Long Way Down (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she come every week?”

  “No. She only comes once a month, I’d say. She’s a very independent-minded woman. Very strong-willed.”

  “I know. And I’m surprised that she’d be involved in—your kind of thing. She doesn’t strike me as a cult worshiper. And as a matter of fact, she doesn’t strike me as someone who would feel she had to come out last night just to ‘reach out.’”

  “Why not, Lieutenant?” It was a quiet, probing question—a psychiatrist’s question.

  I shrugged. “It’s just a hunch—a feeling. But in my business, you learn to trust your feelings.”

  “It’s the same in all businesses, Lieutenant. The conscious mind is incredibly complex. And the subconscious is more complex still—a complexity compounding a complexity. The human subconscious is nature’s crowning achievement. And feelings, intuition, are a tracery of the subconscious. Anyone who can listen to his feelings learns a lot.”

  “I agree. By the way, did you know Thomas King?”

  “No, I never met him. But by coincidence I knew both his wife and his business associate. So I felt—” He paused. “I felt close to Thomas King. I felt as if I knew him.”

  “His business associate?”

  “Charles Mallory.”

  “Mallory is one of your followers?”

  “Not really. He’s only come twice to revels. Both times with friends. He should have come more often. Mallory is a homosexual. He would have profited immensely.”

  “How so?”

  “Our sect is aberrant. Oddball, to coin a phrase. People who are also aberrant find a great meaning with us. A great meaning.” Accenting the last phrase, he fixed me with a meaningful stare.

  “What’s there about Mrs. King that’s aberrant?”

  “She lives a dual life,” he answered promptly. “Most of us do, of course—at least in fantasy. But she feels the conflict more than most. On the one hand, she’s an utterly straight wife and mother. And most important, she’s an executrix. A very good executrix, I’m told. All of which means that really she has very strong drives to dominate and excel. Which is an expression of her primitive side. And Marjorie’s primitive side is at once stronger than most and at the same time more rigidly suppressed, especially by the demands of her career. Which produces conflicts. And these conflicts draw her to me, because the worship of Satan—the bacchanalian worship of Satan—is the essence of primitive behavior. It’s a release—the ultimate vicarious release. And that’s precisely Marjorie’s problem: finding a suitable release for her primitive emotions. So I help her.”

  I smiled. “Some, uh, nonbelievers say that members of your flock could release just as many of their inhibitions by going to a porno movie, and maybe smoking a little pot at the same time.”

  His answering smile mocked me. “There are doubters everywhere. It’s easy to doubt. To believe—that’s difficult.”

  “Is Mrs. King’s affair with Arnold Clark an example of her primitive instincts finding release?”

  He inclined his shaven head. “Precisely.” He showed no surprise.

  “Are you acquainted with Arnold Clark?”

  “Certainly. He was one of those who had an unfortunate experience with your centurions.”

  “How would you describe Clark?”

  His eyes shone with pleasure; his forked devil’s beard parted to reveal teeth clenched behind false-smiling lips. “Clark is a magnificent specimen—a perfect example of the species American primitive, subspecies ghetto black. He’s exactly what Marjorie King needs.”

  “I think Clark is a conniving, sadistic bastard. His kind is the same, black or white.”

  “From your point of view, Lieutenant, he’s precisely that.”

  I nodded, glancing at Canelli. It was his cue to ask a few questions while I tried to sort it all out. Canelli came to attention in his chair.

  “I got to go along with the lieutenant,” he said. “Mrs. King just doesn’t strike me as the type who’d have to get herself comforted by ‘reaching out to you’ or whatever you call it. I mean, she’s just too tough. Smart and tough. I just don’t see her trotting out at night and leaving notes for you to ease her mind or something. Not only that, but she told the lieutenant, just yesterday, that she didn’t think you were all that much. So it seems to me that”—Canelli paused for breath—“it seems to me that we’ve got a contradiction here. I mean, we’ve got her telling us one thing, then acting like she believes something else about you—at least, to hear you tell it.”

  Zeda had been listening with an air of amused tolerance. Now he said, “What was your name again, Inspector?”

  “It’s Canelli.”

  “Certainly.” He nodded, mockingly ceremonious. “Well, Canelli, I’m afraid you’ll have to quiz Mrs. King on that point. I’d have no idea, of course, what she told your lieutenant concerning her opinion of me. But, meanwhile, I think you should reflect on the nature of our sect. Better yet”—he turned to me—“better yet, you should come to one of our gatherings. Ventilate the mind.”

  I rose to my feet. Canelli did likewise.

  “I might just do that, Zeda, as I said. Meanwhile, though, we have to be going.” I turned to the door. Then, pretending a sudden afterthought, I turned back to face him. “I wonder whether you’d mind getting Leonard for a minute.”

  “Certainly.” Also on his feet, he touched a button on his desk. Almost immediately Leonard appeared. He stood serflike in the doorway, hands slack at his sides, mutely staring round-eyed at Zeda.

  “Have you burned the messages you received yesterday, Leonard?” I asked.

  His eyes didn’t leave Zeda, who was standing just behind me and to my left. Leonard hesitated, then nodded his head, obviously on cue. “Yessir, I burned them.” He turned his blank gaze on me, nodding woodenly.

  I turned immediately to Zeda. “I’d like to see the messages you’ve received today, Zeda.”

  He shook his head. “No, Lieutenant, I can’t show them to you. Of course, you can get a court order. But short of that, you can’t see them. If I showed them to you, I’d be striking at the corner-stone of our edifice.”

  “If you put me to that trouble, Zeda, you’ll be giving yourself some trouble, too. Most people in your position violate a few municipal codes. Usually there’s no problem. But there can be problems. Do you understand?”

  He accepted the threat with a monk’s arm-folded stoicism, eyes half closed, head slightly bowed. It was a masterful performance. “I’ve put up with persecution for years, Lieutenant. It never stops. But neither do we. The worship of Satan’s darkness is the one message this neohedonistic American society can’t bear—because it can’t bear the truth. But our message comes through. Because it’s the truth.”

  I turned on my heel and walked to the doorway. “I’ll be seeing you, Zeda. Maybe you need a little persecution to keep you on your toes. After all, look what it did for Christ.”

  We left the house to the echo of Zeda’s mocking laughter.

  Twenty

  “IF I WERE YOU,” Friedman said, “I’d go to Zeda’s prayer meeting tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for one thing, you could find out whether Zeda’s parishioners really do drop him notes in the night. Somehow that sounds a little fishy to me. Maybe Zeda concocted a three-ring, on-the-spot snow job to explain Mrs. King’s visit. Besides”—he waved an unlit cigar—“besides, nothing else on this case is going anywhere. Diane Farley’s clothing tested negative, and it turns out it’s the same clothing she wore to The Shed. San Mateo can’t give us anything on Winship’s murder. Arnold Clark didn’t do a thing last night except go to a double feature and then right home. He didn’t even make a phone call, according to our illegal listening device. Mrs. King’s lawyer has been in touch, and it’ll take a Supreme Court order for us to search the King house for bloodstains. Even Charles Mallory didn’t do anything last night but go home. Of course, his roommate, so-calle
d, got back last night.” Friedman leered. “That’s where we should’ve had our bug—in Mallory’s bedroom.”

  “Why’d you stake out Mallory?”

  “Two reasons. First, Mallory profits by King’s death, so it’s just a percentage play. But also—” His voice lifted to a lightly bantering note. I knew what was coming. He’d turned up something. “Also, Record’s brand-new computer threw up Mallory’s name, slick as a whistle.”

  “That gay bar thing?”

  “Not the gay bar thing. Something a little heavier—and something that, coincidentally, concerns your friend Zeda—which is another reason you should stay with him. Zeda, I mean.” Friedman consulted a few scrawled notes. “It seems that, three years ago, Charles Mallory had a live-in lover named Vance Gosset. And it seems that Gosset was a big fan of Zeda’s. In fact, Gosset and Charles Mallory used to go to Zeda’s prayer meetings.”

  “I know that. In fact—” I paused thoughtfully. “In fact, Zeda mentioned it. And, at the time, it seemed as though he was dragging in Mallory’s name gratuitously.”

  Friedman nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised. He was preempting you, probably—just like he maybe preempted you on Mrs. King’s note-passing. Anyhow, what happened, Gosset and Mallory went to a gay party, and got gassed—or stoned—and then proceeded to have a lover’s quarrel. Mallory apparently made a pass at a hairdresser, and Gosset took exception. So to get even, Gosset flounced off home and climbed into Mallory’s bed—they had twin beds—and Gosset shot himself in the left temple, after leaving a note that accused Mallory of being his ‘murderer.’ Which, apparently, Mallory wasn’t, since he was off with the hairdresser at the time of Gosset’s death. But—”

  “Jesus,” I said, “I don’t remember any of this.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t our case. It was listed as a suicide. And three years ago, the General Works Detail was handling suicides. Remember?”

  “Oh. Right. Was Mallory charged with anything?”

  “No. He got a lawyer, right away. Everything was cool.”

  I nodded.

  “But here’s the snapper.” Friedman paused, plainly for the effect. “The snapper is that Gosset’s suicide note mentioned Zeda.” Friedman again consulted his notebook. “Zeda was to ‘preside over the transportation of his body to the next astral plane.’ Which in plain language meant that Zeda presided over his funeral, which was apparently quite a black magic show—and which Mallory didn’t like one little bit.”

  “This Zeda is into everything.”

  “Right. He’s a real smart cookie. I did a little checking on him after I heard about Mrs. King’s expedition last night. And I discovered that Zeda has several con games going, just barely inside the law. Apparently, in San Francisco, Zeda’s only number two in this Satan cultist skam. A character named Sanda is number one. So Zeda has to try harder. And in fact Sanda brought suit against Zeda a couple of years ago, to get Zeda to trim his beard so it wouldn’t look so much like Sanda’s—who, of course, had trimmed his beard to look like the Devil’s. So—” He paused for breath.

  “What kind of con games is Zeda into?” I asked.

  “The usual cultist skam. Getting his believers to endow his ‘cause’ with their worldly goods, once they shuffle off to the next astral plane. But even with all his little sidelines, Zeda is always short of cash, apparently. His bank account is overdrawn about half the time, and he’s got a third mortgage on his house, which is about to be foreclosed. So—” Friedman tossed the notes aside, stretching his thick arms over his head as he leaned back in his chair, arching his beefy back. “So go to the prayer meeting. Get to know your friendly charlatan better. Take Ann. Have a few laughs.”

  I snorted ruefully.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We were hoping to get away for the weekend. Ann’s kids are going skiing. So instead we end up at a side show for Satan freaks. Incidentally, Zeda calls them revels, not prayer meetings.”

  “So go away for the weekend. I’ll look after the shop.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Thanks, Pete, but I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Crap.”

  I shrugged. I was thinking of the weekend I’d shared with Ann in Big Sur. Was I being foolish? Should I …

  “If I were you,” Friedman said, “I’d marry the girl. She’s got a good figure, and a good sense of humor—quiet, but nice and bright. Which complements your sense of humor—quiet, but mostly black. And she’s got class, too. Which is the most important consideration of all.”

  “I know. But—” Again I shrugged.

  “How long’ve you been divorced, anyhow?”

  “Almost ten years. I was divorced a year before I joined the force.”

  “Well,” Friedman said judiciously, “I think it’s about time you quit feeling sorry for yourself and rejoined the fray. Get married, in other words. I’ve had my eye on you for some years now, and I’ve come to the conclusion that—”

  “Listen, Pete, this isn’t exactly the time to—”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion,” he continued smoothly, “that you need the love of a good woman, plus you could profit by some of the hassles that the rest of us endure, raising kids.”

  As I shifted sharply in my chair, his expression changed. Putting up a restraining hand, he said seriously, “No, don’t pop off. Hear me out, then pop off. After all, like I said, I’ve given this matter long and careful thought over the years, and I think I’ve finally got you figured out. So therefore, if I don’t let you in on it, all that effort’s gone for nothing. Right?”

  “Wrong. No one asked you to—”

  “It all started, the way I figure it, when you were, say, fourteen or fifteen. I figure you as one of those high school types that types like myself spent a lot of time envying. You were good-looking, amiable and smart—without being too smart. Plus you were well-coordinated, plus you had just enough bottled-up aggressions to make you a good knock-’em-down football player, thanks to your father leaving your mother in the lurch, no doubt. So anyhow”—he drew a deep breath—“so anyhow, you came up a winner, all through high school and college. Everything fell into place. You even made it to the pros, after college. Right on schedule. But then you made the mistake of marrying an heiress, which meant that you were a society football player, which is a contradiction in terms. Unlike, say, a society gynecologist, for instance. So pretty soon both your marriage and your career began to go on the rocks. So you got out, which was a good move. But you—”

  “Listen. I’ve really got to—”

  “Wait. I’m almost finished. Getting out, like I said, was a good move. There was no way in the world you could stay in Detroit. But unfortunately you left your two kids behind. And that’s the problem. Those kids. Because it’s obvious that you’re very fond of them, whether you talk much about it or not. Which is why I say that if you married someone like Ann, who’s got a family already, you’d be back in business as a parent. Now, the way I see it, your kids are—How old’s your girl?”

  I realized that I was glowering at him. But grudgingly I said, “She’s seventeen.”

  “Yeah. And your boy’s a little younger. Right?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Right. Well, the way I see it, your kids are going to get sick of the country-club scene. They may even get a little sick of their mother. If you remember, the last time your kids were out here, you all came over to our house for a barbecue. And I had the strong feeling that your kids were very turned on at the idea of maybe living in San Francisco. But they realize that you aren’t equipped to handle them, either in your apartment or your head. So”—he spread his hands—“so marry Ann, and you might all live happily ever after.”

  As I stared at him, I realized that my outraged sense of invaded privacy had unaccountably passed, leaving me the helpless victim of a sudden rush of memories. Friedman had been right. Early in the game, I’d been a graceful winner. But late in the game, I’d come up a loser—a fai
lure. He hadn’t spoken of the drinking problem I’d had even after I’d joined the force. At thirty-three, I’d been the oldest rookie at the police academy. Every night, I’d gone home to my bottle and my maudlin memories. Friedman knew about the drinking. But he hadn’t spoken of it. So he’d debased his own analysis. He’d …

  Friedman’s phone was ringing. I heard him answer, and I knew it was Clara, his wife.

  “Just a second, honey.” He covered the receiver and looked me full in the face. For once, his eyes were wholly serious. “No hard feelings?”

  I got to my feet, shaking my head as I met his gaze. “No hard feelings.”

  “Good.” Immediately his face lapsed into its habitual expression of ironic inscrutability. “In that case, I’ll talk with my wife, who’s getting up a bridge game tonight. Are you going to Zeda’s?”

  “Why not?”

  “Exactly. Why not? If you want me, I’ll be home playing bridge and drinking beer.”

  Twenty-one

  THE NEAREST PARKING PLACE was a half-block from Zeda’s house, on the opposite side of the street. As we walked the half-block, I automatically glanced around, wary of muggers. The slums were a scant five blocks away. Zeda’s affluent clients would be tempting victims.

  With the exception of a dim light in the entryway, the decaying house seemed deserted. All the windows were dark. Yet as we drew closer, I saw faint light escaping from the heavily draped front-room windows—the room that lay beyond the velvet-curtained archway.

  “It looks like a Halloween party,” I said.

  “Will they let us in?” Ann took my arm and pulled me close. “It’s almost eight thirty. We’re late.”

  “Don’t worry. I was invited. By the master himself.”

  “This is a wonderful idea, darling. I’ve been curious about Zeda for months, especially since I read that article in the Sentinel on occultism. Did you read it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s a big thing, you know. Satan worshiping. Witchcraft. The black arts. It’s all part of America’s obsession with the occult. And the Sentinel gave a lot of space to Emile Zeda, and even had a picture of him. He looked exactly like Mephistopheles.”