As Friedman levered himself forward in his chair, he turned to Hastings, saying, “Time to go, Lieutenant. That was the exit line.”
39
“ALL HUBBLE HAS TO do,” Hastings said, “is recant, say we pressured him to name Delbert Gay and Bruce Weston. Hubble’ll say no one hired him. He’s a hard-core gay-basher, he’ll admit. He’s sorry for what he did. Then, surprise, he’s got a high-powered lawyer, no questions asked, no bills rendered. And, another surprise, Hubble is fifty thousand dollars richer. The new lawyer, sure as hell, plays golf with the DA. End of the story.”
They sat at the far end of the long carved-mahogany bar in the midday anonymity of their hotel. Friedman was drinking Scotch, Hastings seltzer water.
“I’ve got to admit …” Moodily, Friedman sipped the Scotch. “I’ve got to admit that I’m discouraged. I don’t think I’ve ever admitted to being discouraged, at least not to you.”
Ruefully, Hastings snorted, used his glass to make wet, intricately articulated circles on the bar. “Do you think Forster could really fuck us up, if we go after him? Ruin our careers?”
“I’ve no doubt,” Friedman said. “None at all. I’ve seen it happen. It takes time, but it happens. The mayor is beholden to the party and the fat cats that put him in office. And the police chief is appointed by the mayor. So one day Forster gives a high-powered buddy a call. ‘These two lieutenants,’ Forster says, ‘they’re crossing the line, creating problems. Can you handle it?’ No problem, says the friend, who sets up a lunch with the mayor and explains that his honor can’t expect much in the way of campaign financing unless Homicide is reorganized. ‘After all,’ the friend says, ‘it’s not acceptable for people like us to be embarrassed by people like Hastings and Friedman.’ Well, his honor gets the message. So, a few months later, maybe a year later, during the latest departmental shakeup calculated to please the voters, the mayor looks at his organizational chart and discovers that Homicide is supposed to be headed by a captain, not two lieutenants. So he picks a captain who’s in line for a favor, and he puts him in charge of Homicide—with orders to make us shape up or ship out. With the accent, of course, on shipping out. Like, to Vice, or Narco.”
“I think we should take Hubble to the DA as soon as possible. That’s when it’ll all come together, when we know whether the DA’s going for homicide or manslaughter or something in between. If it’s manslaughter, then that’ll mean he’s not going any higher up the ladder of suspects. If it’s murder, then he’d certainly go up the ladder, at least up to Bruce Weston, and probably higher. All the shit hits the fan, then.”
“I should remind you,” Friedman said, “that we already made a deal with Hubble. ‘We’ll recommend a charge of aggravated assault to the DA,’ we said, ‘if you give us Bruce Weston.’ If it appears that we welshed—if we recommend murder—not only do we lose Hubble, but we lose credibility with the bad guys. Which would have the effect of drying up about ninety percent of our sources of information. Which we can’t afford to have happen. We need Hubble almost as much as he needs us. Plus, if Forster finds out we’re going for murder, not assault, he activates his plan to squash us.”
“Jesus …” Hastings took a drink. “My head aches just thinking about it.”
“The sooner we know which way the DA jumps, the sooner we know whether Forster’ll actually go after us.”
“And whether Hubble is going to show up with a fancy new lawyer and look like someone with fifty thousand under the mattress.”
“Have you ever had someone like Forster after you?” Hastings asked.
“I’ve had threats. Dozens of threats. But I’ve never actually been hassled. Not that I know of, anyhow. I’m always having problems with the brass, that’s no news. But that’s built in. I’m a born shit-disturber.”
“What I’d like to do”—Hastings glanced at his watch—“I’d like to check out of this hotel, and I’d like to go to the goddam airport, and I’d like to take the goddam shuttle back to San Francisco.”
“Likewise. Let’s go.” They dropped money on the bar and walked to the door.
40
“THANKS, BART. THANKS FOR the input.” Carolyn Best smiled at the campaign manager. It was a perfunctory smile, a smile of dismissal.
“Yes, Bart,” Forster said. He, too, smiled. Impersonally. Also dismissively.
Barton Sobel rose, nodded first to Forster, then to Carolyn Best, finally to Harold Best, who made no response, but looked moodily away. Sobel could hardly remember Best refusing the courtesy of a smile. It was an ominous sign.
When the office door closed on Sobel, Forster rose from behind his desk and strode to the glass wall of his study. At five o’clock on a warm, clear, golden afternoon, the sun was lowering in the sky over the ocean to the west. Already, the horizon was purpling.
Carolyn and Harold Best remained seated side by side on the office’s sofa. They hadn’t looked at each other or spoken to each other. Separately, their attention was fixed on James Forster, who was finally turning away from the view, striding across the room to his desk. His gaze focused on Carolyn Best.
“Needless to say,” Forster began, “I wish I’d known about this situation as it was developing, months ago.”
“I wish I’d known about it, too,” she answered. “Bart didn’t tell me until after he’d made the first payment to Hardaway. He exceeded his authority.”
Forster shrugged. “Perhaps. Keep in mind, though, that Bart is probably the best in the business, precisely because he’s willing to take chances, take the initiative—and, if need be, take the heat. The alternative would have been someone who’s constantly asking for direction.”
“He paid off a blackmailer without authority. By the time I knew about it, there was damage.”
“What would you have done,” Forster asked, “if Sobel had asked you for authority?”
“I’d have checked with you,” she answered promptly. “However, once the first payoff was made, I decided not to bring you into it. If something went wrong, you could claim complete innocence.”
“Meaning that you’d take the heat?”
She shrugged, looked away.
For the first time Harold Best spoke to his wife: “When Bart told you what he’d done, what’d you say?”
“I told him that since he’d taken the initiative, he’d have to live with it. I told him to keep me out of it. And he did, too, initially. But then Hardaway began to get greedy. He began making threats.”
“What kind of threats?”
“Jesus, do I have to be explicit?” For a moment she stared at her husband. Then, very softly, she said, “To publish intimate details about you and Randy—do you want me to draw pictures?” She spoke bitterly, viciously.
“So you had Hardaway killed.” Harold Best’s voice was hardly more than an incredulous whisper. His eyes were averted. Unaware that he was doing it, he began nibbling a fingernail.
Ignoring her husband, Carolyn Best spoke to Forster: “There’d been a few payments when Bart came to me the second time. He realized that he’d made a mistake, and he told me so. One problem was that since he’d set up an elaborate system of cutouts to make the payments, he’d never dealt with Hardaway directly. He had no way of deciding whether Hardaway represented a threat—whether, in fact, he could be scared off. So I decided to take a hand. I got Hardaway’s number, and I called him from a phone booth. I identified myself, and told him that if he made any more trouble, he’d be killed. I told him he could have two more payments—twenty-five thousand altogether. But that was all. That was the end. He was paid in the same fashion as Barton used the first time.”
“What was his reaction?” Forster asked.
“He seemed stunned.” For the first time she looked at her husband fully. “He asked me whether I was really your wife. I suppose a homosexual would naturally doubt that you were married.”
Best was looking at his wife intently as he spoke in a low, strained voice. “Yes, I suppose that’s so.”
“Are you saying,” Forster asked his daughter, “that you gave the order to have Hardaway killed without consulting me?”
Quickly, she shook her head. “No, not killed. I never intended that. I threatened Hardaway with murder to get his attention. But I told Sobel to have him beaten. Badly. As a warning.”
“It’s murder,” Best said. “He’s dead, for God’s sake.” His voice was ragged, his eyes haunted. In that moment it seemed impossible that Best could ever again smile for the cameras.
“It was an accident,” she answered calmly. “Weston says it’s being investigated by the DA as a random gay-bashing that went wrong. The actual assailant will get off with a light sentence, worst case. And he’ll be paid for his trouble. Well paid. He’ll be—”
“This is incredible,” Best broke in. “This is an unbelievable conversation. You’re—Christ—you’re talking about subverting justice in the basest way. In the campaign we’re promising people a better country. A better life. But the two of you, you’re—” Unable to find the words, choked by his own outrage, Best broke off. Then, in low, carefully measured words, speaking directly to James Forster, Best said, “Ever since Hastings came, on Wednesday, I’ve known it would come to this. I—Christ—I’ve hardly slept. And now …” Signifying the end of hope, he gestured loosely, an expression of helpless anguish. “And now, this last hour, it turns out to be worse than I thought. It—it’s a—a disaster. It’s—”
“Randy will be dead soon,” Carolyn said, “and this situation will be resolved.”
Best looked hard into his wife’s face, but made no response.
Carolyn Best moved impatiently on the couch, signifying that other matters more urgent beckoned. Alert to the movement, and to Forster’s corresponding shift—the father and daughter always in sync—Harold Best rose abruptly. As his wife began to rise, frowning, Best restrained her with a gesture. He glanced at Forster. Still seated behind his desk, the older man was watching him carefully. As always, ever alert to even the smallest nuance, Forster was doubtless already anticipating Best’s intent.
“About three o’clock this morning,” Best began, “lying in bed, I made a decision.” He paused, looked at father and daughter in turn. Then, speaking so softly that Forster was forced to lean forward across his desk, hand cupped behind his ear, Best said, “I’ve decided to quit. I’ve decided you can have your goddam campaign. I’ve decided I don’t want any more to do with either of you.”
Forster’s response was mild, measured: “I’ve got millions sunk into the campaign, Harry. You pull out now, it’s larceny. Outright thievery.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Next year at this time, you’ll be worth a lot more than you are now, regardless of this campaign. My campaign—it’s sport, for you. It’s how you get off.”
“Speaking of getting off,” Carolyn said, “how do you plan to get off, once you leave? We don’t have the most conventional marriage, but we manage. Or, I should say, I manage for both of us.”
“I imagine,” Forster said, “that Harry will return to his old ways. In fact, I’ll predict that he’ll move to San Francisco.” Forster smiled maliciously. “Am I correct, Harold?”
Gravely, Best nodded. “You’re absolutely correct. I don’t intend to let Randy die alone.”
41
“FOR ONCE,” ESTERBROOK SAID, “we agree. Even with physical evidence placing Hubble at the scene, it’d be hard to make a case for murder one. But without physical evidence, even aggravated assault’ll be a stretch.” Across the desk, the assistant DA looked from Friedman to Hastings, then at Friedman again. Puzzled, he frowned. “Pete, you’ve got that Cheshire-cat look. You don’t mind losing Hubble on murder one?”
“Not if you prosecute for aggravated assault.”
“If we prosecute at all, it’ll be for manslaughter. Minimum.”
“My only interest is in seeing him prosecuted for something. I want him to go to trial.”
“I’m trying to figure out what game you’re playing. Have you got a deal with Hubble? Is that it?”
“If he falls for manslaughter, that’ll do fine.”
“We don’t have enough for murder, and you don’t give a shit. You made a deal,” Esterbrook said. “Probably with Hubble. He gives you Weston, and you lay back.”
“Probably.”
Esterbrook looked at Hastings. Saying: “But what about Pete’s Cheshire-cat expression? He’s after bigger fish, isn’t he?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” Friedman answered airily.
“Before I sign off on this, I need to know your game plan. Top to bottom.”
“Top to bottom,” Friedman said, “Hubble goes to trial for manslaughter, if that’s what it takes. He takes the whole fall, doesn’t implicate anyone else. He admits to an uncontrollable urge to bash a gay guy, whatever. That’s our deal with him.”
“But you need Hubble, to get to Weston.”
“Probably. But I’m after even bigger fish.”
“Who?”
“Have you heard of James Forster?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, he’s my big fish.”
Mock-admiringly, Esterbrook shook his head. “You’ve got a flair, Pete. No question.”
“You want to hear how it goes?”
“Please.”
“Hubble goes on trial, as advertised. He’ll probably get an acquittal. That’s because James Forster will have provided Hubble’s defense with a high-priced, can’t-miss lawyer. Forster also lays fifty thousand dollars on Hubble. When Forster does that, he’s vulnerable, and we’ve got him by the balls.”
“Oh. You’ve got James Forster by the balls. I see.”
“He’s already given us his game plan. All we have to do is turn it around on him. No problem.”
“On what charge?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Based on finding Hubble walking around with fifty thousand of Forster’s money in his pocket. Is that the plan?”
As Esterbrook spoke, Hastings’s pager sounded. He glanced at the digital display, grunted once, signaled for Esterbrook’s scratch pad. Watching, Friedman saw the surprise in Hastings’s face.
“Well?” Friedman said. “What?”
“It’s Harold Best. He’s in town.”
Friedman blinked. “In San Francisco?”
Hastings nodded.
“And you’re supposed to call him?”
Hastings shrugged. “What else?”
42
“MY GOD,” ANN BREATHED. “You scared me. You said you’d be back tomorrow, probably.”
In the narrow entry hallway of Ann’s ground-floor flat, Hastings maneuvered his suitcase, kissed her lightly before he closed the front door, tested the lock, and followed her into the living room, where he deposited his bag on the floor beside the bookcase. The TV screen displayed silent black-and-white images of a nightclub scene in an old movie that was familiar to him.
“Casablanca?” he asked. As, yes, Bogie appeared, clenching his jaw. How many thousands had that characteristic mannerism added to Bogart’s income over the years? How many millions?
“Right. Casablanca.” She picked up the TV wand, switched off the movie.
“No—that’s all right. Leave it on.”
“I know it by heart. Have you eaten? There’s some chicken in the fridge. Scalloped potatoes, too.”
“I’ll take a look.” He walked down the Victorian flat’s long hallway, back to the kitchen. He found the chicken pieces, plastic-wrapped. He got a plate, scooped up a serving of potatoes, took a drumstick and a wing, and returned to the living room. As he ate, he recounted the interview with James Forster. Friedman had ordered him not to reveal that, perhaps at that very moment, Friedman and Best were meeting.
“Ah,” she breathed, “you and Pete—it sounds like you’re in over your heads.”
“We just go where the investigation takes us. I’ll tell you, though, life was a hell of a lot simpler without
Harold Best and company. And a lot more predictable, too.”
“Predictable … when is life ever predictable?” She smiled. It was a wan, wistful smile. Her mood had shifted. In the past many weeks—since Janet Collier had come into his life—he’d often seen Ann smiling like this as she searched his face for something she knew was no longer there.
She knew, and he knew. He could feel the guilt revealing itself on his face, naked to her gaze.
But what guilt? He’d once held hands with Janet Collier. He’d once told Janet—awkwardly confessed—that he was in love with her. He yearned to go to bed with her, become her lover. And she felt the same.
Yet except for a momentary adolescent groping in the police parking lot garage, they’d never touched each other. It was a Victorian dilemma begun, incredibly, in a serial killer’s bedroom and played out in a nondescript Chinese restaurant around the corner from the Hall.
While behind his back the men and women of the Inspectors’ Bureau sniggered. Because office romances were for losers. And Janet couldn’t afford to be a loser. Not with a teenager to raise, not with a mother to help support.
“You’re looking grim,” Ann said.
“Am I?” He tried to smile—but failed. Now they were facing each other across the coffee table, he in an armchair. “I guess I’m not used to dealing with high rollers.” He bit into a chicken thigh, contemplated returning to the kitchen for a bottle of seltzer water. He glanced at his wristwatch: eight thirty on a Saturday evening.
“Where’re the boys?”
“Victor has them. They had a chance to go sailing this afternoon, and Victor had promised them a double feature. So they’re staying at his place tonight. They’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Do I remember your saying that Victor has a new car?”
Calculated Risk (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 19
