Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  There was a moment of silence. In the front seat, the driver was opening the small case that held the gun.

  “No,” Best said. “Not the gun. Close the case.” And to Sobel, Best snapped, “Leonard’ll take you home, then he’ll come back. I’ll see you at the staff meeting tomorrow—the military base closures, cutbacks in defense.”

  “But don’t you want me to take care of this cop, send him on his way? I mean, Christ, we don’t need him prowling around, harassing you.”

  “The best thing is to talk to him, defuse him, send him back to San Francisco.” In the headlights, the figure was lowering his arm, steadily advancing on them.

  “Whatever you say.” Grudgingly, Sobel tripped the door latch, got out of the Lincoln’s backseat, got in the front with the driver. Equality in the ranks, after all, was a hallmark of the Best campaign.

  Best was smiling a campaign smile as he got out of the limo and advanced to meet the man from San Francisco.

  “We’ve been talking for twenty minutes, Mr. Best. And the truth is, I don’t think we’re connecting. It’s like you’re talking at one level, and I’m talking at another level. And nothing’s happening.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Lieutenant. Because I’m trying to help you. But you’ve got to realize that I’m running for United States senator from California, which has a bigger economy than most countries of the world. And if you follow politics, you realize that the slightest hint of scandal, so-called, even if it’s in the past, is the end of everything.”

  “Which is why,” Hastings said, “you won’t admit to knowing Randall Carpenter in college. Is that what you’re saying?”

  They were in a small den just off the main entry hall of the Best mansion. Holding a stem glass half-filled with seltzer water, Best stood behind his leather-topped desk. He was a tall, athletic man, almost improbably handsome. Was it possible, Hastings wondered, that a subspecies of the American male was emerging: the tawny blond, bronzed, blue-eyed Californian who smiled so easily, played tennis so gracefully, pleased so many, and offended so few?

  The time was after ten o’clock. Seated in a brass-studded leather visitor’s chair, Hastings decided to remain silent as he tracked the other man with his eyes. Because he’d been thirsty, Hastings’s own glass of seltzer water was empty and rested now on the desk, pointedly ignored by his host.

  Finally, sighing with sharp impatience, Best decided to sit behind his desk. For the first time he spoke harshly, a hint of the supercilious man behind the smile:

  “I believe,” Best said, “that the term is shakedown. Could that be it, Lieutenant? Could it be that you ran across someone called Carpenter, who claimed that he knew me in college? And could it be, further, that Carpenter alleges that he and I had some kind of a sexual relationship? And could it therefore be that, having discovered this little nugget, you decided to take a few days off from the SFPD? Could that account for your presence here? Is it possible that you decided to offer me a deal? A pledge not to reveal this alleged affair in exchange for—well, you fill in the blank. As in blank check. Is that what we’re talking about here?”

  Furious, holding himself painfully in check, Hastings spoke in a low, tight voice: “No, Mr. Best, that’s not it. And to prove it, let’s forget about what happened to you in college. Let’s forget about Randall Carpenter. Okay?”

  Best sipped his seltzer water as he stared at the other man. Then, softly, inscrutably, Best said, “You’ve got the floor, Lieutenant. Make your point.”

  “My point is, I’m not here to shake you down. I’m here because I’m investigating the murder last Tuesday night of one Charles Hardaway.”

  No response. Nothing but Best’s improbably blue eyes, utterly empty of expression, fixed on Hastings.

  “Did you know Charles Hardaway, Mr. Best?”

  The reply came quickly, assertively, smoothly: “No, sir. Sorry.”

  “Have you ever heard of the name?”

  “No, sir, not to my knowledge. I might’ve heard the name in passing, but it didn’t register.”

  “Mr. Hardaway and Mr. Carpenter lived together in San Francisco until Mr. Hardaway’s death, last Tuesday. They were lovers.”

  The other man’s eyes remained utterly empty, inscrutable.

  “You still maintain that you didn’t know Charles Hardaway?”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant. But to the very best of my knowledge I’ve never heard the name. Never.”

  “Mr. Sobel—is it possible that he was in contact with Hardaway during the past several months? Without your knowledge?”

  Best raised his shoulders in an ironic shrug. “You’d have to ask Mr. Sobel. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Let’s get back to shakedowns, Mr. Best, since you introduced the subject. Okay?”

  No reaction. No hint of even the slightest misgiving was visible in the other man’s face. Best’s long, graceful fingers, toying with the stem glass, were perfectly steady.

  “I have testimony that, when Mr. Carpenter contracted AIDS, and could no longer work, he went to you with a request for money. Is that true?”

  Harold Best calmly studied his antagonist. Finally Best said, “Let’s assume that’s true. How could it bear on the murder of Charles Hardaway?”

  “Because when Hardaway saw how easy it was to get money from you, he decided to go into business for himself. He contacted you and put the arm on you. It worked—at least for a few months. We’re close to reconstructing a paper trail that connects you to Hardaway, and it involves several cash transactions. But then Hardaway apparently got greedy, which is the mistake blackmailers usually make. He threatened you with exposure, because he knew of your relationship with Carpenter. So you didn’t have a choice. You ordered Hardaway attacked. You told an underling, who contacted his people in San Francisco. They hired a professional to do the job. And he was very good at what he did. He—”

  “Jesus.” Best suddenly exploded, rising to his full height behind the desk, sending his chair crashing into the wall. Fists clenched, voice raised furiously, he began to sputter incoherently for a moment. Then: “Jesus, you—you’re fantasizing, you dumb son of a bitch. You—you’re out of control. I’d advise you to get back in your car, and drive to the airport, and catch the first flight back to San Francisco. And when you get back to San Francisco, I’d advise you to keep a very goddam low profile. I’d also advise you to stay away from Randy. Stay away from this whole thing. Because if you don’t, I promise you’ll pay. You’ll pay and pay and pay.”

  “I notice,” Hastings said, speaking quietly, complacently, “that you said ‘Randy.’ Are you aware that you did that—said ‘Randy’ in a very familiar voice? Because, during this whole interview”—as he spoke, Hastings unbuttoned his shirt to reveal a tiny microphone clipped to the V-neck of his T-shirt—“during this whole interview, I made it a point to say either ‘Mr. Carpenter,’ or else ‘Randall Carpenter.’ But never ‘Randy.’”

  Voice quivering, Best pointed to the door. “Get out. Now. Right now. Before I call my lawyer.”

  Moving with great deliberateness, Hastings nodded politely to the other man, then left the room.

  31

  THE TWENTY MINUTES FOLLOWING the detective’s departure had given him time to plan, to rehearse his lines. Whenever it was necessary to confront her, success was possible only with an airtight script, a beginning, a middle, and an end. Plus a hook—one succinct phrase that would put her on the defensive. Then, when she was off balance, it was possible to—

  A buzzer sounded: the front door. He switched on the TV monitor, focused on the foyer. The time registered on the screen: exactly 10:30 P.M. Now Carlos came into the frame. The houseman’s tie was loosened and he wore slippers, an after-ten dispensation from the rules of the house. Carlos opened the front door as he half-bowed to Carolyn, who was smiling generously, a sprightly pantomime. Carolyn and Carlos had always understood each other.

  She had advanced midway into the central hallway when Best opened the
den door and stepped out to greet her. He was conscious of the moment’s tableau: she so stylish, so completely in command, placing her attaché case on a side table, tossing back her thick tawny hair, glancing casually at presorted pieces of the day’s mail that had been put in a Chinese bowl in the foyer. He decided not to advance on her. Instead, he chose to stand before the open doorway to his den, his one true refuge. Here, now, she must come to him.

  He watched her slit one envelope open, glance at the one-page letter inside. She smiled faintly. Whatever the letter concerned, she’d correctly guessed its contents, and had already discounted them. She returned the mail to the bowl, to be dealt with tomorrow. Then she turned to face him.

  “So …” She smiled: a predictably impersonal smile that was nevertheless friendly, perpetually amused. The smile, he knew, had been created over the years especially for him. The casual contempt at the secret center of the smile was visible only to him.

  “So how was San Diego?” She had advanced to stand almost within arm’s length, a carefully calculated distance. Perhaps because she sensed that the San Diego swing might have misfired, the smile widened almost imperceptibly, yet tolerantly. Between them, his failure was common currency.

  It required that he respond in kind: “A guinea pig shit on my shoe during the Boy Scout thing.”

  “Cub Scout,” she corrected automatically.

  “Cub Scout.” As he spoke, he stepped aside, gesturing her into his den. “Got a minute?”

  She glanced at her watch, shrugged, preceded him into the den. Best closed the door, took his accustomed place behind the desk. Carolyn sat facing him across the desk, her accustomed place.

  “Were you at your father’s?” It was a carefully calculated opening gambit.

  Studying his face, she nodded. He’d gotten her attention; he could see it in her eyes, in the stillness, the covert watchfulness.

  “It’s Hastings,” he said. “The policeman from San Francisco. You saw him today. Didn’t you?”

  Still watching him carefully, she said nothing.

  “You saw Hastings,” he repeated. “I know you saw him.”

  “All right, Harry, I saw him.” She spoke coolly, calmly. Then, glancing at her watch, she sighed. Carolyn never voluntarily stayed up after eleven o’clock.

  “And then,” he pressed, “you went to see your father. You drove yourself—in the Buick.”

  The last phrase amused her. “Implying,” she said, “that it was all very hush-hush.”

  “Just James and you. All the servants out of the house. Am I right?”

  With seeming indifference, she shrugged. Then: “Whatever it is, Harry, make it short, will you? We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t you curious about Lieutenant Hastings, Carolyn? I talked to him, too, you know. Aren’t you curious?”

  This time, her sigh was impatient as she glanced at her watch. The message: his time was running out.

  Aware of the enormous weight of the words he’d rehearsed so remorselessly during the past twenty minutes, he spoke softly, sibilantly: “Charles Hardaway.” He let a beat pass, focusing her attention. “You and Hastings talked about Charles Hardaway.” Another short, probing silence. “You talked about Charles Hardaway and I talked about his lover, Randy Carpenter.”

  Seated in one of the small room’s two wine-colored leather armchairs, she remained motionless, her violet eyes revealing nothing as she stared at him across the desk. Yet behind her facade, he could sense the gathering tension, the latent fury.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “He mentioned Hardaway’s name, but wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “I told you about Randy,” he said. “In college, we—”

  “I know,” she snapped. “I know. And I told you, Harold, that you’d been a fool.”

  He waved away the criticism. “Randy isn’t the problem, Carolyn, and never was. The problem is Charles Hardaway. Alive or dead. And Hardaway is your problem. Not my problem. Your problem. Especially now—especially dead.”

  “My problem?” The contempt behind the words was palpable. “My problem? How do you figure that, Harry?” Now she spoke bitterly, as if she’d been betrayed.

  “The only plausible scenario here is that Hardaway found out about Randy and me. Somehow he got through to you—or your father.”

  “That’s supposition, Harry. Speculation. You’re assuming that—”

  “Who else could it be, Carolyn? He must have tried to blackmail me and you stepped in. Who else would pay? It was blackmail, and you paid. And paid. Until you realized you had to have him killed. So your father must have arranged it, no problem. I can imagine how it went. There’re a dozen people in San Francisco who’d do anything—anything—to ingratiate themselves to your father. All he had to do was give one of them Hardaway’s name. And that was it.” He spread his hands. “Hardaway died. End of the problem. Washington, here we come.”

  Her response was a small, reflective smile that was palpably edged with both pity and derision. “God, you’re such a child, Harry. I wish I had the luxury of appreciating your innocence. You’re—”

  “You two must have had Charles Hardaway killed, Carolyn. And the police are going to find out about it. Murder. My God, we could all be—”

  “It wasn’t murder. Not premeditated murder. It was a warning—a beating. Something went wrong, that’s true. But it was never murder.”

  “Hardaway’s dead. That’s murder.”

  For a moment she said nothing, did nothing but sit silently, her eyes locked with his. Finally she spoke: “If you and Randy Carpenter hadn’t played around in college, none of this would be happening. You’re the problem. When you and Randy—”

  “All Randy did was ask for money. He’s got AIDS, and he’s desperate. And all I did was send him money periodically.”

  “Blackmail. You paid blackmail.”

  “No. If those payments stopped, he’d never threaten me. He’d never talk. Never.”

  “Bullshit.”

  For a long, harsh moment they said nothing. Until, speaking calmly and concisely, Best said, “The police aren’t going to let go of this. They’ve got a murder, and they’ve got a motive, which was to shut up Hardaway. This detective—Hastings—he’s only the first. There’ll be others poking around. And eventually they’ll find whoever killed Hardaway. They’ll find out why, too. And that’ll be the end of the campaign. The media—God—it’ll be a feeding frenzy.” He permitted himself a small smile. “Your father must’ve been furious, when it all hit the fan.”

  “If he’s furious with anyone, it’s you, Harry. My God, all you had to do was keep your place in the script.” She shook her head slowly in disgust.

  “Randy came to me, and I handled it, no problem. But when Hardaway came to you—Sobel, whoever—you fucked up. ‘Pay me,’ Hardaway said, ‘or I’ll call the media.’ And you paid. Then you panicked, and you had him killed. So now we’ll have the media and the police. We’re screwed.”

  “We’re not screwed. My God, one detective with run-over shoes rings your bell, and you panic.”

  “I think you’re panicking, Carolyn. In your own quiet, over-privileged way, you’re losing it.”

  “How much money do you send Carpenter?”

  “About five or six thousand a month.”

  “But in a few months he’ll be dead. Right?”

  Resigned, he nodded.

  “So there’s no problem, with Randy. He’s no blackmailer, you say. And he’s dying.” She spoke more concisely now. As always, the elements of her calculations were clicking efficiently into alignment.

  “That still leaves Hardaway.”

  “No.” Gently, she shook her head. Repeating softly, with malicious precision: “No. That leaves Hardaway’s murderer.”

  “The murderer your father hired.”

  “Oh, no, Harry.” She spoke mockingly, superciliously amused. “The murderer was hired by some nameless flunky in San Francisco. Who, in turn, was hired by ano
ther nameless flunky, probably a lawyer. Who, in turn, was retained by someone else. A system of cutouts, in other words. You know how it goes.”

  “I know about cutouts. And I know about people paying off other people in cash for shady services rendered. But murder …” Despairingly, he shook his head. Suddenly he realized that he’d lost the edge of anger that had taken him this far. Now fear was engulfing him, stifling him. Two hours ago, he had been secure in his limo, drinking brandy with Sobel, tie loosened, exchanging quips; his world had been secure on its axis—good-bye California, hello Washington.

  But then a figure had materialized in the darkness beside the entrance to the estate. A detective. Lieutenant Frank Hastings, badge in hand, the stalker, dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit. Fate, the stalker, the avenger. Meaning that now, even in the security of his den, his world was tilting, falling away, leaving him limp with fear, once more a victim to the ravages of Carolyn’s scorn. Carolyn and her father. They would always circumscribe his life, hold him helpless. For twenty minutes, after Hastings had left and before Carolyn arrived, he had believed he could bend them to his power, the power of fear for the omnipotence of the law. He’d been wrong. Nothing, not even murder, could loosen their hold on him.

  Dominant again, she rose and stood for a moment looking down at him as he sat behind his elegant antique desk. Never, he realized, had Carolyn looked so completely in command.

  “Don’t worry about Randy,” she said, speaking calmly. “Pay him, be nice to him, make him feel secure—and let him die.”

  Somehow unable to stand and face her, he could only remain seated as he nodded, mumbled something unintelligible.

  “You can forget about Hardaway, too, forget about his death. It’ll be taken care of. The whole thing, it’s being handled.” Complacently, almost casually, she smiled.

  32

  HASTINGS AIMED THE TV wand, pressed the Off button, plunged the room into darkness. He turned to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling.