Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  As a diversion, time to plan a reaction, Sobel glanced at his watch: ten forty-five. “Would you like some coffee? Pastries?”

  The detective’s smile was polite but remote. “No, thanks.”

  Acknowledging that the refusal signified an end to the preliminaries, Sobel nodded. He shifted his swivel chair enough to bring him in direct eye contact with the man from San Francisco.

  “I’m sure you realize,” Sobel began, “that Mr. Best is extremely busy. The election is only six months away. Meaning that we’re in the process of finalizing everything. Itineraries, budgeting, the media, personnel decisions—by now, the first phase should be complete. Except that it isn’t. So I doubt that you’ll have much luck getting through to Mr. Best. In fact, I’ve got to tell you, it’s surprising that you and I are having this little talk. Anyone else—someone off the street, without credentials …” Gracefully, Sobel spread his hands. Then he smiled engagingly. Both gestures were smoothly executed, all part of the political mover’s bag of tricks.

  “I understand,” Hastings said, “that you’re Mr. Best’s campaign manager.”

  “Well—” Now the smile was self-deprecatory, boyish. In his handsome, urbane middle forties, Sobel projected an easygoing good humor. “That’d be a slight exaggeration, I’m afraid. There’re three of us that call the shots in different aspects of the campaign—media, planning, financing. True, I’m the first among equals. But the real boss is Carolyn Best, the candidate’s wife.” As he said it, Sobel slid his gaze across Hastings’s face, looking for a reaction. The absence of a reaction suggested that, yes, Hastings knew about Carolyn, about her status, her authority. And, proof positive, the detective asked, “What about James Forster?”

  As if the question pleased him, as if he were encouraging a promising protégé, Sobel nodded. Observing casually: “You’ve been doing your homework, I see.”

  The detective made no reply.

  “You haven’t told me why you want to see Mr. Best,” Sobel said.

  “It’s in connection with a case we’re investigating. We think Mr. Best has some information we need.”

  “Down here, though—in Los Angeles—you’ve no authority.”

  Hastings shrugged. “I’m not here to arrest anyone. I’m here to ask Mr. Best a few questions. A half hour of his time, that’s all I need.”

  “That’s all very well, but the plain truth is that I simply don’t have the authority to put you in direct touch with Mr. Best.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant.” Sobel leaned into the desk, a confrontational move. Now there was no light of good-fellowship in Sobel’s manner as he said, “At one level, of course, you’re right. If I wanted to put you in touch with Harold Best, I could do it. However, to be perfectly candid, should I do it, my judgment would be called into question. Meaning that, at the next staff meeting, I could find myself taking orders, not giving them.”

  For a moment the detective said nothing, simply sitting quietly, his gaze reflective. Then, decisively, he suddenly nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll talk to Carolyn Best.”

  “Jesus.” Sobel’s voice rose a plaintive half note, incredulous. “I just got through telling you, Carolyn is busier than the candidate. She—”

  “Either you put me in touch with her,” Hastings said, “or I’ll have to find her on my own. Which means that, first, I contact the LAPD, which I haven’t done so far. I’ll have to tell them why I’m here. Everything. I’ll give them names and places, things I have no intention of telling you. After I’ve done that I’ll request assistance locating Mrs. Best. And, while I’m at it, I’ll put in a request for Mr. Forster’s address. Then I’ll—”

  “Hey,” Sobel interrupted, his manner outraged. “Hey, what the hell do you think you’re—”

  “We might not have their private phone numbers, only the addresses. So we’ll have to do the job in person. I’ll ask for a couple of black-and-white cars, which is standard procedure. And, of course, there’ll be a couple of unmarked cars. We’ll drive up to the Best residence, and we’ll demand entrance. We’ll—”

  “You’re either bluffing, or you’re insane. Do you have any idea how much power these people have?”

  “The question is,” Hastings countered, “do they know how much power I have?”

  Sobel’s only response was a contemptuous snort. Hastings, in his turn, rose to his feet. He pointed to his business card, lying on Sobel’s desk.

  “I’ve written my hotel and room number on the back. If you decide to cooperate, get me an appointment with Mrs. Best, you can call me. Otherwise”—Hastings consulted his watch—“otherwise, at one o’clock, I’ll be on my way to downtown police headquarters. Meaning that, by tomorrow at this time, Mrs. Best is going to wonder what ever happened to her privacy.” He went to the office door, opened it, and left the office without looking back.

  28

  “A CASE THEY’RE INVESTIGATING?” Carolyn Best repeated. “That’s all he said?” Carrying a portable phone, she rose from her desk, strode out to the deck. She was a tall, slim woman; she moved restlessly, purposefully. Her gestures revealed a tight, controlled anger. Once more, Barton Sobel had displeased her.

  Standing at the railing of the deck, she looked out across the rooftops of Beverly Hills. Today, with light winds, an early summer smog layer covered the entire Los Angeles Basin. Still carrying the phone, she returned to her study, slid the glass door closed, turned her back on the low-lying haze.

  “This Lieutenant Hastings,” she said. “Tell me about him.”

  After a moment’s thought, Sobel said, “He knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. I’d say he’s very good at his job.”

  “Describe him.”

  “About forty-five. Speaks like he’s been to college. Big, muscular—a good-looking man. Not brilliant, but certainly smart enough to get the job done. Thinks before he talks, I’d say.”

  “Did he ask to see me? Or Harold?”

  “He wanted to see Harold, originally.”

  “But now he wants to see me.”

  “Or so he says.”

  “Did you tell him about me—about my function in the campaign?”

  “I didn’t have to tell him. He knew.”

  “But you don’t know, really, why Hastings wants to see Harold. Just that it’s in connection with a case Hastings is working on.” As she spoke, she consulted her appointment calendar, glanced at her watch. Saying: “I don’t want him to think he can jerk us around. But I sure as hell don’t want a driveway full of police cars.”

  Sobel made no response.

  “Where’s Harold, right this minute?”

  “He’s in San Diego, speaking at a Rotary lunch. Then there’s the Orchid Society, and the dedication of a new airport baggage-handling system. Then the Cub Scouts, an awards ceremony. He’ll skip dinner, should be back here about eight o’clock.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “Nothing special,” Sobel answered. “We’ve got a planning session at one o’clock. We’ve got to be thinking about a swing through northern California. Including …” Sobel let a significant beat pass. “Including San Francisco.”

  “San Francisco …” Savoring the irony, she smiled. Then, decisively: “It’s almost noon. I want you to call Hastings at his hotel. Tell him I’ll be able to see him about two o’clock.”

  “Really?” In the question, she could hear doubt, a challenge. Always, Sobel was pushing, questioning her decisions, her judgment.

  “I’m not going to avoid this guy. That’ll only make matters worse. As far as he’s concerned, we’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Okay,” Sobel said doubtfully. “Whatever you say.”

  “Two o’clock. Here. Just Hastings. Nobody else, or there’s no deal.”

  “Right.” Still transparently doubtful.

  “Thank you, Barton.” She broke the connection, sat for a long moment at her desk, staring intently at the phone. Then she made the only pos
sible decision. She lifted the phone, pressed a single button, heard the familiar voice:

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a San Francisco detective in town. I’m seeing him at two o’clock.”

  “Where’s Harold?”

  “San Diego. He’s due back in Los Angeles about eight tonight.”

  “Let’s plan on a light dinner, here. Five o’clock, I think.”

  “Five. Yes.”

  29

  REFLEXIVELY, HASTINGS PALMED HIS shield as he approached the tall, elegantly paneled entry door. But here, now, in Beverly Hills, the badge meant nothing, had no authority, therefore no shock value. As he was pocketing the badge, the imposing black lacquered door swung open to reveal a tall man in his late twenties. Everything about the man suggested Ivy League: the blue blazer, gray flannel slacks, untasseled black loafers, white button-down shirt, old school tie. The man’s finely drawn features were aristocratic, his dark hair was razor-cut.

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” The smile was urbane, tainted by a slight suggestion of disdain. In this young man’s world, policemen were members of the servant class.

  “That’s right. I’ve got an appointment with Mrs. Best.”

  “Yes.” The urbane smile widened almost imperceptibly; the young man stepped back, gestured Hastings inside. They crossed a marble entry hall, entered a corridor that led to a suite of rooms at the rear of the Best mansion. At the end of the hallway the young man knocked discreetly on a closed door, then pushed the door open.

  It was an elegantly appointed room, dominated by a huge antique claw-footed table that served as a desk. To one side were another period table and six chairs, presumably for conferences. The wall behind the desk was dominated by electronic components, computer screens, and three televisions. Sliding glass doors led to an adjoining deck. Carolyn Best stood in the open doorway to the deck. She was a tall woman, a commanding presence perfectly suited to her dramatically opulent surroundings. Her features were decisive, her shoulder-length ash-blond hair casually styled. She wore beige slacks and a tangerine silk blouse. A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses was suspended around her neck by a golden ribbon that complemented her hair.

  “Lieutenant Hastings.” She gestured to a chair placed before the desk. “Sit down. Please.” It was a command, not an invitation.

  “Thank you.”

  Assuming her position behind the desk, she allowed a moment of silence to pass as she assessed her antagonist. Then abruptly she said, “What is it, exactly, that I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “You can arrange for me to talk to your husband.”

  Her perfectly drawn lips stirred in a distant smile. Her eyes were a deep, startling violet. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that my husband’s time is oversubscribed. But if I can help you …” She gestured with her left hand, a graceful invitation. She wore thin gold bracelets and a simple wedding band. Her eyes were shrewd, sharp-focused on her visitor.

  “Sorry,” Hastings countered. “But I’ve got to speak with Mr. Best. It shouldn’t take long. A half hour, no more.”

  “In campaign time, Lieutenant Hastings—political time, if you will—a half hour can equal a whole day of regular time.”

  “Then I’ll try to be brief, when Mr. Best and I talk.”

  Surrendering to exasperation, she sighed sharply, saying, “My husband and I operate as a team, Lieutenant. To be perfectly honest, unless you’re more forthcoming, I really can’t justify making time in Harold’s schedule for you to see him.”

  Hastings studied the woman for a long, thoughtful moment before he began to speak in a quiet, measured voice:

  “I can understand how you think your husband can’t spare the time. I know he’s a very important man. But when you talk about politics, you’re talking about—” He hesitated, searching for the phrase. “You’re talking about people—how they live, how they die. You’re in the business of promising people a good life, making things better for them. But when things go wrong, that’s my department. Someone dies, we get the call. And if it’s murder, then someone has to pay. Crime and punishment, in other words. Good and evil.”

  “All of which,” Carolyn Best said, “doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m conducting a murder investigation. Last Tuesday, in San Francisco, a man was murdered. Charles Hardaway. We believe your husband might be able to provide us with a motive for that murder. Or, at the least, give us some information about the victim. So I’m looking for information. Possibly vital information in an ongoing murder investigation.”

  “What possible connection could my husband have?”

  “I’ll have to discuss that with Mr. Best.”

  Anger flashed in the violet eyes. “You still don’t understand, Lieutenant. My husband and I are”—impatiently, she threw out her hand—“we’re synonymous. Talking to me is the same as talking to him. There’s no difference.”

  “No difference to you, maybe. But to me, there’s a big difference. Call it protocol—legally, the chain of evidence. Break the chain, and the whole case comes apart.”

  “But—”

  “Some of the information we’re looking for goes back almost thirty years, Mrs. Best. Long before you even knew your husband.”

  “Lieutenant …” Making no effort to conceal her exasperation, she drew a deep breath. The mannerism lifted her breasts. Appreciatively, Hastings conceded that Carolyn Best was an exciting, desirable woman. What would her reaction have been, discovering that her husband was bisexual? Or did she know? Was it possible that—?

  “I hate to indulge in clichés,” she said, her voice hard and purposeful, “but the bottom line is that my husband and I—and especially my father, James Forster—wield considerable power in this state. And the truth is, a couple of phone calls to San Francisco, and I can assure you that you’d start to have a whole hell of a lot of career problems. Instantly. ‘Pounding a beat,’ isn’t that the phrase?”

  Without fully realizing that he meant to do it, Hastings had risen to his feet. He stood for a moment looking down at Carolyn Best. Then he said, “I’ve been threatened many times, Mrs. Best. It worried me the first few times it happened. But I finally realized that people who make threats are frightened people. And frightened people make mistakes.” Mockingly, he smiled. “Don’t bother to show me out. I’ll find the way.”

  30

  “WHERE’S MY WIFE?” BEST asked.

  “At home, as far as I know. Actually, I haven’t talked to her since that goddam detective arrived on the scene.”

  “Homicide, you say. San Francisco Homicide.”

  Sobel nodded. “Right.”

  They were traveling north on the Santa Monica Freeway, en route from LAX to Beverly Hills. Sobel gestured to the tiny bar built into the Lincoln’s divider. “Do you mind? It’s been a long day.”

  “Please.” Best gestured to the bar. “Help yourself.”

  “How about you?”

  “Brandy. Straight up, please.”

  “So—” Sobel gestured with his glass, a salute. “So how’d it go in San Diego?”

  Best’s smile twisted ironically. “Don’t schedule me any Cub Scout functions for a while, Bart. I don’t think that’s where the votes are.”

  “Maybe not the votes. But how about photo ops?”

  “Photo ops, sure. I judged a guinea pig personality contest.”

  “Ah, yes.” Sobel nodded complacently. “Yes, I remember scheduling that personally. How’d it go?”

  “Truthfully,” Best admitted, “I think it came off. The advance work was good, and the turnout was great. Except that one of the contestants shit on my shoe.”

  Smiling, Sobel sipped his drink. “Bummer.” Then, all business: “Word is, Ryder’s calling it dead even in the Sentinel tomorrow.”

  “Ah.” Best nodded. “That’s wonderful, yes.”

  “The momentum—it’s starting to happen, Harry.”

  Wearily, affably, Best smiled. “Bring on the guinea pigs,
eh?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Lincoln was turning onto Rodeo Drive; only a mile from home. Best glanced at the clock: almost nine thirty. He would have a light meal, watch the local news, get to bed early. If he missed Carolyn tonight, he would catch her tomorrow at breakfast.

  “What’s scheduled for tomorrow?” Best asked.

  “Ten o’clock, we’re roughing out the Humboldt County swing for next month. We don’t need your input yet, though. There’s still a lot of preliminary stuff. Those goddam old-growth redwoods, logging, the spotted owl. It’s a potential minefield, everybody loses, nobody wins. So it’s better if we start slowly, feel our way. Initially, I don’t want you up front, not even in the meetings, the planning sessions. You’ll come in late, as the all-seeing peacemaker. That’s the way I see it.”

  “Maybe we should pass altogether.”

  Ruefully, Sobel shook his head. “No such luck. This one we can’t pass on. No way.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The limo was slowing for the final turn into the driveway of the Best mansion. The driver’s voice came over the intercom: “Shall I put the car away?”

  “No,” Best answered. “You’ll take Mr. Sobel home. He doesn’t have a car here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They were stopped at the gates, which were about to open. A strange car was parked close beside the gate. The car was a cheap American sedan. Moving slowly, deliberately, a man was getting out of the car on the driver’s side. In the Lincoln’s front seat, a case containing a MAC-10 machine pistol always rode beside the driver. As the wrought-iron gates swung slowly inward, the driver reached for the case. In the headlight glare, the stranger was raising both arms, palms outward, a gesture of peace. Something metallic sparkled in the stranger’s hand. Now the gates were almost fully open. But the stranger stood in the driveway, blocking them. As Best muttered an obscenity, Sobel said, “That’s him. The detective from San Francisco. Hastings.”