“Yes—fine. I appreciate this, Fr—” Quickly, she caught herself and corrected: “Lieutenant.”
“Good luck.” They turned toward the elevators, where the small boy’s mother now held him firmly by the hand, her eyes on the blinking numerals above the elevators. Hastings smiled at the boy. There was no response, only a dark, solemn stare. On impulse, Hastings palmed his shield case, showed his lieutenant’s shield. Instantly, the boy smiled. In that same instant, the boy’s mother jerked him into the newly arrived elevator.
“Big shot,” Collier chided.
“Public relations. Didn’t you read the chief’s latest memo? When in doubt, smile.”
“So. I’m off. Right?”
He nodded. “Right.”
“Any orders?”
“Just use your own good judgment. You know what we need. Lie, cheat, I don’t care, do whatever it takes to find out who he’s blackmailing. Threats, promises, sweet talk—try it all.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“I’m going to see what Delbert Gay’s got to say.”
They entered the crowded elevator. Self-consciously, they stood shoulder to shoulder. They did not speak.
23
“JESUS, LIEUTENANT, WHAT CAN I tell you? I mean, sure, I worked for Weston—him and I bet twenty, thirty other clients, the last six months. Mostly it was neck-brace stuff, like that, for Weston. I mean, let’s face it, he uses maybe a half dozen investigators besides me. And the big-ticket gigs, he gives them to someone else.”
“You use Hermes Messages. Right?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“Starting last November, you had Hermes deliver small packages to Two-thirty-four Collingwood periodically. Right?”
Delbert Gay spread his hands, a pantomime of innocence. “Hey, Lieutenant, that was months ago. You can’t expect me to remember—”
“Ah, but I can, Delbert. You know I can. You know what’ll happen if you jerk me around.”
“Aw, come on, Lieutenant, when’ve I ever jerked you around?” Gay spoke plaintively. He was a big, overweight, untidy man in his fifties. Sparse ginger hair fringed a freckled pate. His complexion was improbably ruddy, with a network of broken capillaries across his nose and cheeks. His voice was thin and reedy, a chronic whine. Because his stomach was so large, Delbert Gay habitually sat on his spine, stomach up. His suits always needed pressing, his run-over shoes always needed shining. His hair was in constant disarray. He sat behind an outsize oak desk that was piled high with papers.
“Just so we understand each other,” Hastings said, “I’ll lay it out for you. We’ve got Charles Hardaway on the take, maybe very high-level blackmail. We’ve got Weston tied to Charles and you. Then we’ve got you tied to them. Got it?”
Gay half-nodded, then shrugged.
“No—no.” Hastings shook his head. “You remember how it goes, Delbert. Nodding, shaking your head, that’s no good. You’ve got to answer.” Hastings smiled mocking encouragement. Saying sweetly: “You remember.”
“Okay sure …” Gay shifted from one bulky ham to the other, at the same time waving pettishly. Like his head, Gay’s hands were freckled, tufted with ginger-colored hair.
“You see where I’m going with this, I imagine,” Hastings said.
“Yeah, I see,” Gay said bitterly. “You’re setting me up, that’s where you’re going. You got nothing from Weston, so now you’re coming down on me.”
Genially, Hastings smiled. “As a matter of fact, you’re absolutely right, Delbert. I figure I can squeeze you, really hand you the shitty end of the stick. Hell, I can put you out of business for ninety days, just by telling a judge I’ve got reasonable cause for impedance of justice in a capital crime. Let’s say that’s the way it goes, and you get a ninety-day license suspension. Okay?” Hastings mocked the other man with a bogus smile.
At the thought, Gay winced visibly, as if he’d experienced sudden pain.
“I figure,” Hastings said, “that after a week or two on suspension, you’ll tell me what I want to know.”
No reply. Behind his desk, Gay sat in a black vinyl and chrome executive chair. The quilted vinyl, Hastings saw, had been cut in two places, and was trailing white cotton batting. Gay’s watery eyes were blinking as he stared down at the cluttered desk. His mouth was small, compressed between plump, pneumatic cheeks. His Cupid’s lips were an unhealthy purple. Gay was beginning to breathe heavily, audibly wheezing. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes had turned furtive.
Finally, with obvious effort, he raised his gaze to meet Hastings’s steady stare.
“What is it that you’re looking for?” Gay asked. “Exactly?”
This, Hastings sensed, could be the beginning of Gay’s capitulation—the break. All the indications were there: the uneasy eye movement, the fretful fingers, the suggestion of quickened breathing as the blood began to pump faster, suffusing Gay’s broad, plump face, already chronically flushed. All of it combining in an unmistakable aura of fear.
Delbert Gay was cracking.
“What I’m looking for,” Hastings said, “is the truth. The whole truth. Everything, whatever you know about Charles Hardaway—the way he lived, and the way he died.”
Once again, Gay’s eyes had dropped to his desk. His plump fingers began toying fretfully with a foot-long chain of paper clips that lay on his desk. The chain might have been prayer beads. When he spoke, it was in a soft, clogged monotone:
“You probably never knew it, but I’ve had a heart problem for years. All the weight I’m carrying, I know that’s the problem—the weight, and the booze, that don’t help, either. But then, a few months ago, Christ, I end up in the hospital, and it turns out I got cancer. Liver cancer, the worst kind. And—” He blinked ruefully, shook his head. “And I have to tell you, Lieutenant, it shook me up. I mean, let’s face it, the truth is, there’s no one out there gives a shit whether I’m alive or dead. My ex-wife drank herself to death. I got two grown kids somewhere—a boy and a girl, with kids of their own. But the last time I heard from either of them, it was a Christmas card from my son, maybe five years ago. There wasn’t even a return address. Which really pissed me off. No return address, I mean. What kind of shit is that?”
In silence, Hastings watched the other man’s descent into despairing self-pity. Still fingering the chain of paper clips, Gay’s hands were trembling. At the corners of each eye, tears were glistening.
“What I hate,” Gay said, “is maybe having no one come to my funeral. I hate the idea of just being dropped in some goddam potter’s field somewhere, like garbage.”
“You can find your kids,” Hastings said. “Christ, that’s your business, finding people.”
Gay’s small, pursed mouth twisted into a stricken counterfeit of a smile. “Oh, sure, I guess I could find them. But then what? We’re going to fall into each other’s arms, is that what you think? And then I say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be dying in a month or two. So you wouldn’t mind taking care of the funeral expenses, would you?’”
“Maybe we can work something out, Delbert.” Hastings spoke quietly, reflectively. “I’m not promising anything. But I could look into it, see what the people upstairs say. There’s a lot of favors owed us, you know. Undertakers, the coroner, we do business with them all.”
Almost shyly, Gay raised his watery eyes. He studied Hastings for a long moment. Then he ventured: “You think it could work, Lieutenant? No shit?”
“All I can do is try, Delbert. That’s all I can do. No promises. The only thing is, you’ve got to go first. You’d have to trust us, that’s the only way it’d work.”
“Sure …” Gay was staring at nothing—deciding. Then, dropping the paper clip chain and clearing his throat, he said, “I been doing odd jobs for Bruce Weston maybe two years, something like that. One of the jobs was using Hermes to make deliveries, all kind of deliveries, just so my name was on the chit, not Weston’s. Okay, so I was a cutout. But, what the hell, the pay wa
s good, and I wasn’t breaking any law. That’s one thing about Weston. He pays good.
“So then, a few months ago, give or take, he said he wanted me to check out the guy on Collingwood I’d been making payments to. Weston said that the guy had to suffer, feel some pain. You know, have his leg broke, something like that. Did I have somebody who could handle the job? Well, hell, you know I did have somebody. But I didn’t come right out with it. I stalled. I mean, I wanted to see how serious Weston was. So then he says, okay, I can think about it, but in the meantime he wants me to get a look at the guy. So then, maybe a month later, Weston and I meet downtown, on a park bench. He says he’s just heard from his client, and Hardaway is getting to be a problem that’s got to be dealt with. Weston had money with him—ten thousand dollars. He says I can split it up any way I want. I can hire someone, or I can do the job myself, whatever. Well, I’d been expecting it, and I had a couple of questions. Like, is Hardaway supposed to know why he’s getting worked over?”
“How’d Weston answer that?”
“He said no, nothing fancy, no conversation. Just break the guy’s leg, whatever, then split, don’t talk. Hardaway’ll know what it’s all about, he says. So then I said what if something goes wrong, and Hardaway dies? Weston just shrugged. Either way, he said. But the pay’s the same.”
“He said that? Either way? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure.”
“So what’d you do?”
“I called up a guy named Claude Hubble. He’s a young black guy, twenty-three, twenty-four, no more. Mean as hell. But he’s also smart, always makes sure the back door is open, like that. And he’s very particular about details. I spent maybe a week staking out Hardaway and made sure Hubble knew Hardaway by sight. I even called Hardaway once, to set up a delivery. That was so Hubble could see Hardaway up close.”
“You called Hardaway?”
“Right. But all I got was a machine. So finally I had to leave my number, and he called me.”
“On your unlisted phone.”
“Yeah …” Speculatively, Delbert Gay’s eyes sharpened. “You knew that, eh?”
Hastings made no reply.
“My unlisted phone—you got it from the phone company.”
“I’m a cop, Delbert. Remember?”
“Hmmm.” It was a petulant rejoinder.
“What happened then, Delbert?”
“What happened was, I turned Claude loose, told him the job was on, any time he wanted. And, Christ, he couldn’t wait, it turned out. He did it the very first night. I had the feeling he liked the idea of working a fag over.”
“How’d you pay Claude off?”
“Five hundred before, five hundred afterwards.”
“Did it bother Claude, that Hardaway died?”
Gay shrugged. “Not that I could see. These guys, some of them, they see so many guys get killed, it doesn’t bother them. Sad, but true.”
“Where can I find Claude?”
Wheezing, Gay leaned forward across his desk, scribbled on a notepad. “That’s his phone number.”
Hastings glanced at the number. “Where’s this?” he asked. “Hunter’s Point?”
Gay shrugged. “I guess so, but I don’t know for sure. That’s something else about Claude. He’s careful. He’s mean as hell, isn’t afraid of anything. But he’s careful. Also, he could be running. I called him yesterday, told him you guys were looking for him.”
Pocketing the slip of paper, Hastings said, “So it didn’t shake Claude up, that he’s on the hook for murder?”
A small, wet guffaw erupted. “Not Claude. Nothing shakes him up. Besides, he hates the faggots. Really hates them. That’s why he did the job so quick.”
“What’d he use? What kind of a weapon?”
Gay raised his beefy shoulders, shrugging. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. If you knew Claude, you’d know what I mean.”
“After Hardaway was killed, did you contact Weston?”
“Just once. I called him from a pay phone.”
“What was the conversation? Weston could fall for murder one. What’d he say?”
“He didn’t say anything. He just said thanks, very polite, and hung up. A couple of weeks before, he gave me a code name. Robert Brown. If I called him, told him I was Robert Brown, he knew there was trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Resigned, Gay spread his hands. “This kind of trouble.”
“So you called him, with the Robert Brown name.”
“Yeah.”
“When was that call placed?”
“Yesterday, about ten in the morning. I—”
At Hastings’s belt, his pager beeped. He pressed the button, read “649-0250. Collier.” Hastings wrote the number beneath the number for Claude Hubble, then turned to Gay: “I’d like to make a couple of calls, Delbert. How about if you step out for a cup of coffee. Give me fifteen, twenty minutes. Then we’ll finish our business.”
“Sure.” Laboriously, Gay got to his feet, gestured to the phone. “All yours.”
Hastings waited for the office door to close, then touch-toned Collier’s number. She answered immediately: “I think Carpenter’s ready to talk. He wants you included, though. He wants assurances.” In her voice, Hastings could hear the excitement, the pride. She’d done her job.
“Does he know who had Hardaway killed?”
“I think so. Or, at least, he suspects.”
“What made him decide to talk?”
“I think it’s a delayed reaction to Hardaway’s murder. At first, he was numb. Now, though, with the funeral behind him, he’s getting mad. He wants to see justice done.”
“Where’re you phoning from?”
“A sidewalk pay phone in the Castro.”
“Does Carpenter know we’re talking?”
“Yes.”
Hastings checked the time: twelve thirty. His stomach was rumbling. “I’ve got to call Friedman. Suddenly this thing is breaking wide open. Delbert Gay gave me a name for the assailant. I’ll put it in the works. Then I’ll get some lunch. Let’s meet at the one hundred block of Collingwood, and walk up to Carpenter’s. How about one thirty, an hour from now?”
“Fine. I’ve got to eat, too.”
About to suggest they eat together, a natural suggestion, Hastings caught himself. He could predict her reaction: nothing personal during business hours, no grounds for gossip.
“Okay. One thirty.” He broke the connection, put through a call to Friedman. He recapped his conversation with Delbert Gay, then repeated what Collier had just said.
“My God,” Friedman said, “twenty minutes, and the whole case makes. Every Tuesday morning should be like this.”
“It’s mostly that both Carpenter and Delbert Gay are dying,” Hastings said. “They want to get straight.”
“Delbert Gay …” In Friedman’s voice, Hastings could hear the familiar easygoing irony. “It won’t be the same without Delbert to kick around.”
“So,” Hastings said, “you’re going to collar Claude Hubble. Right?”
“Right. I’ll put Canelli and Marsten on it. Sigler, too, maybe. What about Carpenter and Gay?”
“I’m going to meet Jan—Collier—in an hour, and we’ll talk to Carpenter. Then I’ll bring Gay down to the Hall. That should be about three o’clock.”
“Do I understand that you’ve actually promised Gay a deal that includes a funeral?”
“I said I’d try. If it doesn’t work out, who’s to know?”
“He doesn’t have any family?”
“A son and a daughter. But they’re estranged.”
“Jesus, Carpenter’s estranged from his family, too. That’s how this whole thing started, when you think about it. Carpenter’s family rejected him years ago. And look what’s happened.”
“You’d better see about Claude Hubble. He could be running.”
“Right. See you about three.”
24
“I’LL GIVE YOU THE
name,” Carpenter said, “because I suspect Charles died trying to blackmail the man who was giving me money. Charles saw it work for me, and he decided to try it. That’s why he died, I think.”
“Are you worried that you could be attacked, too? Is that why you’re talking to us?” Hastings asked.
Carpenter shook his head. Today, he was dressed in sandals, blue jeans, and a light wool plaid shirt. If possible, he looked closer to death each time Hastings saw him. Carpenter was sitting in his favorite red velvet sofa.
“No, I’m not worried for myself. I guess I just want to know what happened. I want to know what Charles did—when, and for how long, for how much. I also want to know who ordered the attack on him.” He broke off, frowning, perhaps perplexed. Saying finally, reflectively: “Maybe, bottom line, that’s what I really want, to know who had him killed.”
Hastings glanced at Collier, who questioned him with her eyes. Did he want her to take a turn? Almost imperceptibly, Hastings shook his head. Now, they would wait.
Carpenter’s eyes, too, were in motion, silently searching the faces of the two detectives who had first come to him as the enemy, interlopers. But they had persisted, finally to share with him this final decision.
The silence lengthened, palpably weighing on each of them. Until finally, with infinite reluctance, Carpenter began to speak:
“Harold and I were in college together—the same fraternity. We were much different, Harry and I. Harry was golden, one of those wonderfully attractive, inherently charming people that everyone wanted to know, to be with, laugh with. I was always quiet, introspective. Harry laughed his way through. I worried.
“No one suspected that Harry was gay. Whenever the occasion demanded, Harry would arrive with a beautiful, adoring girl on his arm. I think I might’ve been the only person in school who knew about Harry. We were very careful, Harry and I. We only made love twice. Both times, it was in our senior year, after a keg party at the frat house.
Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 10
