Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “How about sugar?” He reached for the dispenser. “Do you disapprove of sugar?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmm.” Freehand, he poured a thick crystalline sugar-stream into his coffee.

  “They’re discovering that sugar is linked to heart disease, you know.”

  “Hmm.” He complacently stirred the coffee. Then: “You seem to have made out pretty well with Diane Farley.”

  “I think I got a straight story from her. It sounded straight, anyhow.”

  “The lab report will either kill her or cure her, assuming she wore those clothes the night of the murder.”

  “Right.”

  “Incidentally, the autopsy report is in on Thomas King. Did you see it?”

  “No.”

  “There weren’t any surprises, especially. The cause of death was three separate knife thrusts, two of which entered the heart. A good, clean job, in other words. The weapon was the switchblade knife, no doubt about it. However—” He paused to bite into the butter-dripping bearclaw, then talked around the mouthful. “However, it turns out that there was a fractured vertebra at the base of the neck. According to the coroner, the victim could’ve been knocked out by the traditional round, blunt instrument before he was killed with the knife.”

  “If that’s what really happened, then the actual killing—the knifing—could’ve been done execution-style.”

  “Right. Of course, that one little word—if—is responsible for sending lots of cops down lots of sour-smelling trails.”

  “What else did the coroner say?”

  “He said that assuming the victim ate dinner between six and seven P.M., then he probably died between nine P.M. and midnight. Of course, that’s approximate. Personally, in any case where the victim’s been dead more than six hours, I just don’t trust the time-of-death estimate. There’s just too many variables. Even the body temperature, for God’s sake, can be rigged.”

  “I wish we could find Jack Winship. I keep thinking that he could’ve driven to the apartment, killed King, and been gone by the time Diane Farley showed up.”

  Friedman frowned, then judiciously shook his head. “I don’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “What’s the motive? Jealousy?”

  “Maybe.”

  “No way,” he said.

  “How can you say that? You haven’t even laid eyes on Winship.”

  “Okay. I’ll bet you a three-dollar lunch that it’s not Winship. Want to bet?”

  “No.”

  “See?” He finished the bearclaw, smacked his lips, and reached for his coffee.

  “What I’d like to know,” I said, “is who tipped us.”

  “Maybe it was Diane Farley. Did you ask her?”

  “Not directly. But I know it wasn’t her.”

  He shrugged, and for a moment we sat in silence while Friedman drank the last of his coffee.

  “What’re you going to do now?” he asked.

  “I think I’ll get Canelli, and go out and see Mrs. King.”

  “All right. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can’t find Winship. If he’s driving that van, he shouldn’t be hard to find.”

  “Good idea.”

  “First, though, I think I’ll have another bearclaw. Maybe you’d better leave, to spare yourself the spectacle.”

  “Maybe I should.” I rose to my feet. “I’ll be checking with you in an hour or so.”

  “Right. Good luck with the widow King.”

  Placing his misshapen hat on the sofa beside him, Canelli surveyed the living room with round, awed eyes. “This is some place,” he stage-whispered. “I mean, this place could be on the cover of House and Garden, or somewhere.”

  Nodding agreement, I leaned toward him to say softly, “While I’m talking to Mrs. King, I want you to get the son—Bruce—and interrogate him. Find out what you can about how the father lived, and what kind of a home life they had.”

  “That kid looks like kind of a weirdo to me, Lieutenant. You know, real pale and jumpy, with those glittering eyes, and all. What if he starts to come unglued on me or something?”

  “If he does, let it drop. We don’t want to—”

  Mrs. King was standing in the archway, facing us. Her simple black dress was expensively cut to accent a trim, taut, exciting body. She stood with chin raised, hands clasped tightly at her waist. Her dark eyes were shrewd and steady. Her brown hair was pulled back from a lean, uncompromising face. Markham had put her age at forty. It was a sensuous, sexually self-confident forty.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Mrs. King,” I said, rising to my feet. “But there’s certain information we’ve got to have if we’re going to find your husband’s murderer.”

  For a moment she didn’t reply. Her eye didn’t drop, her posture didn’t shift. Then, speaking slowly and deliberately, she said, “There was another man here last night. Sergeant Markham. He was here for an hour, asking questions.”

  “I know that, Mrs. King. And I won’t be that long, I promise you.” As I said it, I stepped back, gesturing her to a chair. She hesitated a last long moment, then deliberately took another chair. As she settled herself, I asked permission for Canelli to interrogate Bruce. She made no objection.

  I decided on a cryptic, businesslike approach. “Did your husband have any enemies, Mrs. King? Was there anyone who’d threatened him—anyone who bore him a grudge?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she considered the question. She sat very erect, her back arched away from the chair. She didn’t look at me as she shook her head in one short, decisive arc. “No one hated Tom. A lot of people didn’t like him. But no one hated him.”

  “You’re sure? Absolutely sure? We often find that someone will carry a grudge for years, especially if he’s unbalanced.” I paused, to let the point sink in. “Can you think of anyone in your husband’s past who might have borne him a grudge?”

  “No, I can’t.” It was a quick, cryptic retort—too quick to have allowed time for thought. Had she already searched her mind and her husband’s past for clues? Or had she simply decided to be uncooperative?

  Speaking slowly and deliberately, I said, “You’re aware of the circumstances under which your husband was murdered, aren’t you, Mrs. King?”

  Looking straight ahead, she nodded. I saw her mouth tighten, her eyes harden. Beneath the pale, smooth flesh of her temple, a small muscle began to twitch.

  “Were you aware that your husband had seen Miss Farley about once a week for a period of approximately six months?”

  She turned her head to look at me directly. Deep in her eyes I saw a slowly kindling hostility. Her voice was brittle as she said, “Miss Farley is a model, Lieutenant. My husband was a film maker. Have you considered that?”

  “Are you saying that you know of his—visits to Diane Farley?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.” Her voice was totally uninflected, as if she were reciting by rote. Her eyes revealed nothing.

  “Are you aware that Miss Farley has been arrested on a morals charge, Mrs. King?”

  Her lips curved in a wry smile. “Are you trying to shock me, Lieutenant? Because if you are, you aren’t succeeding.”

  “You aren’t shocked, then, at the possibility that your husband might’ve been having an affair with Diane Farley?”

  Again she looked at me with her dark, intense eyes. The malevolence was plainer now—closer to the surface. But she still spoke with a slow, icy precision. “I had absolute confidence in my husband, Lieutenant. It’s as simple as that. We both had separate careers. He spent a lot of time away from home. So do I. But we always trusted each other. That’s the only way it could’ve worked. And it did work.”

  I allowed a moment of silence to pass before I said, “But now he’s dead. Someone killed him. I want to find the murderer.”

  She didn’t reply. But almost imperceptibly, her shoulders moved. She’d been about to shrug.

  “I have to ask two more questions,” I said in a brisker, more b
usinesslike voice. “Then I’ll let you go.”

  “All right.”

  “First, can you give me the approximate amounts of your husband’s life insurance policies?”

  “Yes. There was one policy for a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Thanks.” I rose to my feet, then waited for her to rise. As she did, I said casually, “The other question I have to ask, Mrs. King, is where you were on Tuesday evening. Were you home?”

  Already turned toward the arch leading into the hallway, she stopped, then slowly pivoted to face me directly. “Are you asking me for an alibi, Lieutenant?” Her voice was dangerously low.

  “Your husband was murdered in the apartment of a young woman who’d been arrested on a morals charge, Mrs. King. Until we know more about the whole matter, we have to assume that his presence at Diane Farley’s apartment could’ve been a motive for an irate wife to commit murder. You say you trusted your husband, and I believe you. But I still have to ask these questions.”

  “My husband was murdered with a knife, Lieutenant. Are you telling me that I could have knifed my own husband? Struggled with him and knifed him?” She looked at me with silent contempt before saying, “You must be out of your mind.”

  I sighed. “Mrs. King, I’ve seen a two-hundred-pound man killed by a hundred-pound woman wielding an ashtray. Now, what I’m asking you is a completely routine question. I’m here to eliminate you as a suspect in your husband’s death. And to do that, I’ve got to know where you were at the time of his death.” I spread my hands. “It’s simple logic.”

  She allowed a last moment of icy contempt to pass before she said, “I was delayed at the office until after eight.”

  “What company do you work for, Mrs. King?”

  “Wetherby Associates. We import antiques. I’m the manager.”

  “I know the company. They’re big. If you’re their manager, then you must have a very good job.”

  She nodded. “I do have a good job.”

  “You said you spend a lot of time away from home.”

  “Yes. It’s a wholesale business. I’m on the road about half the time.”

  “To get back to Tuesday, you probably got home, here, about eight thirty, assuming that you left Wetherby’s at eight”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your husband here when you arrived?”

  “No. He called me about five, to say that he was working on a job and wouldn’t be home until late.”

  “Did he say what the job was?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Was your son here when you arrived home?”

  “Yes.”

  “So the two of you—Bruce and you—were home all night.”

  “Yes. In fact, we were in bed before ten, asleep. We were both tired. We—”

  From the hallway came the sharp sound of a ringing telephone. I heard footsteps hurrying from the back of the house. On the third ring, Bruce King answered the phone.

  “It’s for you, Mother. It’s Uncle Harry. He wants to know about the funeral.”

  “Tell him it’s tomorrow. It’s—Wait. I’ll talk to him.” Moving with long, purposeful strides, she left the room. As she took the phone from the boy, I stepped into the hallway and beckoned Bruce King into the living room.

  “Could I have a few words with you?” I asked softly.

  He muttered diffident assent, then sat on the arm of a Victorian velvet sofa. He was a tall, loosely built boy with disheveled blond hair, a bad complexion and unsteady, unhappy eyes.

  Speaking against the background of Mrs. King’s terse, cryptic phone conversation, I said, “Is there anything you can tell me that might help us, Bruce? Anything at all?”

  He first shrugged, then shook his head. It was a typically ambivalent teen-age mannerism, both pettishly annoyed and deeply aggrieved. “I already talked to the other one, you know. Inspector Canelli. I—I told him everything I could think of. Everything. I mean—” He paused, then said, “I mean, I thought it was a burglar, or something. At least—” His eyes slid toward the sound of his mother’s voice. “At least, that’s what she said.”

  He’d accented “she” with bitter derision. Was it merely a perverse adolescent’s reaction to grief? Or was it something more?

  I hesitated, then said, “You might not want to answer this, Bruce. And I couldn’t blame you. But I’ve got to ask you anyway.” I waited for his full attention. Then: “Would you say that your parents got along well? Or would you say that they fought more than most married couples?”

  His pale, thin face suddenly convulsed. His voice was choked: “They were past fighting. They tried that. For years, they tried that. All during the time when I was little, that’s all I can remember. I—I even used to have dreams about it. One dream, I used to have all the time. They’d be arguing—fighting, like they always did. And then their screams would turn into something solid, hanging in the air between them. They were like animal claws, those words, with blood dripping down. And then I’d see my parents. Both of them. And they—they’d both be all bloody. All torn up. Especially their faces. And—and—” Suddenly he gasped.

  I got to my feet and turned to face him. From the hallway I could still hear Marjorie King’s voice. “I’m sorry I had to ask,” I said quietly. “But it’s my job. Do you understand?”

  Blindly, he nodded.

  “I’ve just got one more question. It’s about Tuesday night. I’d like to know what time you went to bed, Tuesday night.”

  Instead of replying, he only stared. His mouth worked impotently.

  “What time, Bruce?” I asked quietly. “What time did you go to bed?”

  “It—it was—was a little before ten. But—but—” He licked at his lips. “But why do you—” He couldn’t finish it. He couldn’t wrench his eyes from mine. His body had gone slack; his mouth hung slightly open. Sitting slumped on the arm of the velvet sofa, he was helpless.

  I got slowly to my feet, reaching for my hat. “Thanks, Bruce,” I said quietly. “That’s all I need to know.”

  As I turned away, I heard him say, “Wh—what time was he—he killed?”

  “We’re not sure. Probably about ten thirty or eleven.” I smiled at him, thanked him again, and left the room. I found Canelli in the dining room. He looked more than usually at odds with his surroundings, sitting lumpishly in a delicate Regency side chair. I motioned for him to remain seated, whispering that I was going to take a quick look through the large ground-floor flat. While I prowled, Canelli would keep the mother and son occupied.

  Thirteen

  “WHERE TO, LIEUTENANT?” CANELLI started the engine.

  “Let’s have a look at the victim’s place of business.” I glanced at my notebook. “It’s 540 Bay Street. King Productions.”

  “Roger.”

  I checked in with Communications, got no messages, and advised them of our next stop. I flipped off the “transmit” switch and settled back in my seat. “What’d you get out of Bruce King?” I asked.

  “Not much, really, Lieutenant. Except that he looks to me like one of those real screwed-up kids. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was queer, you know? But, anyhow, he’s sure uptight. I mean, he’s really uptight.”

  I didn’t comment, and we rode in silence for the next few blocks. I was thinking of Ann—and of her stricken face as she’d faced her husband the night before, receiving his curt instructions for the weekend. The boys were going skiing tomorrow, leaving at four P.M. A month ago, with a similar opportunity, we’d spent the weekend at Big Sur. We’d driven down the narrow seaside highway in the rain, leaving Friday night. We’d rented a small, shingled bungalow with a fieldstone fireplace and a four-poster bed. We’d gone shopping before we’d left San Francisco, buying four huge sacks of steaks and fruit, bacon and eggs, French bread and wine. We’d …

  “… you find out from Mrs. King?” Canelli was asking. “Anything new?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I can’t figure her out.”


  “She sure don’t look much like a grief-stricken widow.”

  “I don’t think she is very grief-stricken.”

  “What were you looking for when you went over the flat just before we left?”

  “I was trying to get an idea of the layout. She said that both she and Bruce were in bed by ten o’clock, Tuesday. Asleep, supposedly.”

  “Hey,” he said slowly. “Hey, she could have sneaked out. Is that what you’re thinking, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m thinking that either one of them could have sneaked out.”

  He whistled. “You mean the kid? Bruce? You mean he could’ve done it?”

  “Mrs. King says that she couldn’t have stabbed her husband. Physically, she claims, she couldn’t’ve done it. And she’s probably right. It’s a messy job, stabbing someone. Women usually don’t use knives. Not unless they’re in a frenzy, and then they hack—and they keep hacking. But a teen-age boy, a little off his rocker, might’ve done it. He’d have had the strength. And, assuming that he was infuriated by his father’s affair with Diane Farley, he’d have had the motive.”

  “What about that blow to the neck, though? King could’ve been already knocked out when he was stabbed. That’d make the whole deal a lot neater. I mean, the stabbing wouldn’t’ve been so tough, then, for a woman to do.”

  “Yes,” I answered thoughtfully, “you’re right, Canelli. That would’ve made it a lot neater.” I pointed to the next intersection. “Turn there. We’ll hit Bay Street just right.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He wrenched the cruiser into an abrupt turn. “Say, what about Diane Farley, Lieutenant? What’s with her, anyhow?”

  “When The Shed opens this evening, we’ll see whether we can verify what clothes she was wearing Tuesday night. If she was wearing the same clothing she’s got on now, and if the lab doesn’t find any traces of blood, then I’m inclined to believe her story. She got home, found the body, panicked, and started running.”

  Canelli doubtfully shook his head. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. I mean, San Diego’s a long way to run.”

  “Yes, but she was driving north when she was picked up. And don’t forget, she’d been drinking. She was scared, too—afraid she might be murdered. Also, she’s been arrested once. I’ve noticed that a certain type of person, if they’ve fallen once, they seem to become irrational at the idea of any contact with the police. That could’ve been her problem, complicated by alcohol. It’s crazy. But it happens.”