Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Does her son resent you? Is that it?”

  Hastings grunted ruefully. “I’ve never met her son. Whenever Janet and I’ve met, it’s been in places like the Chinese restaurant, and maybe once or twice on a park bench.”

  “My God,” Friedman said, marveling, “this is an old-fashioned romance, you know that? A Bette Davis movie from the thirties, that’s what we’ve got here.”

  Hastings made no reply; his expression was unreadable. Friedman studied him, then ventured: “Speaking of divorce and children, Ann has—what—two sons, right?”

  Hastings sighed, dropped his eyes. Saying softly: “Right.”

  “Teenagers.”

  Hastings nodded.

  “And they, I imagine, approve of you living with them.”

  “How do I answer that?”

  “You don’t have to answer. Remember when you and Ann came over for dinner a couple of months ago, with the Harrises and my eccentric cousin from Sandusky? And remember how Ann volunteered to help Clara with the cooking? Well, naturally, they talked while they worked, as girls will. And eventually they got around to how incredibly handsome you looked on TV the week before, whenever. So during the conversation, Ann volunteered that her two kids thought you were wonderful, or words to that effect.”

  Hastings snorted. “You really are an incorrigible gossip, you know that?”

  “This isn’t gossip,” Friedman answered loftily. “This is sociology—life in America. Or, rather, divorce in America. I mean, just look at it: We’ve got you living here in San Francisco, where you were born, later to become a star halfback at Stanford. And we’ve got—”

  Resigned to his fate, Hastings muttered, “Fullback.”

  “Whatever. Anyhow, here you are. And there’s your ex-wife, the Detroit socialite, who’s married to the golf pro and who’s raising your teenage children in the lap of luxury in Michigan.”

  “Tennis pro. If you’re going to hang out my dirty linen, you may as well—”

  “Tennis pro. Sorry. Anyhow, you’re sending your wealthy ex-wife child support, so your kids won’t think badly of you. Meanwhile, Ann, the world’s nicest fourth-grade teacher, is getting monthly checks from her ex-husband, the society psychiatrist who specializes in the problems of rich divorcées—and who drives a Porsche which you, in a fit of temper, stove in with your bare hands when you pulled the driver’s door off its hinges and—”

  “Jesus, how long is this going on?”

  “Actually, I’m finished. Except to point out what you already know: that you can’t afford to get married because of all the support payments your ex-wife’s lawyer loaded on you. Not to mention Ann, who would lose her alimony if—”

  “Jesus. Enough. I’ve got the picture.” Hastings picked up one of the Hardaway file folders, brandishing it. “Let’s get down to business, and—”

  “It’s nothing personal. I’m just commenting on the state of marriage in America, like I said. I’m just—”

  “And I’m commenting on the state of the Hardaway investigation, which we’ve probably got at least two breaks on in the last couple of hours. And my comment is that—”

  “I know what your comment is,” Friedman said. “And, of course, you’re right. So?” He extended his hands, palms up, an invitation.

  “So, tomorrow morning, I’ll leave for Los Angeles. I won’t contact the LAPD. I’ll rent a car, and do the whole thing myself. I’ll try to contact Harold Best. I’ll lay the name on him: Randy Carpenter, that’s the hook. If it works, I figure all I’ll do is sit back and watch.”

  Friedman nodded decisively. “Good. Lay the name on him.” Friedman’s second nod was reflective as he said, “It’s possible, of course, that Best doesn’t know Hardaway is dead. Improbable, I admit, but still possible. Which means that you might be able to surprise him, get him talking. Meanwhile”—Friedman rose, loosened his tie, brushed from his vest the ashes from his lunchtime cigar—“meanwhile, on the home front, we’ll be in hot pursuit of Claude Hubble. Also”—Friedman glanced at his watch—“also, in ten minutes, I intend to terrorize Delbert Gay.”

  “Remember, I’ve got a deal with Delbert. I don’t want you to—”

  “Just kidding.” Friedman flipped a farewell hand, saying cheerfully: “Good luck in LA. Keep in touch.” He turned, left the office. His stride was light and bouncy. This, Hastings knew, was Friedman’s favorite part.

  26

  “THERE.” DELBERT GAY POINTED across the street. “That ribs place, there. Rusty’s. That’s where Hubble spends a lot of time. He used to be a busboy at Rusty’s. So now that he thinks he’s a player, big time, he likes to hang around and show off his car and his threads.”

  Friedman consulted the looseleaf binder he held open on his lap. Beneath the three-way pictures of Claude Hubble, below the statistics and the family information and the known associates and the list of priors, the line labeled “Car” was blank.

  “What kind of a car?” As Friedman asked the question, he passed the ID binder to Collier in the front seat. She took the kit and turned to share it with Canelli, who sat behind the wheel of the unmarked cruiser. With Friedman aboard, the motor pool had provided their best: a five-year-old Buick, fine-tuned, with top-of-the-line communications and electronics, most of which were in working condition. The Buick was parked on Divisadero, in front of a building that had once been a neighborhood movie house. On the badly abused marquee, letters clinging to a gap-toothed white plastic facade proclaimed, JESUS WILL RISE. At four o’clock on a warm afternoon in May, the sidewalks were populated by blacks of all ages and persuasions, some hostile, some watchful, some still hopeful. Before the Buick’s engine had been switched off, the word had gone out: The man had arrived on Divisadero Street.

  “Good-looking guy,” Canelli commented as he studied the pictures of Claude Hubble.

  “Listen,” Gay complained, “I don’t feel too good about this, sitting here like this. I mean, I’m known down here. The word gets out you guys’re looking for Claude, and he knows I’m with you, then I’ve had it.”

  Seated beside Gay in the Buick’s rear seat, Friedman eyed the other man. Then, speculatively: “Maybe I should cuff you. What d’you think?”

  “Aw …” Gay shook his head vehemently, slouched down deeper in the seat.

  “What kind of a car is Hubble driving?”

  Gay shrugged. “He turns them over pretty fast. But they’re always the same, Claude’s cars. Big, old, usually all dented up. You know—road warrior, like that.”

  “So he’s into cars,” Canelli said. “Is that it?”

  Aggrieved, Gay protested: “Hell, I don’t know what he’s into. All I know is, the longer we’re here, the longer—”

  “What about a girlfriend?” Collier asked as she twisted to face Gay.

  “Jesus, I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about the guy, not really. I mean, I got a couple of telephone numbers for him and that’s it. I need something done, I call him. Maybe I leave a message. Anyhow, we meet somewhere, and I pay him half up front, that’s usually how it goes. And then—”

  “When you hired Hubble to take Charles Hardaway out,” Friedman asked, “what’d you tell him? What were the instructions?”

  “Jesus, Lieutenant,” Gay said plaintively, “I already told you guys, I said for Hubble to just work the guy over. That’s all, just hit him a few times, then split.”

  “Was he supposed to say anything to the victim?” Collier asked. “Like, ‘This is from Bruce Weston,’ something like that?”

  “Naw, nothing like that. I mean, that’s asking for trouble, something like that. All he was supposed to do was take a couple of shots, then split. Like I said.”

  “What about the instructions you got from Bruce Weston?” Friedman asked.

  “Just what I told you before. I was supposed to check Charles Hardaway out, find out where he lives, what he did, what his schedule was. I took a couple of weeks, off and on. Then I got hold of Claude, gave him the plan.”<
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  “How long did it take Hubble after that?” Canelli asked.

  “It didn’t take any time at all. I had a picture of Hardaway, a telephoto shot I took. I gave Claude the picture, and gave him the plan. So then, Jesus, he did it that same night. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Did Weston tell you why he wanted Hardaway worked over?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Impatiently, Gay nodded. “I’m sure. I mean, Hardaway wasn’t the first job I did for Weston, you know. Criminal lawyers, you take a peek inside their operation, you realize they need someone like me. And I need someone like Claude.”

  “I think,” Friedman said, “that you know where we can find Claude Hubble.” With the question, Friedman’s voice dropped to a low, ominous note. The preliminaries were over.

  “And if that proves to be the case,” Friedman continued, “if you know where he is, but you don’t tell us, then you’re in trouble, Delbert. Do you understand?”

  “Well, sure. But—”

  “On the other hand, if Hubble should surface, and you tell us about it, then you do yourself some good.”

  No reply. But, deep within Delbert Gay’s faded gray eyes, something shifted. During the time they’d been bargaining, Gay had sat far back in the Buick’s rear seat, his left hand shielding his face. Now, pleading, he gestured with his free hand. “Listen, can’t we go, drive a few blocks, at least? I—” He moistened his lips with the tip of a small pink tongue. “I think I might have an idea for you.”

  At a signal from Friedman, Canelli started the Buick, pulled out into traffic. In minutes, driving north on Divisadero, their surroundings changed. Behind them lay the desperation of the old ghetto. Ahead, Divisadero was rising toward the hills of Pacific Heights and some of the most desirable residential real estate in the world: majestically restored hundred-year-old Victorian mansions and town houses. Between the impoverished flatlands and the spectacular marine views from the hills of Pacific Heights, speculators were slowly acquiring the aging mansions as they fell into disrepair. The old buildings were being razed, replaced by luxury high-rises, some of them thirty stories tall. The views from the new high-rises rivaled those of the original Pacific Heights mansions.

  “Where to?” Canelli asked.

  “Just park anywhere,” Friedman ordered, then turned to face Delbert Gay, who still sat with his face averted from the car’s rear window. As Canelli pulled the Buick to the curb behind a Lincoln Town Car, Friedman said, “Okay, Delbert. You’re safe. Talk to me.”

  “Yeah. Well, what I got, it’s just something I picked up, nothing big. Except that—well—it’s got to do with some money I gave Hubble to get out of town. It was a couple of thousand, in cash. Except that now I’m starting to hear he never did leave San Francisco. He just took the money and packed a suitcase, and then he started moving around, a night here, a night there. He’s supposed to have a girlfriend out in Visitation Valley somewhere. Except that I don’t know her name. Claude, he’s pretty close-mouthed, you know. Pretty cool.”

  “The money you’re talking about—the two thousand. Did that come from Weston, too?”

  “It will come from Weston. Except that I don’t have it yet.”

  Eyeing the other man speculatively, Friedman lapsed into a thoughtful silence before he reached into his pocket and produced a ten-dollar bill. “Here, this’ll get you back to your office, Delbert. Keep in touch. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure, Lieutenant. Thanks.” Gay took the money, opened the Buick’s rear door, and stepped out into the street.

  “Jeez,” Canelli said, following Gay with his eyes, “that guy’s a real insect, you know that?”

  Friedman nodded agreement. Then, in the crisp voice of command, he said, “We’ve got three things going, here. We’ve got to find Claude Hubble, that’s first. Collier, I want you and someone else—” He paused, quickly calculating: of the fourteen inspectors in his command, he must select a middle-aged man, married, a straight arrow unlikely to hit on a young, desirable woman. Sigler: of the fourteen, only Sigler would do.

  “Sigler,” he said. “You and Sigler—I want you to look for Hubble. If I can break anyone else loose, I’ll assign him, too.”

  “Am I in charge of the detail?” Collier asked. As she spoke, she visualized Bill Sigler’s deeply lined face, the reassuring face of a veteran. During all his years in Homicide, Sigler had never taken the sergeant’s exam. Like Friedman, Sigler had lost interest in climbing the advancement ladder.

  “Yes,” Friedman answered, making solemn eye contact. Repeating: “Yes, it’s your detail. Your case. Right?”

  “Yessir.”

  And to Canelli, Friedman said, “Joe, I want you to put some pressure on Bruce Weston, even if it’s just to hang around his waiting room. Same thing for Delbert Gay—just let them know we’re thinking about them. We’ve talked about Weston’s part in all this—he paid Delbert Gay, and Gay paid Hubble to do the job with the iron pipe. But who paid Weston? Got it?”

  Moving his lips and frowning, Canelli finally nodded tentatively. “Got it.”

  27

  BARTON SOBEL PUSHED OPEN the door from the hallway and consulted his watch as he entered the bullpen: more than twenty campaign workers at their desks, some of them phoning, some at the computers, all of them animated by the particular controlled frenzy of campaign politics. Taped to every wall, hanging from every ceiling fixture, covering the sides of every desk, the campaign posters proclaimed: BEST FOR THE SENATE, BEST FOR THE COUNTRY.

  Sobel smiled, nodded to himself. The atmosphere was suitably electric: shades of Hitler’s Nuremberg rallies, rank upon rank of Nazi banners, thousands of them, whipping in the wind. Goebbels had been the master of mass psychology. Never in the modern era had the few dominated the many so completely. Sieg Heil! the voices had roared in unison, echoing and reechoing across the Nuremberg plaza, the spectacle amplified by the swelling martial music. And, above the surging rabble of the faithful, the banners billowed: swastikas, hundreds of them.

  Hitler, the manic tyrant, the beaming baby bouncer, the genius.

  Stalin, brooding, psychotic, paranoid.

  Churchill, the cigar-smoking cherub with the will of iron.

  Roosevelt, the crippled patrician con man who dared to wear a cape, the best politician of them all.

  And now there was Best.

  Harold Best, the cipher. Amiable, yes. Photogenic, yes. Bright enough to remember his lines, yes.

  Harold Best, age forty-seven. An aw-shucks smile that always worked, and a beautiful wife.

  Harold Best, son-in-law of James Forster. James Forster, the paymaster. Neurotic, ruthless—wealthy beyond measure.

  James Forster, with California in his pocket.

  James Forster, eyeing Washington.

  The obsequity that marked Sobel’s progress across the bullpen was predictable: entry-level campaign professionals deferred to him, his two lieutenants nodded and smiled and returned to the strategies they were fashioning. Today’s focus was on the logistics of a one-day swing later in the week through the southeast corner of the state. The subject was creative conservation and resource management. Meaning that Best would promise California water that Nevada and Colorado were reluctant to deliver—at present prices.

  Seated at her desk beside his inner office door, his secretary was ready with the message slips generated during the hour and ten minutes he’d been in conference. Sitting on one of the two rental sofas provided for visitors, an anonymous man in his muscular mid-forties was looking at him. The stranger’s manner was both patient and expectant, watching and waiting. His off-the-rack clothes matched his manner: conservative, unremarkable.

  Carrying his attaché case in his left hand and taking the slips in his right hand, Sobel was gratified to see his secretary get quickly to her feet to open his office door. The secretary’s name was Grace Pendergast. Just out of Stanford’s M.B.A. program, Grace was the daughter of Albert Pendergast, state senator
from Humboldt County. Like everyone in the inner circle of the Best campaign, Grace Pendergast was a high achiever, with an IQ to match.

  “Are you eating lunch?” she asked.

  He nodded, glanced at his watch. Time: almost ten thirty. He smiled appreciatively. Like all good assistants, Grace had learned to anticipate.

  “How about a pasta salad from Amelio’s?” he said. “And get something for yourself. On the campaign.”

  Mock-conspiratorially, she returned his smile. “Right.”

  With Grace at his side he placed his attaché case on the floor beside his desk. Then, still standing, he riffled through the message slips. Mixed with the standard slips were two business cards. One of the cards had been left by a television network VP in charge of sales.

  The other card read Lieutenant Frank Hastings, San Francisco Police Department. There were two phone numbers on the lower right-hand corner of the card. Co-Commander, Homicide Division was printed in the lower left corner.

  The stolid, watchful man in the visitors’ area: a San Francisco homicide investigator. To confirm it, he waved the card at Grace. “That guy outside—he’s a cop?”

  She nodded. Her expression revealed nothing. Was she secretly enjoying his discomfort?

  As if she had erred in disturbing the smoothly functioning tempo of his day, and therefore owed him an apology, he frowned at her. Saying peevishly: “Homicide? San Francisco Homicide?”

  She shrugged. “He just showed up about a half hour ago, and asked to see whoever was in charge. I asked him what it concerned, but he just said he wanted to see you.”

  “Me? Particularly? By name?”

  “No. He just said he wanted to see the person in charge.”

  Sobel drew a deep, irritable breath. “All right. Give it five minutes. Then send him in.”

  “The reason I’m here,” Hastings was saying, “is that I want to talk with Harold Best.” The detective spoke quietly, implacably. His eyes revealed nothing, his voice was equally noncommittal. Yet also implicit in the eyes and the voice was the particular economy of speech and body language that carried the full force of the law. Plainly, Hastings meant to prevail.