Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “We found him,” a metallic voice said. “Or, anyhow, we found somebody. Dead.”

  “Where?”

  “Just go down the path. We can see you, from where we are. He’s down in the rocks, here, about fifty feet up from the surf. Just keep a-coming, and we’ll tell you where to turn.”

  Blakely shot me a self-satisfied look, then turned and led the way down.

  Again, Judy Blake’s description had been accurate. Winship looked as she’d described him: greasy-haired, pimply-faced, dressed in tatters. Tumbled among a pile of black, lichen-crusted boulders, he lay with his arms and legs spread wide, his broken torso wedged tightly between two boulders. His mouth was open wide, as if he were screaming for help. All of his front teeth were broken; one lens of his glasses was shatter-starred. He wore a dirty yellow sweat shirt stained by two saucer-size patches of dried blood. Centered in each stain was a bullet hole.

  Looking up toward the path, I could plainly see broken branches that marked his fall. He must have fled down the road to the footpath, where he’d been shot. The impact of the bullets could easily have pitched him crashing down the slope.

  I turned toward the bandy-legged deputy. He was staring down at the body. His normally ruddy face was greenish now.

  “Is your name Blakely?”

  “Y—yessir.”

  “Are you in command here?”

  “Well, I—” He swallowed. With some effort, he wrenched his gaze away from the body. “I—I guesso,” he said finally. Then, blinking, he nodded. “Yeah, I’m in charge.”

  “Are you sure your lab crew is on the way?”

  He blinked again, focusing his eyes vaguely. “Yeah. Sure. Th—they were going to fingerprint the van. You know—to find out who stole it.”

  “All right. Good. Now, in addition, you’ll need the coroner. And you’d better organize an inch-by-inch search of the area around the van and down the road to the footpath where we saw the blood. The assailant may have used an automatic weapon, and the shell casing might be in the underbrush. Also, you’ll want to keep everyone off the road and the path until the area’s been photographed. Completely photographed. That’s vital. And, of course, you’ll want to photograph him.” I pointed to the corpse.

  “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

  I looked closely at the deputy. As he stood irresolutely staring down at the victim, Blakely was again turning pale. He was swallowing rapidly; his brows were gathering in a perplexed frown. I touched his shoulder. Slowly, he turned to face me. His eyes were dull. His mouth hung slightly open.

  Lowering my voice and stepping very close, I pointed up the slope. “Get up to your car,” I ordered, “and put in a call for your superior officer. Tell him to come to your assistance. Immediately. Tell him that it’s my request. I’ve got to get back to the city, fast, but I’m going to leave Inspector Canelli with you. Until your superior arrives, I want you to do exactly as Canelli says. He’s an experienced homicide officer, and he’ll take full responsibility.” I paused. Then, speaking very softly and very distinctly, I said, “You’d better not screw up any evidence here, Blakely. Because if you do, it’s your ass. Do you understand?”

  As I spoke, I watched him closely. When I saw his eyes clearing with the first spark of anger, I repeated the threat, then turned abruptly away and began climbing the rocky hillside.

  Fifteen

  “HERE.” FRIEDMAN SAILED A B.C.I.D. report across his desk. “For openers, read that. Then you can tell me about your adventures in Pacifica.”

  The report was headed “Fingerprint Classification, Knife (switchblade type), Homicide (King, Thomas A.).” Sacramento had tentatively identified the two “80 percent prints” as belonging to Arnold Clark, a convicted felon. After the usual disclaimer that the prints could be used only for guidance, not in evidence, the report described Clark as thirty-six years old, black, with one conviction for aggravated assault and another for rape. He’d been in San Quentin for nine of the past ten years, and on parole for nine months. During those months, he’d been clean. Clark’s present address was given as 549 Hayes Street, San Francisco.

  As I passed the report to Markham, I said to Friedman, “Clark could be the black man leaving the scene of the crime.”

  “Could be,” Friedman agreed blandly. Then: “You said you weren’t acquainted with Arnold Clark.”

  “No.” I pointed to the report. “He went to ‘Q’ about the time I started working here.”

  “That’s right. I keep forgetting that you were playing football while most of us were earning an honest living. Well—” He waved his cigar ash vaguely toward an overflowing ashtray, missing the tray by six inches. “Well, the plain fact is that Arnold Clark is a king-size pain in the ass. A hundred more like him, and we’d be hit with mass resignations. Believe it.”

  Irritated at Friedman’s theatrics—and at the nagging realization that I should recognize Clark’s name—I curtly pointed out that as a parolee, Clark was clean.

  “I didn’t say he’s stupid,” Friedman countered. “I said he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been lying low for nine months, that’s all. But he hasn’t been clean, you can bet on that. He’s found a foolproof hustle. Clark and I have been doing business together for a long, long time—beginning when he was a nasty-acting teen-ager and I was a scared-ass patrolman, stuck down in the Fillmore. And I remember that Clark was always smart. He always had flair. If his peer group was clouting Ford and Chevy hubcaps, Clark would specialize in Cads. By the time I made inspector, Clark was an operator. Whatever he got into, he always made sure he got his right off the top. And in the meantime, he also developed a considerable talent for making it with white girls, since he’s also very good-looking, in addition to being very smart and very tough. So naturally Clark was right on top of the ‘Black is Beautiful’ thing, just like he was on top of everything else, including black militancy. He got onto the radical chic skam, and made a good thing of it—as always. The only catch is that the real black militants—the Panthers, for instance—they won’t have a thing to do with Clark and Company. To them, Clark is just a smart, opportunistic thug who has sense enough to wear tight pants.”

  “He can’t be too smart. He fell twice.”

  “He was probably framed on that rape charge,” Friedman said airily. “You know how it is. Pretty soon guys like Clark become a departmental embarrassment. Also, the judge gets tired of seeing them around, cluttering up his calendar. So we frame them, and the judge puts them away, and the indeterminate-sentence racket takes care of the rest. It’s not justice, of course. But it’s—”

  “Look at this, Lieutenant.” Markham had been reading through Clark’s bulging jacket. Now Markham leaned avidly forward, turning a recent interrogation report for Friedman to see. “Read that.” It was as much an order as a suggestion. Reluctantly, I realized that Markham had found something important. While Friedman was expostulating, Markham had been digging.

  Grimacing, Friedman reached for his reading glasses. He cheerfully admitted to the vice of obesity, but not to middle-aging farsightedness.

  Friedman read the report, whistled and passed the folder across to me.

  Five months ago, I read, Clark had been picked up for questioning in a combined Vice and Narco raid. Clark had been charged with being in a place where drugs were used and where a lewd show was in progress. But the charges had been subsequently dropped. The location had been Emile Zeda’s self-styled Satanic Temple. Clark’s companion, according to the report, had been Marjorie King.

  “Now there,” Friedman said thoughtfully, “is a parley that boggles the mind. Mrs. Thomas King, wife of a philandering film maker. Arnold Clark, one of San Francisco’s foremost hoods. And Emile Zeda, who gets rich titillating his faithful flock of Satan worshipers with the joys of pot-smoking and sex.” As he pocketed his reading glasses, he dolefully shook his head. “Jesus, here we’ve been politely interrogating Mrs. King, the bereaved widow, and it turns out that we’ve already got a file on her, for God’
s sake. If the captain ever hears about this one …” He let it go unfinished.

  “We may or may not have a file on her,” I corrected. “As I remember that bust, there were a couple of society figures involved. The whole thing died pretty quick. Which is probably the reason that Clark’s parole wasn’t revoked.”

  Friedman picked up the phone, got Records, and asked for anything we had on Marjorie King. Then, settling back in his oversize swivel chair, his composure recovered, he grunted, “Which way do you bet, Frank? Is there a file on Marjorie King, or isn’t there? Will virtue triumph, or corruptness? Personally”—he squinted up at the ceiling—“personally, I’ll bet on virtue. With suitable odds, of course.”

  Ignoring his banter, I said thoughtfully, “Charles Mallory said that Marjorie King had some pretty bizarre playmates. But I figured he was just gossiping.”

  Markham snorted. “Charles Mallory plays some pretty funny games himself. In fact, the Vice Squad might have a file on him, too.”

  Friedman whistled again. “My God, I thought we had a white-collar homicide here. But it turns out that we’re dealing with a bunch of crooks and thugs. What’d Mallory fall for?”

  “He was picked up in a sweep of a gay bar,” Markham said. “But he wasn’t held. He was just driven around the block. That’s why I’m not sure whether the Vice Squad has a file on him or not.”

  “How’d you hear about it, then?” I asked.

  “I got it from the receptionist at King Productions.” Markham permitted himself a thin, humorless smile. “That’s a real wild place. Everyone hates everyone else. Miss Phillips, the receptionist, hates Mallory. And Mallory hates—hated—King.”

  “Who’d King hate?” Friedman asked.

  Markham shrugged. “No one, as far as I could find out. Mallory thought that King was screwing him blind. But it turns out that, in his will, King left half the business to his wife, and half to Mallory.”

  “Are you sure of that?” I asked.

  Markham’s sidelong glance was patronizing. “I’ve got a Xerox copy of the will in my desk drawer. The court order came through about eleven this morning, authorizing us to open his safe-deposit box.”

  “Did Mallory know about that will?” Friedman asked.

  I shook my head, but Markham nodded. “According to Miss Phillips, he did know about it.”

  I realized that I’d been outmaneuvered. Like a fool, I hadn’t taken advantage of the fifteen minutes’ ride down to Pacifica to quiz Canelli about his conversation with the receptionist. I’d assumed that it had been a fruitless interrogation. So, relaxing, Canelli and I had talked about football. We’d …

  A single knock sounded, and Friedman’s door opened. A rookie patrolman entered, placed a folder on Friedman’s desk, smiled uncertainly and withdrew.

  Friedman glanced at the single sheet of paper fixed to the jacket’s manila folder. “By God, she was picked up, all right. Friday, October fourth.” He flipped to a second sheet, doubtless a photocopy of the general complaint. “There were eighteen of Zeda’s ever-loving Satan worshipers picked up, plus Zeda himself, plus two so-called altar assistants, plus the nudie stretched out on the altar, so called.” He turned back to the first sheet. “Mrs. King wasn’t held. Clark was the only one held. Which is what comes of being an ex-con. However, since the drug charge was apparently dropped, Clark’s parole wasn’t revoked.”

  “How about Zeda and company?” I asked. “Were they charged?”

  Friedman smiled gently. “Unless I’m mistaken, the D.A. declined to prosecute on the very sensible grounds that the taxpayers weren’t paying him to do public relations work for Emile Zeda. In fact, unless I’m again very much mistaken, Zeda’s only beef was with the ASPCA.”

  “The ASPCA?”

  “Right. Don’t you remember that flap about Zeda’s real live panther? He kept it tranquilized, and used it as a prop for his performances.”

  Markham balefully shook his head. “It really burns me, how shysters like Zeda can operate. He’s nothing but a goddamn con man.”

  “He can operate simply because his customers want to be taken,” Friedman replied. “And what’s more, they can afford to be taken. So where’s the harm?”

  I placed Arnold Clark’s jacket on top of Marjorie King’s. “We’re wasting time,” I said shortly. “We’ve got Clark’s prints on the murder weapon, for God’s sake. What’re we doing sitting here?”

  “A good point,” Friedman observed. “However, when you roust Arnold Clark, you’ll discover that life is a lot more comfortable sitting around here and gossiping about Emile Zeda.” He lit a cigar, taking his time. “Also,” he continued, “you haven’t told me about Winship.”

  “He’s dead.” I rose to my feet. “Shot. That’s about all I can tell you. I had to leave Canelli down at Pacifica, because no one from San Mateo seemed to know what the hell they were doing. I don’t think the officer in charge had ever seen a homicide victim before.”

  “Well, well, good for Canelli. This will probably be the making of him.” Friedman drew deeply on the cigar, getting it satisfactorily lit. Then: “I’d offer my assistance rousting Clark,” he said equably, “but I expect I’d better wait for Canelli’s report, assuming he remembers to make a report. Besides, I’ve got a line on the bartender at The Shed. And I suppose, since Winship’s dead, that we’d better find out exactly what he was doing Tuesday night.”

  “I suppose so.” I gestured Markham toward the door.

  Sixteen

  “WHAT THE HELL’S KEEPING Culligan?” Markham said irritably. “It’s been almost five minutes.”

  Not replying, I checked the walkie-talkie, lying on the seat between us. Had I mistakenly assigned Culligan to one channel, then turned to another? Had I …

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” It was Culligan’s voice.

  I picked up the radio. “Yes. Are you and Sigler in position?”

  “Roger,” Culligan answered laconically.

  “Can you see anything inside Arnold Clark’s apartment?”

  “No, sir. The kitchen’s the only window we can see.”

  “Are you being observed?”

  “We sure are. We’ve got no place to hide back here. We’re just standing in the goddamn courtyard. One kid’s already tried to drop some garbage on us.”

  I smiled. “Well, hang in there, Culligan. Sergeant Markham and I are going right up. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Yessir.”

  I handed the walkie-talkie to Markham, and we got out of the cruiser on opposite sides. We’d parked across the street from Clark’s apartment building. As we stood on the curb, waiting for traffic to clear, I looked up and down the sidewalk. Already, I knew, our presence on the street had been discovered. Certain figures had slipped from sight, as quickly and naturally as small animals disappear into the underbrush at the first approach of a predator. Other figures were surreptitiously standing so as to keep us constantly in view. This was the ghetto: refuse-choked, despair-dogged, deadly dangerous. In these hostile streets a cop could suddenly die.

  Walking side by side, we crossed to the far side of the street. I moved with slow, measured deliberation. At that moment, in that place, I was The Man. My power was immense. A touch of a walkie-talkie button, and a dozen armed men would arrive.

  Yet a single bullet, fired from any doorway, could cancel that power.

  As we walked, we constantly shifted our eyes, searching for the first flicker of alien movement. Our mannerisms were studied, seemingly remote. Predators must move according to fixed, timeless conventions, displaying neither haste nor fear. Momentarily my eye caught Markham’s. Riding in the car with him—talking with him in the office—I disliked Markham. He disliked me. But now I must depend upon him—and I did. He could save my life—and would.

  Our destination was a large frame apartment building. Originally built in the early 1900s for the carriage trade, the building was now in the final stages of decay. The cracked marble walls of the foyer were glazed with a thic
k patina of accumulated grime. There were twelve mailboxes, all of them with broken locks. On Hayes Street, most mail was never received.

  We’d already determined that Clark’s apartment was number six, second floor, rear.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Nodding, Markham began climbing the stairs. At the first landing, he unbuttoned his coat and loosened his revolver in its spring holster. It was Markham’s responsibility to search for danger ahead. Following him, I would keep watch behind.

  Surprisingly, the second-floor hallway had been newly carpeted in a cheap, garish red nylon. The walls were freshly painted. By ghetto standards, despite the building’s decayed exterior, this was luxury. Only the downstairs foyer had been abandoned to the hoodlums and the hustlers. Yet the tenement odors remained: stale cooking, urine and an indelible mustiness. And already the new carpeting was burned and ripped, the fresh paint defaced by abuse and graffiti.

  The door of apartment six was alone at the rear of the hallway. Clark’s apartment, then, was probably larger than the others.

  The knob was on the door’s left side. As the ranking officer, it was my responsibility to actually open the door. Therefore, Markham stepped to the right, with his hand on his gun. He stood clear of the door.

  I pushed the bell button, then stepped to the left. The butt of my revolver was reassuring in my hand.

  Footsteps were approaching—light, cautious footsteps.

  “Who is it?” The voice was low and husky. He was standing close behind the door, speaking softly.

  “Arnold Clark?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Police. Open it up.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  “You’re a parolee, Clark. We don’t need a warrant.”

  “You don’t have a warrant, I don’t open up.”

  Behind me, down the hallway, I could hear a door opening—then another. Markham was turning, to cover us.

  “If you don’t open that door, Clark, you’re refusing to obey the lawful command of a police officer. That’s a violation of your parole.”