Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Harry married after graduation. Of course, she was beautiful, and talented, and her father was enormously wealthy. Her name was Carolyn, and she came from Los Angeles. Her father—James Forster—owns vast tracts of agricultural land in the Central Valley. He also owns a few office buildings in Los Angeles, plus a shopping mall. Harry went to work for his father-in-law. Of course, he did wonderfully. He worked hard, and he has a world-class smile. Everyone wants to be Harry’s friend, especially when they realize James Forster is his father-in-law.

  “For a wedding present, Forster gave the happy couple a mini-mansion in Bel Air. He also gave them memberships in the best country clubs. In other words, James Forster controlled their lives. Completely. Apart from the making of money, which he considered banal, Forster’s entire life was centered on his daughter. Whatever Carolyn wanted, even as a child, Forster encouraged her to go after. And, by God, she got it. Not always because she was James Forster’s daughter, but because Forster had taught her which strings to pull, who she could buy off, who she couldn’t. And the more she got, the more she wanted. Not money, that didn’t interest her except as a tool. Society, so-called”—Carpenter shook his head—“she couldn’t care less. What Carolyn wanted was what her father wanted. Power. Anonymity and power, those’re his passions. Her passions, too.”

  “What kind of power?”

  “Political power, of course. In California politics, in Forster’s party, nothing happens without Forster’s approval. It’s impossible to get a campaign off the ground unless he gives the word. He probably contributes more than a million dollars a year of his own money to political campaigns. And he influences the gifts of millions more.”

  “My God,” Hastings said, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  “That’s the point,” Carpenter said. “That’s the way Forster wants it. A lot of rich, powerful men pay people a lot of money to keep their names out of the papers. James Forster is one of them. Forget Donald Trump and Ted Turner. They’re the grandstanders. It’s men like James Forster and Warren Buffett and Daniel Ludwig who really pull the strings.”

  “So,” Collier said, “how do we get from James Forster to you—and Hardaway?”

  “Harry,” Carpenter said cryptically.

  “Harry?”

  “Harold Best.” Having pronounced the name, Carpenter let himself sink back against the cushions of his sofa. His eyes were only half open; his breathing was shallow, his face pale. Against the pallor of his skin, the blotches that marked it were a dark, engorged red.

  “Jesus,” Hastings said, turning to Collier. “Harold Best.” And to Carpenter: “He’s the one, then. Harold Best. Your—your friend from college. He’s the one you called when you needed money.”

  Wordlessly, Carpenter nodded. Shame was clearly etched in his pallid face—shame and regret and something else, infinitely tender. Was it love?

  “So what’s the rest of it?” Collier pressed. “What’s the whole story?”

  “The rest of it?” Carpenter asked, his voice quizzical. As if the story no longer interested him, he smiled ruefully. “The rest of it was pretty predictable. Inevitable, really. Harry’s star began to rise. He was good at his job, and his forehand was first class. And, yes, about ten years ago, at age thirty-seven or so, he started running for things—the school board, councilman, then the state senate. It was an inevitable parlay. His wife gave him the game plan, told him what he would do. His father-in-law provided the money and the connections. As the years passed, Forster realized that he’d finally found the perfect candidate, right in his own family. Harry had it all—the looks, the smile, the wit. Best of all, though, Harry lived in perfect harmony with his limitations. He was smart enough to take orders, but not so smart that he began getting ideas of his own. Which, for Forster’s purpose, was perfect.”

  “So now,” Collier said, “Harold Best is running for the United States Senate. The election is”—she counted on her fingers—“it’s six months from now.”

  Wearily, Carpenter nodded. “Yes.”

  “And Best is still sending you money.”

  “Yes. He’s glad to do it, I think. I’m sure of it, in fact.”

  “How did it go?” Hastings asked. “Start at the beginning. You called Best, and told him you had AIDS. Then what?”

  “Then Harry came up here, to San Francisco. We had lunch—a long lunch. We told each other about ourselves. It was wonderful, really—twenty-some years that just dropped away. It was as if we were transported back in time to those careless days at college. We were so innocent, then. Life was so wonderful. So—” Suddenly Carpenter’s voice caught; there were tears at the corners of his eyes. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, heavily, Carpenter shook his head. The magic of memory had faded, leaving only the harshness of the reality.

  “But then Charles found out about the lunch, and he demanded an explanation. Of course, I had to tell him the whole story.”

  “You told him everything?” Hastings asked. “The money—you told him Best would send you money?”

  “I didn’t have a choice. Charles could be very jealous. And he had a terrible temper.”

  “So,” Collier said, “it all started over the lunch with Harold Best. He promised you money. You told Hardaway. And that’s how it all started.”

  Carpenter looked at her, a speculative glance. He made no reply.

  “Hardaway knew you’d be getting money from Best,” she pressed. “And he knew why you’d be getting the money. He saw a chance to line his own pocket, go into business for himself.”

  Carpenter nodded. It was a painfully remorseful nod, heavy with regret.

  “Did you know Hardaway was blackmailing Best?” Hastings asked.

  “No. I had no idea. None. Not until he was dead, and you were asking questions.”

  “Did Best ever discuss it with you, tell you Hardaway was blackmailing him?”

  Carpenter shook his head vehemently. “You don’t understand. I only saw Harold once—the lunch. After that, except for the checks, there was very little contact between us. It was because of his campaign—I had to stay away from him, you see. Because of the publicity.”

  “The phone—did you talk on the phone?” Collier asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “But the money. Did he ask when you needed more money?”

  “Yes. He knew when to ask. And he was very generous.”

  “How generous?”

  As if it were a shameful admission, Carpenter mumbled, “It came to about five thousand a month.”

  “Five thousand for you, and twice that for Hardaway,” Hastings said. “More than twice.”

  No response. Carpenter sat in a posture of utter dejection, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

  “So,” Hastings said, “until Hardaway was killed, and we got a look at Hardaway’s bank balance, you had no idea Hardaway was blackmailing Best. Correct?”

  Carpenter nodded: a loose bobbing of his head on a scrawny, corded neck.

  “Even when Hardaway got killed,” Hastings said, “you didn’t suspect anything.”

  “I thought it was a gay-bashing.”

  “What would you say if I told you that we think we know who killed Hardaway?”

  “You—” Carpenter blinked, focused sharply on Hastings. “You know?”

  “We think we’ve got the assailant’s name, and we think we know who hired him. We think it was a private detective based in San Francisco. We suspect that a local criminal lawyer gave the detective his orders.”

  “Will you be talking to Harry?” Carpenter asked. The question was put hesitantly. Plainly, he dreaded the inevitability of Hastings’s response:

  “We don’t have a choice, Mr. Carpenter. We’ve got to talk to Mr. Best. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Oh, God …” Hopelessly, Carpenter began to shake his head. Repeating: “Oh, God.”

  25

  “HAROLD BEST?” INCREDULOUSLY, FRIEDMAN shook his head. “Our next senator?
That Harold Best?”

  Amused, Hastings nodded, glanced sidelong at Collier. When had he last seen Friedman caught off balance, surprised? Always, Friedman sought to stay ahead of the curve.

  Enjoying the moment, Hastings nodded. “That’s the Best.”

  “You don’t think it’s all part of some con, do you?”

  Hastings frowned. “How do you mean?”

  Friedman shrugged. “Maybe Carpenter’ll tell Best we’re on his trail. ‘But don’t worry,’ Carpenter’ll say. ‘The cops can’t do anything without my testimony. And I won’t testify against you. Provided, of course, that you send lots more money.’”

  Decisively, Hastings shook his head. “That’s not Carpenter.” He looked at Collier, for confirmation. She nodded vigorous agreement.

  “I realize,” Friedman said, “that you guys like Carpenter. You’ll recall, though, that this whole thing started when he began putting the arm on Best. You’ll also recall that we’re only six months from the elections. If it gets out that Best is—was—gay, he’s finished. He’s history.”

  “If Carpenter exposes Best,” Hastings mused, “and if Best has to drop out of the Senate race, then Carpenter cooks his own golden goose. Why should Best go on paying to protect his image once he’s exposed?”

  “Hmmm.” Speculatively, Friedman eyed Hastings. Then: “So you have confidence in Carpenter’s story. You’re willing to go down the line with it. Both of you.” Friedman tested Hastings’s conviction with an inquisitor’s gaze, then turned his eyes on Collier. Finally, drawing a deep breath, he said, “Okay, I’ll buy it. Let’s not forget, though, that going after someone with Best’s clout is a very, very big step. So let’s be very, very careful.” And to Collier: “How about if you give us a few minutes?” He smiled, moved his head toward the squadroom. Returning the smile, she nodded, gathered together a sheaf of manila folders, and left Hastings’s office.

  “What we’ve got here, for God’s sake,” Friedman said, “is a major problem in diplomacy. I guess you know that.”

  Hastings nodded. He knew.

  “I mean, not only are we going after Harold Best, our next senator, but we’re also going to tangle with his wife, who’s supposed to be very, very tough. Not to mention his father-in-law, who’s supposed to have more money than half the countries in South America. And who regards people like us as serfs.”

  “Serfs?”

  “Pawns. Whatever. The point being that, in California, James Forster anoints the politicians who make the laws. If he doesn’t like the laws, he buys himself another batch of politicians.”

  “I didn’t know you were into politics.”

  “I’m fascinated by politics. But then, the mouse is fascinated by the snake. Or so they say.”

  “So what now?”

  “Well, at this end, obviously, we put the arm on Claude Hubble. Meanwhile, we’re also sweating Delbert Gay—who, as we already know, hired Claude Hubble. We also find out who hired Delbert.”

  “That could be Bruce Weston.”

  “Is that a hunch?” Friedman asked.

  “Call it an educated guess. Weston’s not telling us anything.”

  Sitting in Hastings’s visitor’s chair, elbow propped on the chair arm, chin cupped in the palm of his right hand, Friedman tapped one plump cheek with a reflective forefinger. His brown eyes were veiled. Privately, Hastings had labeled this pose Friedman’s Buddha imitation.

  The senior lieutenant was deep in thought, deciding strategy. Finally he spoke:

  “Harold Best, I assume, lives in Los Angeles.”

  “Right.”

  “Which means,” Friedman said, “that you’ve got to go to Los Angeles. You work from that end, try to trace the money down the ladder from Best. I’ll work this end, going up the ladder from Bruce Weston. So to speak.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “How so?” Friedman raised his eyes to Hastings’s face, searching for his meaning.

  “Nobody likes working outside his own jurisdiction. Especially in Los Angeles. Christ, those guys make it up as they go along down there.”

  “I agree. But the alternative is to let the LAPD interrogate Harold Best, for God’s sake. Which I’m sure they’d love to do. LAPD is riddled with publicity-seekers. It goes with the territory.”

  “If I do go down there, I should check in with LAPD, though. Protocol. And they’ll want to know what I’m up to.”

  “So don’t check in with them. What’s the advantage? Except for a car, you don’t need them. So you can rent a car.”

  “Best’s got to be surrounded by people, if he’s running for the Senate. Without any jurisdictional authority, I’ll have a hell of a time getting through to him.”

  Ignoring the point, Friedman once more lapsed into deep reflection. Then, speculatively: “I’m trying to imagine how the money trail would go, from Los Angeles to San Francisco. I figure that, besides Best’s father-in-law and his wife, the piranhas, there’s probably two or three people who have direct access to Best. If you connected with one of them—a campaign manager, for instance—and persuaded him to hand-carry a note to Best, your troubles could be over. You know, like, ‘Ah, those nights in the frat house.’ Give him a place to meet you, and you’d be in business.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “Harold Best is carrying around a very, very big secret. He sees a note like that, he’ll come running.”

  “Carpenter says he’s really a nice guy. Very generous. Very caring.”

  Friedman shrugged. “He probably is nice. But he’s weak, that’s what I hear on FM radio as I’m driving to work. He lets his wife and his father-in-law pull his strings. So now, maybe he’s paying the price. So pack your three-piece suit, and get a shoe shine, and take your gun and cuffs and go down to LA. Rent a car. Take a few days, poke around. You could score big.”

  “How about if the two of us go?”

  Decisively, Friedman shook his head. “Sure as hell, we get on that plane, there’d be mass murder on the steps of City Hall. Guaranteed.”

  “Okay.” Automatically, Hastings glanced at his watch. Time: 2:45 P.M. He looked at the disarray on his desk. Saying, “Tomorrow. I’ll leave tomorrow. Early.”

  “Good.” Friedman heaved himself to his feet, and stood for a moment looking down at his co-lieutenant. Friedman had saved the hardest part for last:

  “You should take someone with you.”

  Hastings made no reply.

  “By rights, you should take the officer of record on the case.”

  Having remained seated while the other man spoke, Hastings decided to rise. Facing each other across the desk, they exchanged a long, probing look. Finally Hastings said, “You’re talking about Janet Collier.”

  Friedman nodded. Saying softly: “That’s true. Janet Collier. Otherwise known as Collier.”

  After another long moment of silent scrutiny, Hastings finally dropped his eyes, then let himself sink back into his chair. Muttering: “Goddammit.” He spoke balefully.

  After a backward glance, verifying that Hastings’s office door was closed, Friedman also sank back into his chair. Saying: “I’m listening.”

  “First, I’m not going to take Janet down there—for purely personal reasons. So next in line would come Marsten, since he’s the senior sergeant. Except that I don’t like Marsten. Also, I wouldn’t trust him on this assignment. If he saw a chance to make points for himself on a case this big, he’d do it. I won’t take Canelli, I need him here, working the Hardaway case. So then I’d have to go around the squadroom. And whoever I pick, the rest of the guys would be pissed.”

  Friedman nodded ponderously. “I agree. But, you shouldn’t go alone, without backup.”

  “If I were going after Claude Hubble, I’d want everything I could get. But we’re talking about the so-called upper crust. Nobody’s going to shoot me.”

  “We’re talking about murder, Frank. Probably a murder that was planned in Los Angeles by p
eople who’re running scared.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Hmmm.” Spoken doubtfully.

  “Well, then,” Hastings said, “you and Collier go.”

  In a silence that was gently playful, Friedman made no response.

  “Okay, then I’ll go. Alone.” It was a take-it-or-leave-it offer, an ultimatum.

  “Okay.” Irritably Friedman spread his big, thick-fingered hands. “Fine. Good luck.”

  They eyed each other in a stiff, formal silence. Then, venturing a different, more conciliatory note, Friedman said, “You were telling me why you don’t want to take Collier.”

  Hastings drew a long, deep breath. Saying: “You know damn well why I’m not taking her. You’re the one who gave me the lecture. Squadroom morale, jealousy, rumors, even old-fashioned morality. Remember?”

  “You’re doubtless aware,” Friedman countered, “that old-fashioned morality is back. Thanks in large part to AIDS.”

  Hastings eyed the other man, then said, “The truth is that I’d hate to walk out on Ann. And Janet won’t take another woman’s man. Speaking of old-fashioned morality.”

  “Since you mentioned Ann, have you told her there’s someone else?”

  “I haven’t told her. But I’m sure she knows. Women can feel these things.”

  “Men, too,” Friedman observed dryly.

  “Not as deeply as women.”

  Friedman gestured for Hastings to go on.

  “The point is, I’m not ready to move out on Ann.”

  Friedman debated the wisdom of a wry response, then settled on a thoughtful, objective observation: “In all my years in this business,” he said, “I’ve never seen a more likely prospect for command than Collier. She’s smart, she’s ambitious, and she’s hardheaded, too. For all those reasons, she knows damn well that if you moved in with her, those sergeant’s stripes would fade into the distance. Marriage, that’s something else, speaking of conventional morality. But living together, otherwise known as shacking up, living in sin …” Friedman shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. Not for Janet, anyhow.”

  “One big problem,” Hastings said, “is Janet’s kid. Her husband walked out on her. For years, she’s raised her son—and partially supported her mother, who’s also divorced.”