Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “How many times did you shoot the crook? How many?”

  I sighed. “If you’d listened, Billy, you’d know that I didn’t shoot him at all.”

  “He was shooting at you, though. I know he was shooting at you. I heard about that.”

  Ann came up behind the boy, grasped his shoulders firmly, and turned him back toward the living room. “Hi,” she said softly, squeezing my hand. “Come in.” As we walked side by side down the short hallway of the converted Victorian flat, she moved close beside me. As our thighs brushed, I felt a sudden, secret quickening of desire. Again she squeezed my hand. She felt it, too.

  Dan was seated beside his father on the sofa. Seeing me, Dan smiled. “Hi, Frank. You’re a big hero today. Great.”

  “Today is right. I was just telling Billy that, in the news business, it’s all today.”

  “Hello, Lieutenant.” Pointedly, Victor Haywood didn’t bother to look at me directly.

  “Hello, Doctor. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine, Lieutenant. Just fine. How’ve you been?” His eyes were mocking, his voice elaborately supercilious. He was a lean, taut man with a cruel mouth and a permanent country-club tan. In that moment I suddenly realized that he would always hate me—first for threatening his son with the law, then for becoming his ex-wife’s lover.

  “How do you manage to get such a good press for yourself, Lieutenant?” he was asking. “Do you trade favors? Is that how it’s done?”

  Staring directly into his saturnine eyes, I deliberately allowed a long moment of silence to elapse before I quietly said, “No, Doctor, that’s not how it’s done.”

  “Oh, come on now, Lieutenant. I’ve always heard that policemen can get the law at a wholesale price, so to speak—just like car salesmen can get cars at cost. Surely you can work a swap with a friendly reporter. Cut-rate cars or cut-rate laws. What’s the difference? Everyone’s looking for a deal.”

  “Not everyone. Not me.”

  “In that case, Lieutenant, I submit that you’re naïve—or worse.”

  “And I submit that you’re wrong—or worse.”

  As we held each other’s eyes, I saw his fixed, malevolent smile falter. I realized that I was playing a dangerous game, ridiculing an egotist before his sons. If I could, I decided to go for a draw.

  His voice was low and tight. “One of us, obviously, is wrong. Very, very wrong. The question is, which one?”

  In the silence, I heard Ann clear her throat. Dan was staring down at the floor. Billy’s eyes were wide as he looked first at me, then at his father.

  It seemed to require an enormous effort, but I shrugged. “Lots of people have misconceptions about policemen—just like lots of people have misconceptions about psychiatrists.”

  He nodded, mocked thoughtfully. “Very neatly put. Lieutenant. I keep forgetting that you once went to college.”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, without being invited, I sat down in a large leather armchair. It was a chair that had once been the doctor’s favorite. Victor Haywood watched me for a moment, then rose to his feet. He turned to Ann, who had also risen to face her ex-husband. I saw her hands clenched knuckle-white. She couldn’t hold her own with Haywood. She just couldn’t hit hard enough.

  “I want you to be sure and remember, now,” Haywood said, “that the boys are to be ready, without fail, at four P.M. Friday. I’ll be here precisely at four to pick them up, and I intend to be underway by four thirty at the latest. Otherwise, the whole weekend will be jeopardized. Skiing takes an enormous amount of energy, you know, even without the strain of adjusting to the altitude. So it’s essential that the boys get a good night’s sleep Friday night. Especially Billy. He doesn’t tolerate altitude changes well.”

  “I know,” Ann answered. Her voice was low. Her eyes fell.

  “Yes. Well, knowing is one thing. Taking measures is something else.”

  “They’ll be ready, Victor. We’ll pack Thursday night.”

  “Yes. However, don’t pack too much. Don’t overdo it. Remember, it’ll be three of us in a sports car.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Abruptly, Haywood turned to his two sons, sitting on the opposite arms of the couch. Their farewells were perfunctory. Haywood left the flat without glancing at me.

  “Well,” Dan said, “it’s almost eight. I’d better hit the books. See you, Frank.”

  I rose. “See you, Dan.”

  Reluctantly, Billy followed his older brother down the hallway to the rear of the house. Ann stood in the doorway, watching them go. When the hallway door closed I went to her, turned her around, and took her in my arms. I felt her tremble.

  “He’s a genuine twenty-four-carat bastard,” I said, tucking her head down in the hollow of my shoulder. “I think he’s the biggest stuffed shirt I’ve ever known.”

  Her voice was muffled. “Thank you for giving it back to him, darling. Most people don’t, you know—or can’t. He intimidates most people.”

  “I suppose he does. In a way, that’s his trade.” I drew her closer. I could feel her body slowly relaxing against mine. “But it just so happens that it’s my trade, too,” I said softly.

  She drew back to look at me. Her eyes were misted with a hint of tears, but her smile was bright. Disengaging one hand, she pressed at the tip of my nose with a small, slim forefinger.

  “You don’t intimidate me, Lieutenant,” she whispered. “You’re nothing but a sentimental slob. And don’t you forget it”

  Ten

  “WELL,” FRIEDMAN SAID, SINKING into my visitor’s chair, “I understand your last night’s performance was left on the cutting-room floor. Obviously, you ignored my advice concerning the governor’s lady. You got upstaged.”

  “It didn’t even get as far as the cutting room.”

  “Still, your local coverage was good. Excellent, in fact. When are our three underlings due?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  He checked the time. “They have four minutes. You want some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I was absently riffling through my copies of yesterday’s homicide interrogations. Most of them were dead, concerned with cases that would never be solved.

  “How many’ve you got?” Friedman asked, pointing to the interrogation reports.

  “Sixteen. How about you?”

  “Fourteen,” he answered complacently. “As they say, seniority has its privileges. Have we got anything more on the King thing?”

  “I don’t know. I left last night without talking to Culligan. But he was still working on it, I know—checking out Farley’s neighbors.”

  “If Culligan was still working, there’ll be new information. He’s a bulldog. A gaunt, cadaverous bulldog. And he’s especially good at conducting investigations after dark. Do you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because if he has to work at night, he doesn’t have to be with his wife, who also happens to be cadaverous. Have you ever met her? She’s—”

  A knock sounded on my office door, followed by all three men: Markham, Canelli and Culligan. I motioned them to chairs and tore off the top page of my scratch pad. The page was covered by doodles, one of which was “Ann” printed in big block letters. As I crumpled it up, I caught Friedman’s knowing leer.

  “Let’s start with you, Culligan,” I said brusquely. “What’ve you got?”

  Culligan opened his notebook on the desk and sighed heavily over the meticulously written pages. Typically, his manner seemed to presage an admission of defeat. But just as typically, he’d discovered something of potential value.

  “Sigler and I did quite a bit of digging,” Culligan began. “And, first thing, we pretty much corroborated everything that Judy Blake said.” He glanced directly at me. “It’s like I figured—she’s a good witness.”

  I nodded.

  “Also,” Culligan continued, “we turned up something else. We got two different witnesses who said that they saw a black guy leaving Diane Farley’s apartment sometime around
ten thirty Tuesday night. And we also have testimony that the victim was probably still inside the apartment at the time. Or at least his car was still parked outside.”

  “What kind of a black guy?” Friedman asked.

  Culligan glanced at his notes, then looked apologetically at Friedman. “We didn’t get much of a description. I mean, it was dark, and”—Culligan waved his hand—“and you know how it is, especially if the informant’s Caucasian.”

  “Did the subject get into a car?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How’d this black guy seem?” Markham asked. “Was he acting suspiciously?”

  Culligan spread his hands, at the same time rolling his tongue inside his mouth, as if he were reacting to something sour. “One witness said he was acting suspiciously, one said he wasn’t. Me, I’d rather not guess.”

  “This black guy could’ve been one of Farley’s clients,” Friedman offered, “not the murderer. After all, the facts are that Thomas King was murdered in Farley’s apartment, and Farley was caught driving King’s car. That’s a pretty potent set of circumstances. The way it looks now, either Farley or Winship—or both—are our best suspects. We don’t want to jump to any conclusions, just because someone saw a black guy wandering around.”

  Culligan decided not to comment.

  “What else did you find out?” I asked.

  “Not much, Lieutenant. At least not much that’s new. No one saw Diane Farley come home. No one saw Jack Winship and his van after six P.M. No one heard anything suspicious. We did get considerable confirmation of Judy Blake’s statement that Diane Farley had lots of men running in and out, but whether she was actually in business as a hooker still isn’t clear. At least, it’s not clear to me. A couple that lives in the same building—in the other apartment on the ground floor—told me that Farley was a model.”

  Markham snorted. “Every hooker I’ve ever collared said she was a model.”

  “This one had the pictures to prove it though,” I said.

  Markham shrugged with slow, deliberate insolence. Looking into mine, his gray eyes were expressionless.

  As I returned his stare, I asked him, “What about the victim? How’s he check out?”

  Taking his notebook from his pocket, Markham continued our eye-locked contest. Then, coolly, he lowered his eyes to his notes. No decision. No winner, no loser. “Thomas King,” he said. “Age forty-three. Address, 2267 Vallejo—which is a good address. Occupation, film maker.”

  “Ah, so,” Friedman said. “The victim is a film maker, the suspect is a model. What’ll you bet Thomas King made dirty movies?”

  Markham shook his head. “Not if you believe his wife. He made documentaries and advertising commercials. Naturally, I’ll check him out today—business associations, bank balance, reputation. But I’d bet that he’s clean.”

  “No one’s clean,” Friedman said. “In this business, that’s the first rule. Everyone’s dirty, even if it’s just the tiniest little smudge.”

  Markham didn’t respond.

  “What else?” I asked. “What about his family?”

  Again Markham consulted his notes. “The wife’s name is Marjorie, age forty. They have a son named Bruce, seventeen years old. The wife works as the manager of an antique business. The son is a senior at Lowell High School.”

  “How’d the wife react to the news of her husband’s death?” Friedman asked.

  Markham thought about it. “She seemed pretty cool. She seemed to be mostly concerned about how her son would react. Her son was out when I got there.”

  “Did she report her husband missing?”

  “Yes. But not until nine A.M. yesterday morning—Wednesday.”

  Friedman thoughtfully regarded the tip of his cigar. “As you say, she’s pretty cool. Most women call by one or two in the morning.”

  “She claims she’s a sound sleeper. She knew her husband was going to be out. So she went to sleep and didn’t wake up until morning. They have twin beds.”

  Friedman shook his head. “I don’t buy it. Women just don’t operate like that.”

  “If you talked to her,” Markham answered, “you might change your mind. She …” He hesitated. “She comes on pretty strong.”

  “Where did her husband say he was going Tuesday night?” I asked.

  “She said it was business. He did a lot of night work down at his studio, apparently. Two, three times a week, he didn’t come home. It’s taken for granted.”

  “What did Mrs. King say when you told her how and where her husband was murdered?”

  “She didn’t say much—didn’t commit herself. And of course I soft-pedaled the idea that there might be a sex angle.”

  Friedman nodded approval. “Very wise. Cops can get sued, you know. And do.”

  A moment of thoughtful silence descended as each man looked off in a different direction. Obviously, there was no more information to exchange. Finally Friedman heaved a sigh, signifying the end of the meeting. He looked at me, saying, “Why don’t we have Markham check out Thomas King’s background, and have Culligan check out this black guy, if possible? When she arrives, you and Canelli can grill Diane Farley while I, ah, coordinate things. Plus, I’ve got a meeting with a couple of assistant D.A.’s on the Ramirez thing.”

  “How’s Ramirez doing?” I asked.

  “I haven’t checked yet this morning.”

  As the three inspectors left the office, my phone rang. “This is Olsen, Lieutenant. In the crime lab. I’ve got a report for you on the knife found at the scene of the Hoffman Street homicide. Do you want it verbally, or should I send the report up to you?”

  “Both.”

  “Oh. Well—” Olsen cleared his throat. “Well, first, we found that the blood on the weapon matched the John Doe’s blood type.”

  “His name is King. Thomas King.”

  “Oh. Thanks. I’ll just make a note of that on the report.” During the brief silence, I could visualize Olsen carefully erasing “John Doe” and inscribing “Thomas King.” Olsen was a meticulous man. Finally he was ready to continue. “We also lifted two partial fingerprints, and one that was almost intact. We’re sending them off to Sacramento and Washington.”

  “Good.”

  “Those were the two main things we found,” Olsen said. “However, inside the knife, we found a couple of things that might help you. Besides, that is, just pocket lint.”

  “What things?”

  “First, we found a few grains of marijuana.”

  “Oh.”

  “And then we found tracings of magnesium and aluminum oxide.”

  I wrote down the two terms. “What’s with the magnesium and aluminum oxide?” I asked. “Any ideas?”

  “Well, sir, we’ve talked about it down here, and we came up with three main possibilities—either firecrackers or flares, or maybe fire bombs. Magnesium, you know, is used for all three. Mostly, I guess, for flares. If you don’t count military-type fire bombs. But aluminum oxide, although it burns, I’d say mostly it’d be used for firecrackers—for the colors, you know, when they burn.”

  As I thoughtfully doodled “flares,” “firecrackers” and “bombs,” my other phone rang. Friedman took the call, and we both hung up at the same time. “That was the desk,” he said. “Sergeant what’s-his-name from Santa Barbara is in the squad room with Diane Farley.”

  Eleven

  “SIT DOWN, MISS FARLEY.” I faced her across a small metal table. On the table was an ashtray, a microphone and a salmon-colored file folder: Diane Farley’s “jacket.” There was only one item on her rap sheet. Fourteen months ago, on the complaint of one Lester Gaines, Diane Farley and an alleged male accomplice had been arrested on an extortion charge. The accomplice had been tried and acquitted. The charge against Diane Farley had been changed to suspicion of soliciting for immoral purposes, then dropped for lack of evidence.

  Canelli closed the door and moved to his accustomed position, standing to the subject’s right,
leaning against the wall of the small, windowless interrogation room. According to departmental regulations, both Canelli and I had checked our revolvers with the hallway guard outside.

  Without speaking, I sat for a full minute watching Diane Farley squirm. I assessed her carefully, feature by feature, line by line, twitch by twitch. She seemed slimmer than her pictures, almost skinny. Her mouse-colored hair fell to her shoulders in dirty tangles. Her complexion was sallow and blotched. She wore a nondescript sweater, corduroy slacks and expensive-looking laced boots. In her eyes I could plainly see the characteristic muddy, sullen dullness of defeat that marks those who live on the far side of the law.

  She sat round-shouldered in her chair, exhausted. She looked defeated, ready to cave in. Yet I knew, instinctively, that Diane Farley would be tough.

  I pointed to the microphone. “Do you have any objection to our recording this interrogation, Miss Farley?”

  She looked at the microphone. I saw her frown.

  “Yeah, I mind.” Her voice was harsh, roughened by both defiance and fatigue. “I mind this whole thing. What the hell is all this, anyhow?”

  I moved the microphone aside. Speaking quietly, I verified that she’d received her rights on two different occasions: first when she was apprehended in Santa Barbara, next when she was booked by us on suspicion of Grand Theft Auto, less than an hour ago. Acknowledging that she’d received her rights, she spoke in surly monosyllables. Her eyes moved restlessly, flicking around the room, then darting to Canelli and myself before falling finally to the small metal table.

  “Would you like to smoke, Miss Farley?”

  She shook her head.

  I fingered an appendix to her booking form. It was a request for the court to appoint a lawyer.

  “You don’t have a lawyer of your own?”

  Again she shook her head. She began to pick at the edge of the table with a broken, dirty thumbnail.

  “How old are you, Miss Farley?”

  She drew a long, slow breath. “Twenty-four.”

  “How long have you lived in San Francisco?”

  “Three years.”

  “How long have you lived at 436 Hoffman?”