The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Are you still seeing each other?”

  “No. We had a once-a-week affair going for six months or so. It flamed out about a month ago, maybe a little more. About the time I quit The Dramatists, as a matter of fact.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  He sighed with impatient, practiced insolence. “I’ve already told you, Lieutenant: a month ago.”

  “You didn’t see her Tuesday night, then.”

  “No.”

  “What kind of a car do you drive, Keller?”

  “I drive an old, battered, asthmatic Plymouth, Lieutenant—a 1952 station wagon, once green.”

  “Do you know anyone who drives a Porsche Targa—anyone who’d know Mrs. Connoly?”

  Promptly he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do. During periodic bouts of boredom, Carol used to dally with an overbred, semi-aristocratic, narrow-shouldered type named Arch Phillips—an old friend of the family.”

  “Do you know a Porsche Targa when you see one, Keller?”

  “Of course, Lieutenant. An artist’s eye sees everything, records everything. Besides, I’m a refugee from the privileged classes, where Porsches are more common than, say, 1952 Plymouths.”

  I nodded, then took a deliberate moment to survey the room slowly. In one corner, behind a tottering screen, I could see bedclothing trailing on the floor. In the opposite corner was an easel supporting an unfinished canvas. Against the back wall were a stove, refrigerator and sink, together with an oilcloth-covered table heaped with dirty dishes.

  I returned my gaze to Keller. His dark, defiant eyes snapped with a taunting, secretive excitement. It was an expression every police officer recognizes, reflecting the strange compulsive game a suspect plays with his tormentor, tempting discovery. Some say it’s pure bravado, a superman complex. Others say it’s a suppressed urge to confess. Whichever is right, most cops figure that a talker is someone with something on his mind. And Keller was a talker.

  “How’d you happen to meet Mrs. Connoly?” I asked quietly.

  “At The Dramatists. She was a demure script girl; I was a fiery, talented set painter.”

  “You saw each other once a week, then. Here, after rehearsals. Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you ever meet anywhere else?”

  “No. Carol was very circumspect. She was dedicated to the proposition that any girl with both beauty and brains can have her cake and eat it, too. And she was right.”

  “You say ‘was.’ Don’t you mean ‘is’?”

  He shrugged. “To me, Lieutenant, Carol Connoly is past tense.”

  “And you don’t have any idea what might’ve happened to her, where she might’ve gone Tuesday night.”

  “Negative.” He yawned, stretched and pointedly looked at his watch.

  “Have you ever been arrested, Keller?” I asked suddenly.

  The first response was a quick flickering of his eyes, a momentary tightening of his thin, unpleasant mouth. Then his hands involuntarily clenched, slowly relaxed.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said softly, “I have been arrested. Not once, not twice, but three times.”

  “Where?”

  “Cleveland, Ohio. The scene of my boyhood.”

  “What were the offenses, Keller?”

  “The usual: juvenile scrapes, of which the judge took a dim view. My mother, you see, makes a career of marriage. During her Cleveland period, which roughly corresponded to my impressionable, turbulent teens, she was married to a pompous, affluent, sadistic son of a bitch named Harvey Reagan, a local wholesale hardware tycoon. One night, returning home drunk from a high school basketball game, my friends and myself broke out most of the panes in Mr. Reagan’s greenhouse, whereupon Mr. Reagan had us all locked up for the night. The episode produced so much friction between my mother and Mr. Reagan that I started out on a modest little crime spree, which finally ended with the theft of a Jaguar and three months at the county work farm, whereupon my mother left Mr. Reagan, who apparently wasn’t much good in bed. We next moved to California. Currently Mother is married to a Los Angeles publicity man, a pompous, sadistic flack, but not very affluent. However, since Mother is losing her looks, I suppose she has to settle for—”

  “Have you been arrested anywhere but Cleveland?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever used an alias?”

  He smiled. “Only when it was absolutely necessary, to conceal my identity from nubile girls with outraged parents.”

  “How old are you, Keller?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “How long have you been painting?” Canelli asked.

  Keller languidly twisted in his chair to survey Canelli disdainfully. “I’ve been painting most of my life. I have an IQ of a hundred sixty, and art is the only thing that keeps me from twitching. When you have an IQ that high, it can be a problem. Genius, Mr. Detective, is—”

  The door suddenly opened. A slim, dark girl stopped short, just inside. She wore leather sandals, tight blue jeans and a Mexican serape thrown over her shoulders. Her hair was drawn severely back from a lean, intriguing face. In her dark, smoldering eyes was a wary, restless watchfulness. She seemed poised for quick retreat.

  “Ah,” Keller said, “here’s Angie. We live together. These men are detectives, Angela, searching for clues, as detectives do. And this is Angie Rayburn, gentlemen. She’s a topless waitress. But you mustn’t suppose, because of her profession, that Angie is a tramp. Her father, like Mr. Reagan, is wealthy. He owns three cars and a swimming pool. And Angie has been to finishing school, not to mention assorted girls’ colleges. Briefly. So together we are rebelling against the middle class. Blissfully.”

  I rose and gestured to a nearby chair.

  “Sit down, Miss Rayburn. We won’t be long. Just a few more questions, in fact.”

  Wordlessly she obeyed. She moved with a long, tense, dancer’s stride. Seated, she looked at me silently, hostile and contemptuous, returning my stare. As Keller had said, they were rebelling.

  I turned back to Keller. “You know, of course, about Mrs. Connoly’s disappearance.”

  He nodded, eyes narrowed. I saw him glance quickly toward the girl, then quickly away.

  “If you had to guess,” I continued, “what would you say accounts for the fact that she disappeared, without a trace?”

  Burlesquing a slack-gestured indifference, he sighed, slouched and finally said in a bored voice, “I wouldn’t have any idea, Lieutenant. None at all.”

  I nodded, thought about it and then turned suddenly to Angie Rayburn. “Did you know Carol Connoly, Miss Rayburn?”

  I’d caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, but didn’t answer. Her grip on the arm of the chair tightened.

  “Of course she knew Carol,” Keller said quickly. “By reputation, anyhow. Angie and I have no secrets from each other.”

  Ignoring him, I asked her, “How long have you been living here, Miss Rayburn?”

  “About three weeks,” she answered steadily.

  “And you’re a topless waitress.”

  She lifted her chin. “That’s right, Lieutenant. Going topless is the best way to get the clearest look at the crappiest people in the world: the customers.”

  I nodded, smiled and rose to my feet. “There, Miss Rayburn, I can agree with you.” I turned to Keller. “Where do you work, by the way?”

  He waved an indifferent hand. “I paint.”

  “Do you make a living at that?”

  He shook his head, then moved the hand toward Angie. “She makes the living, I paint. I’m not suited to the world of competition, Lieutenant. As a child, I was delicate in my mind. I’ve never gotten over it.”

  I nodded again, thanked them and walked to the door.

  7

  THE NEXT MORNING, SATURDAY, I briefly stopped by the Allingham house on my way to work. Culligan, as usual, had been on the job since eight o’clock, much to the household’s yawning, tousle-headed annoyance. And, as
usual, Culligan wasn’t especially happy to see me. He had nothing new to report. He intended to interrogate all the witnesses again, and again, looking for discrepancies. I left after a half hour, instructing Culligan to advise me, at the Hall, of any new developments.

  I arrived at the office about ten o’clock and immediately requested a Motor Vehicles make on a Porsche Targa registered to Arch Phillips. Waiting for the results, I discovered from the phone company that Mr. Phillips had recently moved to a new address on Telegraph Hill.

  As I was debating whether to phone Phillips for an appointment or ring his doorbell cold, Friedman came into my office with two cups of coffee. We idly discussed the National League’s prospects in the Series and the Gonzales homicide. On the first point, Friedman took the National League for two dollars at even money. On the second point, he announced that at a guess he picked Mrs. Allingham as the murderess, since intellectual-type matrons often went off the deep end during middle age.

  We were discussing Keller’s 1952 Plymouth and Phillips’ expensive Porsche when my buzzer sounded.

  “Lieutenant?” It was Culligan’s voice, angry sounding.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve got a suspect on the Gonzales thing—the goddamn kid. The son, Darrell Allingham.”

  “Good. You sound mad.” I motioned for Friedman to pick up the extension receiver.

  “Yeah. Well, he—he surprised me. I mean, I started out this morning with the father, then the kid. Both of them were jumpy. I figured something was bothering them, but I couldn’t turn up anything. So I told them both to stay put inside the house while I talked to the mother separately. I was the only one in the house; Canelli and Sigler were down the street, talking to that chauffeur. I had a man outside in a radio car, but—” He drew a deep, impatient breath. “But anyhow, the next thing I knew, the father was shouting something, and it turns out that the kid apparently climbed out his bedroom window and got his Honda and took off through the alley.”

  “Is it out on the air?” As I asked the question, I saw Friedman switch on the Communications monitor.

  “Sure,” he answered, irked at the question. “Five minutes ago, at least. A.P.B. But—” Again he drew a deep breath. “But the real problem is that, according to Mr. Allingham, the kid took the family gun with him.”

  “What kind of a gun?”

  “A .357 magnum.”

  “Great,” I snorted.

  “Yeah.” It was a discouraged-sounding rejoinder. “Should I—”

  Friedman snapped his fingers, pointing to the monitor.

  “Wait a minute,” I said to Culligan.

  Friedman turned up the monitor, saying, “They’ve spotted the kid, they think. Out in Golden Gate Park.”

  “Did you hear that, Culligan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. You and Canelli and Sigler get out to the park. Leave the radio car where it is. I’ll be out to the park myself if it’s confirmed that they’ve really got the kid spotted.” I hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you take Mr. Allingham with you? Might save us some trouble.”

  “Right.”

  I clipped on my gun, took an extra box of cartridges from the locked drawer and left Friedman in my office, talking to Communications.

  8

  I MADE A LONG, slow turn into John F. Kennedy Drive, the park’s main thoroughfare. On my way, I’d gotten a supplementary description of the suspect: age, seventeen; height, five feet eleven; weight, one hundred and sixty pounds. Hair, brown, worn medium long. Eyes, brown. Wearing a short-sleeved, button-down, yellow-on-orange plaid sports shirt, slim white Levis, brown leather loafers. Riding a black and silver Honda Hawk, 350 cc.’s.

  The hour was almost noon. The weather was warm, the sky clear and bright. Very soon the park would be filled to capacity, crowded at the tourist attractions yet partially deserted in wooded areas. Golden Gate Park was the largest single-tract metropolitan park in the country, if not the world. In my seven years as a cop, I’d probably flushed a dozen suspects from bridle paths, underbrush and simulated forest glades. I’d found a few bodies, too.

  As I drove, scanning secondary roads, closely checking motorcyclists, I realized that I was thinking of Leo Powell, the deaf-mute with the gun—another teenager running. Two teenagers in two days, running, carrying firearms—wild enough or scared enough or crazy enough to kill. Dangerous game. Any cop, given a choice, would rather face a professional criminal, no matter how bad his record, than face—

  Ahead a squad car suddenly pulled a sharp U-turn, narrowly avoiding a horn-honking station wagon. Quickly I switched into second, glancing in the mirror, then pressing the accelerator hard. The squad car had turned into a small access road.

  Over the radio came a low, tight voice: “We have a subject in sight answering description in A.P.B. thirteen-dash-two. Subject is riding a black and silver motorcycle northeast on small dirt service road running behind the museum complex. Subject is—” The officer’s voice slipped to a higher, more excitable note. “He’s taking off over the hill, between the trees. We’re parking, proceeding on foot. Subject is heading north, cutting over on a bridle path now. He’s out of sight. We’re—”

  “We see him behind the Flower Pavilion,” came a new, deeper voice. “We see him, but can’t get to him. He’s—he flipped the bike. We’re going to—oh, oh, he’s on the bike again, proceeding down—”

  “This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. “Let’s get some two-wheelers on those paths. Quick.”

  “He’s bottled up in the parking lot,” a third voice said. “Behind the Flower Pavilion. We’ve got two units here. He’s off the bike. He’s—”

  “Hastings again,” I cut in, wheeling the car back into Kennedy Drive, clipping the flashing red light to the dashboard, swinging to the left-hand side of the wide, crowded boulevard. “I want two or three more units over behind the Flower Pavilion. Make sure he stays off that bike.”

  I switched to General Communications, checked in with Friedman, then switched back to the surveillance channel. It was a general conversation, calmer now. The suspect had ducked into the rear entrance of the Flower Pavilion, just ahead. Pulling up in front of the huge glass conservatory, I ordered all fifteen units assigned inside the park to converge on me. Ahead I saw Culligan, already parked. He was sitting in his car with Mr. Allingham. Culligan was watching me impassively as I pulled in beside him. Mr. Allingham was unshaven, dressed in a light windbreaker. He was staring at me with vague, baffled eyes. His gray-stubbled face was pale, his hair disheveled.

  I told Allingham to stay put and Culligan to get out. We walked a few feet away from the cruiser, both of us eyeing the Flower Pavilion. Eight or nine units had already arrived. I instructed the uniformed men to surround the conservatory, pistols holstered, no shotguns. No one was to enter the premises, police or passers-by. Sergeant Dave Pass, Traffic, was spreading the men out. Now two more units were pulling up; behind them I saw Canelli and Sigler. I called to Sigler, telling him to help Dave Pass. Then I turned to Culligan.

  “Someone goofed,” I said quietly.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t figure he’d run. It—it’s my own goddamn fault.” His voice was dull, his eyes hot with anger and disgust. It was something else I liked about Culligan; he was tougher on himself than on his subordinates.

  “Have you got him made on the homicide?” I cast my voice to a neutral official note, letting him stew.

  Culligan ruefully snorted. “Not that I know of. I’d just been questioning him, with nothing new. He was jumpy as hell, but that’s all. I excused him, and I thought he went to his room. But—” He shrugged angrily.

  “Do you think he’ll use that gun?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I’d call him neurotic, unpredictable, strung out—really strung out. I guess that kind can do anything.”

  Canelli was standing beside us. With his hat pushed back and his arms folded comfortably across his paunch, he looked more like a sight-seer than a participa
nt. “You got two big deals in two days, Lieutenant,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll need a press agent pretty soon.” He moved his head to a TV mobile unit. I looked balefully at the truck as Canelli said, “They were on their way out to the polo field. Quite a coincidence.”

  “Listen,” I said, “I want the two of you to get Sigler and then ease inside. Get the visitors out, get everyone out, quickly and quietly. Don’t take a walkie-talkie; look like tourists. Even if you should see the kid, ignore him—if you can. We’ve got the place surrounded; he’s not going anywhere. If we get everyone out, we can take it slow, do it right.”

  They nodded, then walked briskly away, quietly calling to Sigler. I stood for a moment, surveying the scene. The Flower Pavilion was a huge greenhouse, made of lightly frosted glass. The ornate, old-fashioned building covered two full acres and was surrounded by enormous green lawns, planted with beautiful beds of roses. Uniformed patrolmen stood at fifty-foot intervals, facing the conservatory.

  As I walked to my cruiser, Mr. Allingham called. I beckoned to him as I stood midway between the two cars, my eyes on the conservatory. Allingham approached slowly, hesitantly. Dressed in his wrinkled windbreaker and slacks, untidy and uncertain, he looked like any man, anywhere.

  “What are you going to do with him?” His voice was very low. He stood woodenly, shoulders hunched, arms slack at his sides, fingers limp.

  “We’re going to get that gun away from him.”

  “But—” He frowned, seemingly perplexed. Looking at him more closely, I realized that he was in mild shock. “But Darrell, he might get shot. You’ll kill him.”

  “Maybe.” I watched him squirm, then signaled for a bullhorn. “Do you want to talk to him, tell him to come out?” I held the bullhorn out to him.

  “But—” Frowning again, he scanned the avid crowd with vague, disapproving eyes. “But everyone will, I mean—”

  “All right, we’ll try tear gas, then, and hope for the best. Remember, though: you had your chance.” I turned away, watching the dwindling stream of visitors leaving the Flower Pavilion, many of them lingering, looking back over their shoulders. A station wagon filled with officers pulled up, braking to a smooth stop. Sergeant Pass met them, gesturing, giving orders. More reporters arrived, and an ambulance pulled up. Spectators dressed in vivid weekend colors were clustered on the bright green lawns behind the police lines, fifty feet from the conservatory. At that range, a .357 magnum could penetrate the engine block of an automobile. But I had no men for crowd control in a spread-out area. And somehow I was unwilling to—