded vigorously. “Right. How’d you know?”
“Canelli, we’re wasting—”
“When you talked to Carter, at Hermes, you must’ve scared the sh—” He broke off, glanced uneasily at Collier.
“Were you going to say ‘shit’?” she asked sweetly.
Predictably, Canelli began to blush. Collier smiled at him, plainly an expression of genuine affection. Working together, the two had become friends.
“So …” Hastings cleared his throat. “So what’ve we got?”
“What we’ve got,” Collier said, consulting the documents in the folder, “are six messenger deliveries from Hermes to Hardaway during the past six months. Four of the deliveries were billed to Delbert Gay. But the first and fourth were billed to Weston Associates.” She raised her eyes, stole a look at Hastings. Did the name ring a bell? He shrugged; the name didn’t register.
And yet …
Hastings frowned, gestured for her to continue. “Weston is a lawyer,” she said. “That’s all I know. I decided not to contact him until I’d talked to you.”
“I’ve heard of him, I think. He—”
“Hey,” Canelli interrupted. Repeating with enthusiasm: “Hey, I know him. I testified against some guy he was defending.” Decisively, Canelli nodded. “Yeah. Bruce Weston. He does a lot of criminal work.”
“That could fit.” Collier tapped the sheet of paper that listed the Hermes pickups. “Bruce Weston is connected to Hardaway through Delbert Gay.”
“How so?” Hastings asked as he reached for his own pad of legal paper.
“On the fifteenth of November, Hermes delivered a package from Bruce Weston to Delbert Gay. Two days later, Hermes delivered a package from Gay to Hardaway, followed by another delivery the following month. The next couple of months the same thing happened. After that, four packages went from Gay to Hardaway. So it’s pretty plain what happened. Weston supplied the money to Gay, and Gay distributed it via Hermes. All the deliveries from Gay went to the Collingwood address. Probably Hardaway knew to contact Gay if there were any problems with deliveries. Which would account for the phone call from the Hardaway phone to Gay.”
“And that one call could break the case open.” Marveling, Canelli shook his head. “Isn’t it amazing, how things work out?”
Once more consulting her list, Collier said, “The last delivery from Gay to Hardaway was about a month ago, in mid-April.” She gestured with the sheet of paper. “I’ll have copies made.”
“That phone call to Gay from the Hardaway phone,” Hastings said. “When was it made?”
“In February,” she answered promptly. “Three months ago.”
“What we need now are phone logs for Delbert Gay and Bruce Weston, see if they talked with each other.” Hastings looked at Canelli. “Why don’t you work on that, Joe?”
“Well, sure, Lieutenant. Except that—” As if to appeal the order, Canelli looked at Collier. “Except that Janet is so good with a computer, maybe …” He let it go unfinished.
“Sorry,” Hastings said, “but I want to take Collier with me to interrogate Bruce Weston. She’s the officer of record. If this is a break, with Weston, then she’s entitled.”
“Oh. Well. Sure, Lieutenant. I didn’t mean …” Canelli turned his soft brown eyes on Janet Collier, smiling placatingly. Repeating: “Sure. No problem.”
“Good.” Hastings rose, locked his desk, and reached for his sport jacket, hanging on a clothes rack. Saying to Collier: “We’ll take my car. Meet you in the garage in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine.” She, too, was on her feet, glancing at her watch. “I’ll get Weston’s address. Shall I call him, make an appointment?”
Hastings shook his head. “Let’s surprise him. Get Delbert Gay’s address, too.” And to Canelli: “If you get lucky and establish a phone connection between Weston and Gay, call my pager.”
“Yessir.”
Hastings regarded Canelli for a moment of silence before he decided to say, “If you’re ever going to take the sergeant’s exam, Joe, you’ll have to know about computers. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yessir, I know that.” Resigned, Canelli nodded heavily.
“Good.”
22
“I HOPE,” WESTON SAID, “that we can wind this up in twenty minutes. Fortunately for you, I’ve had a cancellation.” Tolerantly amused, Weston smiled. “Something about a poodle with a foxtail up his nose.” The smile widened urbanely. “In this business, one learns to be flexible.”
“I understand,” Hastings said, “that you practice criminal law.”
“Among other things. I also do personal injury and product liability. Torts, in other words.”
“Do you have any partners?”
“No. There’s just me and my secretary and two paralegals, plus one associate.” The smile widened disarmingly. “I’m not very good at partnerships. I like to make my own mistakes.” Behind gold-rimmed designer glasses, blue eyes danced, an invitation to genteel repartee.
“Are you acquainted with Delbert Gay?” Hastings asked.
“Sure. He’s a private investigator. I use him in criminal work. Protective coloration, as the zoologists say.” Weston smiled again, this time in smug appreciation of the phrase he’d just turned.
“Meaning?”
“Delbert Gay,” Weston said, “is pretty sleazy, let’s face it. Which means that he fits right in with certain low-life types. That can be very helpful in criminal work.”
“He looks like a crook,” Collier said. “Is that it?”
Appreciatively, Weston turned his attention to Janet Collier. In his forties, impeccably groomed and supremely self-confident, with the body of a weight lifter and the slow, appraising smile of a singles-bar stud, Weston let a long, speculative moment pass as he stared at the woman seated across the desk.
“That’s it exactly, Inspector. The raunchier the company, the better Gay fits in.”
“What about Charles Hardaway?” she asked. Her voice was calm and measured, but her eyes were sharp-focused, her gaze locked with W
eston’s, probing, testing. “Did you know Charles Hardaway?”
Weston frowned, then shrugged. “Charles Hardaway?” Amicably, he shook his head. “Afraid not. Sorry.”
“What about Randall Carpenter?”
“Are these people supposed to be business associates?” Weston asked. “Is that it?”
Ignoring the question, Collier repeated, “Do you know Randall Carpenter?”
“Wait a minute.” Gracefully, Weston raised his left hand, a gesture of restraint. On his pinkie, a star sapphire caught the morning light streaming through a large window that offered a view of San Francisco Bay, with the cityscape in the foreground and the Oakland Hills in the background. “Wait,” Weston commanded. “Hardaway—was that the gay guy that was killed last week? Is that the Hardaway we’re talking about?”
Rather than answer, Collier looked at Hastings, seeking guidance. Hastings let a thoughtful moment pass. Then: “That’s the Hardaway, Mr. Weston. Did you know him, have any dealings with him?”
Instead of replying, Weston suddenly rose, turned his back, went to the picture window. He stood motionless for a moment, arms stiff at his sides. The silky fabric of his high-style Italian suit caught the pale blue light reflected off the water of the bay, and turned iridescent. As the silence lengthened, Hastings covertly turned to Collier. He smiled and winked.
How should she respond? Did they have Weston on the defensive, was that the meaning of the wink? It seemed possible. She decided to return a smile.
When Weston turned away from the window to face them, there was no trace of humor or good-fellowship in the lawyer’s expression. Behind the designer glasses the blue eyes were cold.
“If you mean was Hardaway a client, the answer is no.” Weston’s voice, too, was cold.
“What about Randy Carpenter?” Hastings asked. “Was he a client?”
“No.”
“But you know Randy Carpenter—know who he is.”
“Why do you say that, Lieutenant?” It was a quizzical question, casually asked.
“Just answer the question.”
Weston shook his meticulously barbered head. As if he truly regretted the necessity to instruct Hastings in his duty, Weston spoke softly, superciliously: “I’ve got to remind you, Lieutenant, that I’m an officer of the court. Therefore, I’m not compelled to answer your questions.”
“What about Hermes Messages? Is that a familiar name?”
“Lieutenant …” With condescending good humor, Weston shook his head. “Perhaps you weren’t listening. I said that I have no intention of—”
“If you’ve nothing to hide, then why not tell me whether you use Hermes Messages?”
“We use messenger services daily. I have no idea what they’re called.”
“Six months ago, Hermes delivered one package from you, personally, to Delbert Gay. We have reason to believe that this package contained money that was subsequently divided up and distributed to Charles Hardaway at Two-thirty-four Collingwood.” Hastings paused, watched the words register, watched Bruce Weston struggle to keep his expression aloof, genially disdainful, as he returned to his desk and sat for a moment in reflective silence. Finally, speaking with exaggerated patience, he said, “As I’m sure you realize, Lieutenant, lawyers perform a variety of services for their clients. It’s quite possible, for instance, that one of my clients wanted to get money to someone. However, the donor didn’t want to reveal his identity. The remittance-man gambit, in other words. In a case like that, the lawyer’s job would be to preserve his client’s anonymity.”
“Let’s suppose,” Collier said, “that you have a client who’s involved in drug smuggling. Let’s suppose he uses you to make payoffs. He sends the money to you, and you use Hermes to distribute it. And let’s suppose that our investigation leads us to you. Would you—?”
“Wait.” Once more, imperiously, Weston raised his hand. “First, you’ve got to establish what information my client gives me. If he tells me I’m handling drug money, then I’d be in possession of guilty knowledge. But if he merely tells me he wants a given number of packages distributed to certain people, no questions asked, then that’s all I’m required to reveal. I might suspect my client’s a drug dealer. But I’m not—”
“Suppose we told you,” Hastings interrupted, “that you possess information that’s important to a homicide investigation. And suppose you prevent us from getting access to that information.”
The answer came quickly, decisively: “That question isn’t for you to decide, Lieutenant. If you can convince a judge that I have information you need, and it’s being withheld, then the judge might issue a search warrant. Otherwise …” Weston spread his hands, signifying his disinclination to pursue the conversation. Pointedly, he glanced at his watch. Saying apologetically, once more the smooth-talking lawyer: “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But I’ve got to—”
“Do you mind if we talk to your secretary, Mr. Weston?”
“Oh, yes, Lieutenant, I mind very much. We’re trying to conduct a business here. And I’m afraid you’ll have to show cause before you make any further demands on me or my staff.”
They were all standing now. As if on cue, Weston’s phone buzzed discreetly, doubtless an interoffice call.
“That’ll be my next client. Here.” Weston gestured to one of the office’s three tall wooden doors. “You can leave this way. Thanks for coming by, Lieutenant. And good luck with your investigation. If you turn up a suspect …” Weston offered an embossed business card. Hastings studied the card ruefully. Clearly, Weston had won every round—and meant the card as a memento of his victory, a smug mockery. Collier opened the door and left the office without a backward glance. Her body language expressed both frustration and anger. The door led to an outside hallway. Like Bruce Weston’s office, the hallway was thickly carpeted, discreetly decorated, softly lit.
“That smug son of a bitch,” Collier fumed. “He—the bastard was making fun of us the whole time.”
“He’s had his fun. Now it’s our turn. Sure as hell we can connect him to Hermes, and to Delbert Gay. So now all we’ve got to do is connect Gay to Hardaway. Which, in a sense, we’ve already done, via Hermes.”
Standing in the hallway, they were talking in low, hushed voices, breaking off whenever someone passed.
“A guy like Weston’s always tough,” he said. “They’re part of the establishment, and they all play golf with each other. But the bigger they are, the harder they fall, once their buddies quit returning their calls. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. I’ve landed bigger fish than Weston. Bigger and meaner.”
“Meaner?” She spoke dubiously.
“Listen.” He squared to face her, put his hands on her shoulders, to reassure her. Instantly, she drew back. Her eyes flashed. The message was clear: hands off during duty hours.
“Listen,” he repeated, “you’re making a mistake if you let someone like Weston run over you. Because he could be pissing in his pants, right this minute.”
In spite of herself, she smiled. Skeptically.
“You’ve got to think about the facts. Forget about the sideshow Weston’s putting on. That’s all it is, a sideshow. The facts are that Randy Carpenter has admitted to blackmail. He contacted someone very rich, and threatened him with exposure unless he sent money. Which the other man did. Then there’s Hardaway, who also got money. Which suggests to me that Hardaway was doing the same thing Carpenter was doing, and at the same time.”
She nodded vehemently. “Yes. I agree. Completely.”
“Maybe,” he said, “they were blackmailing the same person.”
She frowned. “But—”
“Let’s assume Hardaway got killed because he was blackmailing Weston—or someone Weston represents. If that’s what happened, then we’ve got to figure out how Weston managed the murder. Sure as hell Weston didn’t beat Hardaway to death. He hired someone to do it. So the question is, who did Weston hire, and how did he hire him?”
“Are you going to put him under surveillance?” she asked. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
He smiled ruefully. “Hell, I don’t know what I’m thinking. I’m just noodling.”
They’d been standing in the hallway long enough to attract glances from the curious among the constant stream of passing office workers and messengers, most of them waiting for the nearby elevators. Hastings stood with one shoulder resting against the marble wall beside him. In that position, he was aware that a young boy, ten or eleven, had left his mother’s side as she waited for an elevator. Unmistakably, the boy was making for Hastings. The boy’s eyes were fixed on Hastings’s waist on the left side, where his holstered revolver bulged. Hastings pushed away from the wall, turned his back on the boy, and spoke to Collier: “Carpenter is the key. If he tells us who he was blackmailing, then the case breaks wide open.”
She nodded. “I agree.”
“I’ve talked to Carpenter several times. I think he’s a nice guy, and I feel sorry for him. In some ways he’s actually very cooperative, very forthcoming. But, so far, he’s made it very clear that he’s not going to give us the name of the guy he was blackmailing. And I don’t see any way I can muscle him. What’m I going to threaten him with? Imprisonment? Death?”
“I know …” Collier, too, had turned her back on the boy, who now stood close by, staring steadily at them.
“So …,” Hastings said, “you want to give Carpenter a try?”
Her eyes widened. “Me? Just me?”
Pretending diffidence, all business, Hastings shrugged. “It’s like I said, I’ve run out of moves. It’s your case. See what you can do.” He glanced at his watch. Time: almost eleven thirty. “See you at the Hall at four o’clock. Okay?”
Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 9
