Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Sure. And I’ll be glad to help you, man.” His facetiousness perfectly matched my own. “Except that—” He broke off, seemingly struck by a sudden thought—or playing the role of surprised innocence to perfection. “Hey,” he said slowly. “Hey, maybe I can help you.”

  “Good.”

  “Does that knife have a black handle? Is it a switchblade?”

  I didn’t allow my expression to change. “I’m asking the questions, Arnold. Remember?”

  “Yeah. Well, if it has a black handle—a smooth black handle with silver bolsters, then it could be mine, all right. Except that it was stolen from me—two, three months ago.”

  “Tell me about it, Arnold. Tell me all about it. Everything.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Not really. I mean, I came home one night, and my place was all tore up. I mean, there were pictures pulled down and furniture slashed and everything. And my bedroom—my bureau and everything—man, it was a real mess. Whoever did it, they were mostly after my clothes. I mean, they ripped up my clothes like you wouldn’t believe. But the funny thing was, practically the only thing that was missing was my knife—that switchblade. I figured he’d used it to do the ripping, and then took it.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Well—” He hesitated, measuring me with a shrewd sidelong glance. “Well, I always figured it was Bruce King.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Marge and I, we’d been—you know—seeing each other for quite a while, and the kid found out. And he’s kind of a creepy kid, anyhow. Fact is, the way he found out about us, he was following his mother. He—”

  “How do you know he followed her?”

  “Well, Christ, I got the word that he was hanging around outside. I mean, in this neighborhood, it’s a wonder be didn’t get himself in some real hot water, hanging around. But anyhow, I heard about it. And Marge, I guess she cooled him. But my place was messed up just a little while after she cooled him. So I always figured it was him.”

  “Did you report this vandalism?”

  He looked at me. “To the police, you mean?” It was an incredulous question.

  I regarded him thoughtfully, then said, “Let’s say, for the moment, that you’re telling the truth. Let’s say Bruce King took your knife. And let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that he used the knife to stab his own father. That’s a little hard to swallow, of course. But let’s assume that’s what happened. Now”—I paused, compelling his attention—“now, if that’s really what happened, then how is it that Bruce King’s fingerprints aren’t on the knife? How is it, in fact, that your prints are the only ones on the knife?”

  “Man, don’t ask me. I mean, you’re the detective.”

  “You’re not being very helpful, Arnold.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “However”—I looked him over, taking my time—“however, Arnold, I’m going to go along with you, to the extent of at least checking out your story. I’m going to leave Sergeant Markham here while I pay a call on Mrs. King. You know why Sergeant Markham’s going to stay here, don’t you?”

  “I imagine it’s so I can’t phone Marge.”

  I nodded. “Very good, Arnold. Now, before I leave, there’s one last point. If you have any aluminum oxide or powdered magnesium around the premises, I’d like to know about it. You might be able to help yourself if you can show me either one.”

  “How can I help myself?”

  I waggled a finger at him as I rose to my feet. “Ah, ah, Arnold. You’re asking questions again. All I want from you are answers. Remember?”

  “Yeah. Well”—he shifted suddenly in the black leather chair—“well, I don’t know anything about any—whatever it is.”

  “Aluminum oxide. And powdered magnesium—like they use to make fire bombs. You aren’t planning to fire-bomb anything, are you, Arnold?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t, Arnold. You’ve got a pretty good thing going with white girls, it seems to me. There’s a little risk, of course. But nothing like bombing things. By the way, does Gretchen slip you a little money once in a while?”

  He taunted me with a slow smile. “Once in a while. I mean, I give her what she needs. Why can’t she come across with a little something once in a while? You know—share the wealth. Like, her folks are loaded. So what’s the harm?”

  “Does Gretchen like you to play rough, too?”

  His taunting smile widened. He began stroking his stomach. “Gretchen is different,” he said softly. “She’s for fun—my fun. Marge, that’s different. After all, like I said, I got to keep my aggressions relieved.”

  “You seem very fond of your aggressions.”

  He was still smiling. “Shit, man, I didn’t even know I had any aggressions until some psychiatrist at ‘Q’ told me about them. I just thought I was doing what comes naturally.”

  “You were, Arnold. You were.”

  Seventeen

  I USED A CALL box to contact Friedman, reporting on the Clark interrogation and asking him to arrange for a twenty-four-hour stakeout of Clark’s apartment.

  “So you do figure Clark as a suspect,” he said.

  “Well, he admits to owning the murder weapon. And he was involved with the dead man’s wife. They could be planning to collect the insurance and live happily ever after.”

  “Do you think it’s possible Bruce King could have framed Clark?”

  “Do you?”

  “I asked you first,” he said.

  “Anything’s possible, I suppose. While Markham and Sigler are keeping an eye on Clark, I’ve got Culligan checking out Clark’s neighbors for confirmation that Clark was really vandalized two months ago.”

  “I can’t quite see the kid premeditating his father’s murder, and framing it so that only Clark’s fingerprints appeared on the knife. Still—” Friedman paused, speculatively.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think I mentioned it this morning,” he said, “but the lab says that Clark’s fingerprints were normal. Just plain fingerprints, on the grip and the bolsters of the knife. But a lot of the knife had blood on it—the blade and part of the handle.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “The point,” Friedman said thoughtfully, “is that you’d think the fingerprints would have been in blood.”

  “Hmm.” I frowned at the call box.

  “Did Clark have any explanation for the aluminum oxide and the powdered magnesium?”

  “No.”

  “I wonder if Bruce has a chemistry set left over from childhood,” he mused.

  “I’ll let you know. I’m on my way to the King house right now. Where’s Canelli?”

  “He got back from Pacifica about a half-hour ago.”

  “Does he have anything to report?”

  “Not really. As usual, we’ll have to wait for the various scientists, so-called, to submit their findings. However, to me it seems pretty obvious that Winship was shot Tuesday night. Maybe he saw the murder in progress.”

  “Or maybe he saw the murderer, but didn’t know it.”

  “That could be,” he agreed. “Because if he was trying to escape from a bad guy, he picked a strange destination. As opposed to the nearest police station, for instance. He set himself up, really. By the way, I got a report from the bartender at The Shed. He says that Winship left immediately after Diane Farley left, Tuesday night. Which means that since he was driving and Diane was walking, Winship could’ve gotten to her apartment before she did. Not much before, probably—but enough. He could have murdered King, and left. Or he could have seen the murder committed, and left. Then Diane could have arrived on the scene.”

  “Are you going to get corroboration that Winship left right after Diane left?”

  “Naturally. And I’m still trying to find out what clothes Diane was wearing Tuesday night.”

  I checked my watch. The time was almost four o’clock. “I’d better be going. Send Canelli out to the Ki
ng residence, will you? I’ll meet him in front”

  “Roger. From the sound of it, assuming you don’t decide to arrest mother and son on the spot, I think we’d better stake out the King house, too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I’ll give Canelli the job. He seems a little puffed up after his starring role down in Pacifica. There’s nothing like an all-night stakeout in February to instill a little humility in the ranks. We don’t want Canelli to get ideas above his station. I mean, Markham’s bad enough, without Canelli getting into the act.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Tell Canelli to hurry, will you? Markham and Culligan are stuck at Clark’s until they hear from me.”

  “Will do. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  As Marjorie King sat down on a small Queen Anne love seat, she folded her hands calmly in her lap. Her knees were pressed primly together. Her mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line. Plainly, I was annoying her. Watching her—remembering the things Clark had said—I tried to visualize the black man abusing her as they lay naked together.

  I deliberately led her the long way around, teasing her with fleeting references to Arnold Clark, watching her squirm. Finally, hopelessly trapped, she admitted the affair. She had no choice. But even then she clung to her cold, disdainful poise.

  “How’d you find out about Arnold and me?” she asked.

  I let her squirm for a last long, sadistic moment. Then I said, “We discovered that you were picked up together at Emile Zeda’s. Technically, you have a police record. You—”

  “A lot of people got picked up that night.”

  “How many times did you and Clark go to Zeda’s?”

  “Twice. And what’s wrong with that, anyhow? Zeda’s a—a showman. He’s harmless. A harmless charlatan.”

  I nodded. “That’s true, Mrs. King. As you say, a lot of people got picked up that night. But there’s another problem, where Arnold Clark’s concerned.”

  “He’s a parolee, you mean. Which gives you the license to persecute him. He hasn’t—”

  “No, it’s not that,” I said quietly. “It’s more serious.” I paused, fruitlessly trying to disconcert her. Then I said, “Your husband was killed with Arnold Clark’s knife.”

  Her lips curled. “Really?”

  “Yes, Mrs. King. Really. Clark admitted owning the knife. When you talk to him, he’ll tell you.” I paused again, then said, “What’d you do, Mrs. King—call Clark at nine o’clock Tuesday, and tell him where he could find your husband? Is that how it went?”

  “No, Lieutenant. That’s not how it went.” Her voice was even, her eyes steady.

  “Do you deny being intimate with Arnold Clark?”

  “I don’t deny anything. I don’t admit anything, either. I think it’s time I called my lawyer.”

  I nodded quick agreement, gesturing to the hallway and the phone. “By all means, call him, Mrs. King. But be sure you tell him the whole story. It’s very unwise, you know, to keep anything from your lawyer. For instance, you should tell him that Arnold Clark’s fingerprints are on the knife. You should also tell him that neither you nor Arnold Clark have alibis for the time when your husband was murdered. And then you should—”

  “I was home that night,” she flared. “With my son. You—you can ask him.”

  I smiled at her. “I will ask him, Mrs. King. As a matter of fact, there are several things I want to ask him—several things that Inspector Canelli is asking him right now.”

  “Wh—what sort of things? What’re you talking about? Are you trying to insinuate that—”

  “First,” I cut in, “I want to ask Bruce about a report that he was so upset over your affair with Arnold Clark that he actually followed you down to Hayes Street, spying on you. Then I want to—”

  “That’s a goddamn lie.” Suddenly her lean, elegant face was a death’s head of malevolence: pale flesh drawn taut over a stark skull shape, eyes blazing in sunken sockets. Her mouth was open, revealing small, clenched teeth.

  “It’s not a lie, Mrs. King,” I said softly. “It’s not a lie, and you know it. You also know that your son, out of spite, actually vandalized Arnold Clark’s apartment. And you—”

  “You’re accusing me of murder, Lieutenant.” She was breathing hard now. Her fists were furiously clenched. Her eyes still blazed.

  “You didn’t tell me the truth, Mrs. King. Not the whole truth. So now I’m wondering what else you didn’t tell us. I’m wondering whether—”

  “Get out,” she hissed. “You’ve got no right here. You—you’ve got no right to—”

  I rose to face her. “Speaking of rights,” I said quietly, “I want to give you yours.” I drew the plastic card from my pocket and began reading. With my first words, she suddenly whirled, rushing into the hallway. As I finished speaking, she was furiously riffling through a small morocco book of phone numbers. When Canelli and I left the house, she was speaking vehemently to her lawyer.

  “Boy, oh, boy.” Canelli ruefully shook his head. “That Mrs. King is really something. I mean, she’s one tough cookie.”

  I pointed ahead. “Pull around the corner, there. I don’t want her to think we’re hanging around. Park so you can see her house in the mirror.”

  “Lieutenant Friedman said I was supposed to stake her out. He’s sending me someone to cover the back, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to have a show-up for Clark?” He pulled to the curb and switched off the engine.

  “Not until tomorrow. I’ve got him staked out. I want to see whether he’ll jump for us. And the apartment next door to his is empty. With a little help we can hear him talking on the phone.”

  “Oh.” Round-eyed, he nodded solemnly. “A little help” meant electronic eavesdropping—inadmissible as evidence, but useful. Learning of occasional departmental illegalities, Canelli invariably managed to appear primly surprised.

  “How’d you come out with Bruce?” I asked.

  “Well, of course, I didn’t lean on him too heavy, because he’s a minor, and everything.” Canelli looked at me for approval. I nodded. “But naturally,” he continued, returning his gaze to the rear-view mirror, “naturally, I asked him whether he’d ever tailed his mother down to the Fillmore.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He denied it—really denied it. Which makes me figure that maybe he really did. Tail her, I mean. One thing is for sure: he’s a real unhappy, real screwed-up kid. I don’t think either one of his parents give a damn what happens to him. They buy him everything he wants, and give him plenty of money to spend, and then they just forget about him. It’s like they say: poor little rich kid.” Canelli shook his head.

  “Do you think he vandalized Clark’s apartment?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, Lieutenant, I didn’t get around to that. I mean, the first thing I knew, the mother was giving us the old heave-ho. So I didn’t—Hey! There’s the kid now, coming out of the house.”

  Twisting in the seat, I saw the boy striding rapidly toward our corner. He wore a corduroy car-length coat, sneakers and the standard teen-ager’s faded blue jeans. He walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, head lowered. He was a tall, gangling boy, and moved with a loose, tangle-limbed stride. He was walking on our side of the street; he’d pass beside us.

  I put my hand on the door handle. “I’m going to talk to him. It’s five o’clock—it’ll be dark in an hour. You’d better set up the stakeout. I’ll get a ride home in a squad car. If anything develops, call me at home. Got it?”

  “Yessir.”

  With the boy less than twenty feet away, I opened the door and stepped out on the sidewalk, facing him.

  “Hello, Bruce.”

  Startled, he pulled up short. His pale, harried eyes darted involuntarily aside, as if he were seeking escape.

  “Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “I”—he gulped—“I …” He couldn’t finish. His eyes still seem
ed to seek escape. Canelli had started the car and was moving away. Bruce King and I were standing alone on the sidewalk. I saw him shiver, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. Yet for February the evening was warm. We stood in a pale rectangle of winter sunlight, framed by the shadows of two tall luxury apartment buildings.

  “Where were you going?” I asked.

  “I was just—just going for a walk.”

  I gestured to a nearby cement wall. We could lean against the low wall, talking, and still share the sunlight. Obediently, he followed me. We stood side by side, facing the sidewalk, not looking at each other. It was a good situation in which to interrogate a shy, skittish subject.

  “I wanted to talk to you before we left. But …” I let it go unfinished.

  “But you got my mother mad.” He said it wearily—resigned to his mother’s cold, purposeful anger.

  “Do you know what she was mad about?” I asked.

  When he didn’t reply, I glanced at him. In profile, his sallow, pimple-blotched face was almost grotesque. His nose was too large, his chin too small. His cheeks were sunken, as if he were wracked with sickness. His lips were too full and too red, incongruous contradictions in the prematurely ravaged face. His pale, uncertain eyes were moist, as if he were perpetually on the point of tears. He blinked constantly and often swallowed spasmodically. Glancing quickly down the length of his thin frame, imagining him stripped, I realized that his body, like his face and neck, was thin and pallid. His thin blond hair clung to his skull in lank, formless wisps.

  “Do you know what’s bothering your mother?” I pressed.

  He licked his rosebud lips. “She—I think she—she thinks that you—” He gulped. Then in a miserable rush: “She thinks that you—you blame her for my—my father’s murder.”

  Turning my eyes away from him, I nodded. “Yes,” I answered. “Yes, she does.”

  I could feel him painfully gathering himself. Finally, hesitantly, he asked, “Do you blame her?”

  Still with my eyes averted, I answered, “I don’t know what to think, Bruce. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got to do it, no matter who it hurts.”