The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Do you know the identity of these men, Mr. Connoly?”

  He shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “Arch Phillips, I suppose. According to the gossip.”

  “Any others?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But you’d expect there to be others? Over the years of your marriage?”

  “Yes.” His voice was soft, but his eyes were hard, remembering. “Yes, I’d expect there to be others.”

  “Would you think any of these men, including Mr. Phillips, might harm her?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he suddenly flared. “Christ, I’m no detective. I’m just—just—” Then, as suddenly, he subsided, shaking his head with a kind of sullen bafflement.

  “You don’t feel, though, that Mr. Phillips would’ve harmed her,” I pressed.

  “Hell, no.” He shifted in his chair. His eyes, at first dazed and dulled, were now alive with anger. “Arch is a—a mouse.”

  “Hmm.” It was the same phrase Maureen had used. I studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “There’s just a couple of more things, then, that I’ll need from you. First, I’d like the names of your wife’s living relatives, excluding yourself and your son.”

  He snorted, shifting irritably, as if the subject offended him. “Her only blood relative, as far as I know, is her sister Blanche. Blanche Touhy.”

  “Is that her married name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does Blanche Touhy live?”

  “Tulare.” He seemed to say it with some effort.

  “Have you talked with Blanche since … last night?”

  He sighed heavily. “No, Lieutenant, I haven’t. But I will. As soon as I get home.”

  “Would you rather that I called her? I will if you like.”

  He looked at me with narrowed, speculative eyes. Then, after a moment’s thought, he shrugged indifferently. “It’s all right with me if you want to call her. I’ve seen Blanche Touhy precisely once, when she and her husband came to visit us a week after our wedding.” From his tone, it was obvious that the visit hadn’t been pleasant.

  “When are you planning the funeral, Mr. Connoly?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “I assume that Mrs. Connoly’s sister will want to come.”

  Mirthlessly he snorted. “I couldn’t tell you. If you talk to her, invite her.”

  Not replying, I studied him for a long, silent moment. Then, after taking more time to shuffle some papers, I decided to say, “Now comes the toughest part of the interview, Mr. Connoly.” I paused, waiting for him to look at me. Then quietly I said, “I have to ask you for a detailed statement of your movements from, say, Monday evening to Wednesday morning, when you were notified that your wife had disappeared.” I switched on the tape recorder and moved the microphone toward him. “To expedite matters, if it’s agreeable, I’ll record what you say. Or, if you’d rather, I’ll have a steno come in.”

  As he returned my stare, a new expression crept into his eyes. The dull, stunned pain slowly changed to a cold, deliberate malevolence. “I believe,” he said, “you’re supposed to advise me that I’m entitled to a lawyer. Isn’t that so?”

  “At this stage of an investigation, Mr. Connoly, that isn’t required. I’m asking for a statement as much for your protection as anything else. When there’s a burglary, for instance, the first thing we do is fingerprint the room. Then we eliminate the prints of the obviously innocent parties, which involves taking their fingerprints. Now—” I cleared my throat. “That’s what I’m trying to do: eliminate you as a suspect. You can take it any way you like, handle it any way you choose.”

  As I talked, the malice in his eyes faded to a kind of hostile shrewdness. Finally he said sullenly, “All right. What is it you want to know?”

  “In your own words,” I repeated patiently, “tell me everything you did, hour by hour, from Monday night to Wednesday noon.”

  He took time to light another cigarette. Then, in a subdued monotone, eyes averted, he recited, “Monday night Carol and I went to a cocktail party at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. It was a benefit for the Mother’s Milk Fund. Afterward we had dinner at Chaney’s, in North Beach. We got home early, about ten-thirty, and—” He hesitated, glancing sidelong at me before saying, “And we went right to bed.”

  “You were in bed, then, by eleven o’clock.”

  He nodded.

  “Isn’t that early,” I said slowly, “to get home from a night on the town?”

  For a moment he didn’t reply, his eyes still avoiding mine. Finally he said, “The fact is, we … had a difference of opinion during dinner. Nothing especially serious, but—” He stopped talking.

  “What did the difference of opinion concern, Mr. Connoly?”

  Frowning, he sharply shook his head. “It—it was just one of those things. One thing just … led to another.”

  “I see.” I let a half-minute of silence go by, looking at him steadily. He began to shift uneasily in his chair, unable to raise his eyes.

  “Do you and your wife have separate bedrooms, Mr. Connoly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you usually sleep in your own bedrooms?”

  Angrily he stubbed out his second cigarette. “Usually, yes.” His voice was low and thick, stifled by resentment, perhaps embarrassment.

  “And you slept in separate bedrooms Monday night, then. All night. Is that right?”

  He nodded.

  I deliberately allowed another long, silent moment to pass, watching him. Then: “What about Tuesday, Mr. Connoly? Run down Tuesday for me, will you?”

  “I’ve already told you most of it. I left for Los Angeles in the morning. About nine-thirty. I worked all day—until about six, I think it was. Then I went out for dinner, and for”—he licked at his lips—“for the evening.”

  “Who’d you go out with, Mr. Connoly?”

  “Well, her—her name is Estelle Curtiss. She’s a—a business associate.”

  I decided not to press the point. I had a name. For the moment, that was all I needed. I didn’t want him completely on the defensive.

  “And you spent the entire evening with her. Is that right? Until, say, midnight.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” His eyes flicked up warily.

  “Good,” I said, making my notes. “So then, as you said the other night, you didn’t get down to the office next morning until ten-thirty or so. It was a beautiful day, I think you said. And you just drove around Beverly Hills, enjoying the sunshine, and—”

  Someone knocked softly. A patrolman entered, carrying a large clear-plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was an olive-drab Army blanket.

  “Ah.” I nodded, smiling. “Good.” I spread the blanket on the floor of my office, carefully examining it, deliberately ignoring Connoly. Whenever I glanced at him, covertly, he seemed to take no notice of me. He simply sat hunched in his chair, scowling, staring off across the room.

  On quick examination, I found nothing identifiable about the blanket—no laundry marks, no burns, no rips. Near the center of the blanket was a medium-sized bloodstain. A portion of the stain was still damp, from the lab tests.

  I turned to face Connoly, holding up the blanket but concealing the stain. I waited, watching him. Unwillingly, it seemed, he looked up. For a long moment he stared into my eyes, then slowly dropped his gaze to the blanket.

  “Wh—what’s that?”

  “I’m hoping,” I answered, “that you can tell me. Have you ever seen this blanket before?”

  “How should I know?” he answered irritably. “It’s just a—an Army blanket, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, watching him. “That’s right, Mr. Connoly. It’s a second-hand surplus Army blanket, made during the Second World War. To your knowledge, do you have such a blanket around the house?”

  He bit at his lip, frowned and finally shook his head. “I—I don’t think so.”

  “How about the garage, the trunk of your car?”

  �
�No. Not my car, anyhow.”

  “Did your wife have her own car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is the car at your house now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Is it possible that your wife could have carried a blanket like this in her car—in the trunk, for instance?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “You said Friday night that your wife was fond of riding. Do you ride, Mr. Connoly?”

  “No. I—” He hesitated, then admitted, “I was thrown from a horse when I was twelve. I was unconscious for a whole afternoon. And I—I’ve never since enjoyed riding.”

  My phone buzzed. I excused myself and lifted the receiver.

  “This is Pete, Frank.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve taken Phillips through his story. There don’t seem to be any inconsistencies. He’s shaken, but I don’t think he’s concealing anything. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “Well—” I hesitated.

  “The reason I ask, they just brought in Keller and his girlfriend, Angie Rayburn. What shall I do about them? Are you about finished there?”

  “Yes.” I glanced at Connoly. He was staring fixedly at the blanket. Now he seemed to wince, as if reacting to a spasm of physical pain. I wondered whether he knew that his wife’s body had been wrapped in the blanket. I decided not to ask.

  “Yes,” I said again. “Almost finished. Why don’t you take him, and I’ll take her?”

  “Keller and Angie, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “And let Phillips go?”

  “Well—” Again I hesitated.

  “I think we may as well. You know the departmental motto: Don’t lean too hard on the rich folks.”

  I smiled. “All right. Why don’t you send the girl to me in about ten minutes?”

  “Good. What about Keller? Lean on him concerning Tuesday night?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Right. Anything with Connoly?”

  “We might have a beginning. See you.” I hung up, thought about the conversation for a moment and then turned to Connoly. “I don’t think there’s anything more for now, Mr. Connoly. I want to thank you and tell you again that I’ll be glad to help, any way I can. We’ll have a lab team at your place for an hour or two, and they’ll probably want to bring your wife’s car downtown for a day or so. Meanwhile, I’ll call Blanche Touhy, probably in a half-hour or so.”

  He nodded, rose and abruptly turned to the door, without speaking. As he went out, he struck the doorframe with his shoulder. The light blow seemed to stagger him unnaturally, almost as if he might have been in mild shock.

  13

  SHE SAT POISED IN the straight-backed chair, glaring at me, defiantly returning my silent stare. Friday night she’d worn a loose, blanketlike serape. Now slim, tight jeans and a light cotton shirt modeled her supple, exciting body. Topless, I was thinking, she must be superb. I tried to imagine Angie Rayburn in bed. Did her dark, intense eyes soften with passion? Did her taut, willful flesh ever really yield? Or did she keep it all for herself—everything?

  I lifted the folded Army blanket from the table behind me.

  “Have you ever seen this blanket, Angie?” I asked suddenly.

  She hardly glanced at it. “How should I know? It’s an Army blanket, isn’t it? I’ve seen lots of Army blankets. I’ve slept on a few, in fact.”

  “Have you ever owned one?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about Keller? Does he own an Army blanket?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re living with him, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged indifferently, then nodded. “Can I smoke?” She’d already taken a cigarette from the pack.

  I leaned across the desk to light her cigarette. Then, after watching her for another silent moment, I said, “How long have you and Keller been living together, Angie?”

  “About a month.” Her voice was quiet—cool, confident, a little bored.

  “You didn’t know Carol Connoly, then.”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded grimly. “I’m sure.”

  “Did you know that she and Keller went together, saw each other regularly, just before you arrived on the scene?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about things like that.”

  “You’re one of these modern chicks, is that it?”

  Not replying, she deliberately reached out a slender arm to flick her cigarette in the ashtray. Then, indifferently, she shrugged. “That’s a matter of interpretation, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah.” I nodded deeply, derisively. “A matter of interpretation. Right. I’d forgotten: you’re a refugee from the privileged classes. Finishing school and all that.”

  Again she shrugged, then calmly drew on her cigarette. The expression in her bold, knowing eyes was familiar: the hatred a tough, defiant street kid learns to feel for a cop.

  But her voice was unfamiliar—and her disdainful, arrogant poise. In another place, at another time, I might have encountered Angie Rayburn at an after-the-game fraternity party, or on the glib, glittering cocktail circuit. In another place, at another time, we might be having an affair. Perhaps neither of us belonged here, staring at each other—one watchful and wary, the other probing, prying, accusing.

  “How long have you been a topless entertainer, Angie?”

  “I’m a waitress, not an entertainer.”

  “Excuse me. Same question, then. Different job classification.”

  “About a month.”

  “What’d you do before that?”

  “Nothing. I was at home, deciding which college I’d try next.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Wilmington, Delaware.”

  “Do your parents live there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does your father do?”

  “He’s a real estate broker.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. I was thinking that my father, too, had been a real estate broker, a small, unsuccessful real estate broker who’d died of a premature heart attack while spending an illicit weekend with one of his two saleswomen. He’d died during my sophomore year of high school. After the funeral, my mother had never spoken of him.

  “Do you know that Carol Connoly is dead?” I asked suddenly.

  “D—dead?” She blinked, swallowed, then quickly recovered. “No, I didn’t know. I told you: I didn’t know her.” But I saw something subtly change deep behind her dark, bold eyes. She was frightened. In that instant, learning of Carol’s death, she’d been frightened. Stubbing out her cigarette, frowning over the gesture, she was fighting to conceal the quick, unexpected stab of fear she’d revealed.

  “The news of her death was on the radio late last night, Angie,” I said quietly. “It was in the paper this morning. Don’t you read the papers?”

  Still frowning, still with eyes averted, she didn’t reply. I let the silence continue, watching her squirm.

  “Do your parents know you’re living in San Francisco?” I asked finally.

  “Yes.” She gave the dead cigarette a final, decisive twist and raised her eyes, composed now.

  “Do they know you’re a topless waitress?”

  She drew a deep, contemptuous breath. “No, Lieutenant, they don’t. Are you going to tell them?”

  Ignoring the question, I suddenly asked, “What were you doing last Tuesday night, Angie?”

  “Tuesday?” She frowned. “What time Tuesday?”

  “Let’s start at about nine o’clock.”

  “I was home.”

  “With Keller?”

  “Yes.”

  “All night?”

  She shrugged with a loose, careless gesture. “Yes.”

  “Both of you, then—you and Keller—were home Tuesday night. All night. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about Monday night?”

  “Monday night
I was working.”

  “Do you have a car, Angie?”

  “Of my own, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t. I use Charlie’s.”

  “What was Keller doing Monday night?”

  “He was home, as far as I know. Painting.”

  “Was he home when you got there?”

  “Yes.”

  I nodded. I felt that I was losing ground. I’d had her off balance when she’d learned of Carol Connoly’s death. But I hadn’t been able to follow up.

  Abruptly I rose. “You stay here. I’ll be back in about ten minutes. Smoke if you like. But don’t leave the office.” And without waiting for a reply, I walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. I signaled a patrolman to keep an eye on her from the hallway, and signaled another man to come with me to Friedman’s office, where I knocked. Friedman answered, nodded to the patrolman and left the door wide open. Keller, lounging at his ease, was looking me straight in the eye. His mouth was twisted in an unpleasant, mocking grin.

  We walked in silence to the coffee machine.

  “You’re springing for this, remember,” Friedman said.

  “I know. Take a double cream.”

  We carried the coffee to a small lounge provided for brown-bag lunchers. The room was deserted. “That Keller,” Friedman said, “is a real tough type. Also, he’s smarter than I am. Which means that he’s scoring most of the points instead of vice versa.”

  I sipped the coffee. Invariably, the machine provided either too little sugar or too much.

  “What about Tuesday night?” I asked. “Anything?”

  “Keller claims they were home together. All night. Is that what the girl says?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Friedman said slowly, “I’ve got some news for you.” He looked at me sidelong, smiling with smug self-satisfaction. Friedman enjoyed building the suspense.

  “All right,” I said, pretending indifference, “I’m ready.”

  “I discovered,” he replied, “that they’re lying about Tuesday night. I was just going to come down to your office, as a matter of fact, to give you the word.”

  Although I felt a quick lift of excitement, I still pretended indifference. Perhaps I was a little irked that Friedman and Canelli were scoring all the points. “How do you know they’re lying?”