Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Yeah. Her stepfather has one just like it, she says.”

  “That could be a break. Those cars cost ten or twelve thousand dollars. There probably aren’t twenty in the whole city. Is the car missing now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe the murderer’s driving it,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. I’ll get right on it. Now, what about the pimp?”

  “That could be a break, too. Still according to Judy Blake, the name is Jack Winship. Caucasian. Age, approximately twenty-seven. Weight, about a hundred eighty. Height, six foot. Dress, hippie style, but not real far-out. You know—faded jeans and run-down boots and torn sweat shirts. He has scraggly, dirty dark hair that just about touches his shoulders. He wears a long mustache but no beard, although he usually needs a shave. And he wears glasses—heavy black-rimmed glasses.”

  As I wrote, I said, “Judy Blake sounds like the world’s best informant.”

  “Let’s hope.” Culligan sighed morosely. I could visualize his long, lantern-jawed face with its chronic smudges of fatigue in the hollows of his eyes. “This Winship drives a beat-up green VW van, with some rust spots and a small stovepipe sticking out of the roof,” Culligan continued. “So he shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  “I’ll put him on the air right now. Does Winship actually live with Diane Farley?”

  “He comes and goes, apparently. Miss Blake says that if Diane’s ‘entertaining,’ Winship sleeps in his van. But, anyhow, he’s always around.”

  “R and I might just have something on Winship.”

  “Let’s hope,” Culligan said again.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. I asked Judy Blake whether she saw any one of the three—Farley, Winship or the victim—last night. And it turns out that she did. She was home all night studying. And luckily she’s got her desk right under the window, so that she can look down into the street. And she’s almost sure that she saw Diane Farley and Jack Winship leaving in Winship’s van at about six P.M. Judy Blake says that maybe they were going to dinner, which they do a lot, she says—go out to dinner, I mean. So then—” Once more he paused for breath. “So then, about nine thirty, Miss Blake sees the victim pulling up in his white Mercedes.”

  “Is she sure?”

  “She’s sure, all right. She won’t admit it, but she’s sure. She just doesn’t quite want to commit herself until she’s checked with her father, who’s a big shot down in Los Angeles. But, if we needed to, we could pin her down.”

  “Did she see the victim enter the Farley premises?”

  “She didn’t actually eyeball him, because of the angle of the building. I mean, she couldn’t see the door. But she remembers seeing the Mercedes when she went to bed. That was about ten.”

  “It sounds like the victim had a key to Diane Farley’s place.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Either that, or the door was open.”

  “I hope you can turn up a few more witnesses like Judy Blake.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. I’ll get things started at this end. You and Sigler keep digging.”

  “Yessir.”

  I gave Communications the Winship A.P.B., then buzzed the squad room.

  “Is Sergeant Markham around?”

  “Nosir. He’s—oh, wait. He’s talking to a reporter. Shall I get him?”

  “Yes.” As I said it, I was aware of a small tic of jealousy as I thought of Markham charming the reporters with his lean, hard-eyed good looks. I fidgeted irritably through a full half-minute before Markham came on the line. I ordered him to get a list of all registered owners of Mercedes 280SL sports cars in the Bay Area, then begin checking them out against the drivers’ licenses of the registered owners, comparing physical characteristics with those of the victim. Additionally, I wanted Communications advised of the possibility that Farley and Winship could be traveling together, either in the VW van or the Mercedes. And, finally, I wanted the day’s Missing Persons reports checked against the list of 280SL owners. Remembering the half-minute delay, I issued the orders cryptically. Markham’s acknowledgment was equally cryptic.

  As I hung up, I saw Friedman eying me with obvious amusement.

  “One of these days,” he pronounced, “Markham could be giving you orders. Do you realize that? You. Not me.”

  “Why not you?”

  “Because by that time—when Kreiger retires—I’ll be retired, too. You will then be the logical choice for captain—provided that in the meantime you’ve learned enough to bestow a few judicious kisses on a few carefully selected asses. Otherwise, like I say, Markham will surely be the boss. Already, he’s jockeying for position—which is to say that he’s already beginning to probe for your weakness. Yours. Not mine.”

  “Why not yours?”

  “Because he knows you’re his problem—his antagonist. Both of you are big-bull-moose types, pawing the ground. Kreiger, too. But I’m just a”—Friedman spread his hands—“I’m just an overweight ex-actor. That’s the trouble with once having acted: you never quite get a fresh grip on reality. However, I’m smart, so I get by. Whereas, like I said, you’re an instinctive stud—a heavy. But you spend a lot of energy repressing the instinct. Because, really, you don’t enjoy leaning on people. Markham, of course, has no such hangups. He—”

  The phone rang. Friedman puffed leisurely at his cigar through two more rings, then answered. He listened for a full minute without speaking, then hung up. He looked at the phone for a moment, then smiled inscrutably. “That was the chief,” he said. “He told me to tell you that you’re to hold yourself in readiness for a special assignment.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it seems that some network execs got together over a few martinis, or something, and decided that they’re going to do an in-depth program on the assassination attempt. They’re going to give it the ‘Violence in America’ angle. It sounds like a socko cast, with a little something for everyone. They’re going to have the governor’s wife, for the fan-mag types, and a psychologist for the intellectuals, and you for the cops-and-robbers fans. And, of course, they’ll have the chief, so that everyone’ll know we’ve got a chief who looks like a chief should look.”

  “Not you.”

  “No. Not me. I don’t look the part, unlike you and the chief. So I guess I’ll go home.” He got his gun out of the drawer, clipped it on, and pushed himself to his feet, grunting with the effort. “Good luck with the Diane Farley case,” he said casually, taking his hat from a filing cabinet. “It sounds like it might have a few interesting kinks. And good luck with the governor’s wife. Don’t let her upstage you. I understand she’s good at that. And whatever you do, keep your best side to the camera.”

  Eight

  “JESUS,” CANELLI BREATHED, “THIS is just like Hollywood, or something. Look at those lights. It looks like a different squad room.”

  “Maybe I can get you a speaking part, Canelli. Interested?”

  He looked at me quickly. Seeing my smile, he smiled in return. Then he frowned. Had the publicity bug bitten Canelli, too? I couldn’t be sure.

  “She’s certainly pretty,” he whispered, nodding toward the governor’s wife. “She’s a lot younger than he is, isn’t she?”

  “She’s his second wife. At least.” I watched her arranging herself beside Chief Reynolds. She moved with the deft assurance of a model. Ten minutes ago, I’d heard one of the television executives suggesting that she apply some extra shadow around her eyes, “to be sure the idea of tragedy gets across.” Now the psychoanalyst was taking his place. At the same time, Chief Reynolds was alternately clearing his throat, smiling tentatively at the camera and adjusting his cuffs. He was wearing a business suit. The mayor had suggested a uniform, but the TV exec had vetoed the idea as being “too militaristic for a national audience.” As proof, he’d cited the astronauts: officers in mufti.

  The executive gestured to a sizable group of inspectors and un
iformed men, lounging on desks and chairs, watching the unprecedented bustle. “Some of you can get in the background.” The executive spoke in a high, nervous voice. With his mod clothes and affected gestures, he seemed strangely out of place directing policemen. “Stand about five feet behind the three principals,” he said. “You know, in a loose group. Like you’re onlookers.” He waved his hands at them, as if to boost them impatiently into place. “All right. Let’s have the lights.”

  As the lights came on, Canelli whispered, “What about you, Lieutenant? I thought you were going to be interviewed, too.”

  I shrugged. “They’re playing it by ear, I guess.”

  “Maybe you should remind them you’re here.”

  I mimicked his conspirator’s hiss. “Give it time, Canelli. I don’t even have my makeup on. And besides, I—”

  The executive was suddenly turning toward me, biting his lip and frowning. In three quick springy strides, he was beside me. “Listen, Lieutenant,” he said, “I just now heard that the network’s only clearing us for a five-minute shot, instead of fifteen. It’s a hell of a note, with all this equipment. I mean, I wouldn’t’ve gone through all this, just for five minutes. I’d’ve shot it live, like a news segment, instead of taping it and everything. But, anyhow, the focus is going to be on the governor’s wife. Okay?”

  “You don’t want me, you mean.”

  “Not for this sequence. I mean, this is taped, like I said. We’ve got you on local footage, haven’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good. That’s about all we can—Wait,” he said sharply, gesturing pettishly to the closest camera. “You’re duplicating angles. Go to your right, for God’s sake.” As he moved away, he looked at me and shrugged, spreading his hands.

  “Well,” Canelli said, “that’s show biz, I guess, Lieutenant. I guess they’re—”

  Someone touched my arm. Turning, I saw a blond patrolman.

  “Communications asked me to find you, Lieutenant Hastings. They’d like you to call them.”

  I moved to the far corner of the squad room, stepping over a tangle of electrical cables.

  I spoke softly into the phone: “This is Lieutenant Hastings.”

  “This is Blanchard in Communications, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, what is it, Blanchard?”

  “On that Diane Farley A.P.B., they’ve picked her up.”

  “Where?”

  “Santa Barbara.”

  “Do you have any particulars?”

  “No, but a Detective Woolsey is standing by in Santa Barbara. I have a phone number for him.”

  “All right. Get him, and put the call through to my office. I’ll be there in two minutes.” I gestured to Canelli, who was dividing his attention between me and the cameras. I told him where I was going, and ordered him to bring Markham to my office as soon as possible.

  As I was switching on my office lights, the phone rang.

  “I have Sergeant Woolsey for you, Lieutenant,” Blanchard said.

  “Good. Put him on.” I sat behind my desk, moving a notepad and ball-point pen closer to hand. After the routine pleasantries, I asked Woolsey for the particulars.

  He replied in a soft southern drawl: “We picked her up about five miles north of Santa Barbara, at approximately five forty-five P.M. Just a little more than an hour ago. We’re holding her on a vag charge and suspicion of Grand Theft Auto.”

  “What kind of a car was she driving?”

  “The one described in your supplemental: a white Mercedes 280SL, license number CVC 916. Registered to one Thomas King, 2267 Vallejo Street, San Francisco.”

  As I copied down the information, I asked, “What kind of documentation have you got, Sergeant?”

  “We’ve got the car registration and the license plate, both of which checked out with DMV, cross-checking the engine number. Then we’ve got a billfold, I.D., driver’s license and credit cards, all made out to Thomas King. They were in the glove compartment.”

  “Do you have his driver’s license right there?”

  “Right in front of me, Lieutenant. I figured you’d be asking.”

  “Give me a description of Thomas King, then.”

  “Well,” Woolsey drawled, “he’s—lessee—he’s forty-three years old, five ten, weighs a hundred seventy-five. Brown eyes, brown hair. Looking at his picture, I’d say he’s a kind of a smooth-looking guy. Down here, we’d call him actorish. Then there’s the car, of course. It costs ten thousand, so they tell me.”

  “At least.” As I said it, Canelli and Markham came into the office. I covered the phone, whispering, “Diane Farley’s in custody. And we’ve got an I.D. on the victim.”

  Canelli whistled softly. Markham merely nodded, as if he’d expected the news. His lean, handsome face was impassive.

  “What about the girl?” I asked Woolsey. “Does she have any I.D.?”

  “Negative. But she says her name is Diane Farley.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “She says she borrowed the car from a friend. Thomas King, that is. It’s not a very original story, of course. But she’s doing the best she can with it.”

  “What’s her frame of mind? How’s she acting?”

  “Pretty cool,” Woolsey said after a moment’s pause. “Pretty cool indeed. According to her, she just took a little old ride down to San Diego last night, and then decided to go back to San Francisco today.”

  I frowned. “What’d you mean, go back?”

  “I mean that she was traveling north on 101 when we picked her up,” Woolsey answered. “And we found a San Diego gas receipt. So offhand I’d say her story checks out. Of course, with your want out on her, we never did figure to do more than hold her, so we haven’t asked her any real hard questions.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I answered absently. “By the way, did you give her her rights?”

  “We sure did, Lieutenant. First thing we got her out of the car. No problem there.”

  “Good. I’ll send three men down there—two for the subject, one for the car. Unless—” I hesitated.

  On cue, Woolsey said, “If it’ll help out you boys, I could get one of my men, and we could bring them both up there. The girl and the car, I mean. I wouldn’t mind seeing how that little old car runs.”

  I smiled. “All right. Fine. Can you leave tonight?”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant. Matter of fact, we’re all ready to go. No sweat.”

  “You could probably have her here by, say, ten o’clock tomorrow morning, then.”

  “As good as done, Lieutenant. As good as done.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Ask for me. At the Hall of Justice.”

  “Roger.”

  I handed Markham the slip of notepaper. “That’s probably the victim’s name and address. But you’d better get a copy of his picture. Check him out.” I turned to Canelli. “You go, too. Let’s figure on meeting here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, to see what we’ve got.”

  As my office door closed behind them, I sagged back in my chair, closing my eyes. I hadn’t eaten since lunch—since the leisurely bantering hour I’d spent with Friedman.

  Had we really talked so lightly about Friedman’s past and present—and about the governor’s political scheming? And, an hour later, had I really crashed the wooden stock of a shotgun against the bone of a boy’s skull? Had I then driven to Hoffman Street, where I’d stared into the lusterless brown eyes of a corpse? All in six short hours?

  I opened my eyes slowly, and checked the time. It was almost eight. All day long, I hadn’t called Ann.

  Wearily, I picked up the phone. After three rings, I heard her voice on the line.

  “It’s me, Ann.”

  “Oh—” She seemed startled. Then, in a low, guarded voice: “Hello, Frank.”

  Not “darling.” Not a single soft “hello,” meant just for me.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  I heard her sigh before she said, “Nothing. My—the b
oys’ father is here.”

  “Oh.” I allowed a moment of silence to pass before I said, “I was going to stop by for a few minutes.”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “You’re sure it’s all right? Will he be gone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t care.”

  “No.”

  “All right. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll see you soon.”

  She whispered, “Goodbye, darling.”

  Nine

  AS I SWITCHED OFF the engine and set the parking brake, I was thinking of the first time I’d come to the Haywood flat, just three months ago. It had been a business call. Dan Haywood, Ann’s teen-age son, had briefly been a suspect in a homicide. I’d been questioning Dan on the front porch when I’d heard someone behind me. Turning, I’d seen a small, stylish blonde standing in the rain, holding two large, sodden grocery bags. With my cop’s compulsion for quick categorization, I’d labeled Ann a young society matron—cool, self-confident, aloof. I’d been right about the past, but not about the present. She’d been married to a successful, affluent psychoanalyst. But the marriage had ended two years ago. Now she lived with her two sons and taught grammar school to supplement her child-support allotment. I’d only met her husband once. It had been a brief, blustering encounter. If I continued to threaten his son, my career would be in jeopardy, he’d said. The threats had been routine. The delivery, though, had been convincing. Victor Haywood was a vicious, pompous, polysyllabic sadist. During most of their marriage, his secret victim had been his wife. She was only now, two years later, rediscovering a sense of her own worth.

  As I walked to Ann’s front door, I saw a Porsche parked two doors down. Dr. Haywood drove nothing but sports cars.

  Billy, age eleven, answered the door. “Hey,” he said in his high, excited voice. “Hey. Jeeze. You were on TV. Jeeze, they talked more about you than the governor, practically.”

  “Not true, Billy. Besides, by tomorrow, I’ll be yesterday’s news.”