The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “About thirty seconds before you knocked, Haskell called. I had him checking out Keller’s neighbors, and he’s got a witness—the proverbial neighborhood busybody—who says she saw the girl, Angie Rayburn, leave in Keller’s car at about nine P.M. Tuesday. Maybe a little before.”

  “What time did she get back?”

  “Haskell doesn’t know. After eleven, for sure. So Keller’s got a blown alibi. So does Angie, for that matter.”

  “We’re mostly interested in what happened about twelve-thirty, though.”

  “Well, let’s see what Haskell comes up with.” He drained his cup. “What shall I do about Keller—spring it on him now?”

  “Did this busybody see him Tuesday night?”

  “No. But there’s a back entrance to his place, apparently. Haskell said Keller could’ve gone out the back way and met Angie around the corner, out of sight.”

  I finished my own coffee. “You know what I think we should do, Pete?”

  “No. What?”

  “I think we should release Keller. Right now.”

  “Beautiful. We can pick him up in Mexico City and have a paid vacation.”

  “He’s not going to run, even assuming he killed her. He’s too smart. Plus he doesn’t know what we’ve got. And until he does know—as long as we’ve got his girlfriend—he’s going to sweat.”

  “Frank, old son. You’re—”

  “We can put him under surveillance and wait for him to jump. I think it’s worth a try. Meanwhile, after I’ve finished, you can take a shot at Angie. We can hold her overnight, if we’re lucky.”

  “Well, it’s your case. But I just don’t—”

  “Keller’s the kind that loves to be questioned, Pete. It gives him a chance to show off his IQ. I’ll bet, though, that he’s not so good at sweating, trying to figure what we’ve got. And if we’re holding Angie, he’s really going to sweat.”

  “Hmm.” He thoughtfully tucked a pudgy forefinger between his second and third chins. “You could be right. And, of course, I’m at my best grilling topless entertainers.” He sighed, then heaved himself to his feet. “All right, let’s try it. Like I say, I’m tired of hearing Keller outtalk me.”

  I pitched my coffee cup in the basket, then held the door for him.

  I took particular care closing the office door, soberly, softly. Then, walking gravely to my desk, I deliberately lit a cigarette before turning to face Angie Rayburn.

  “Tell me again about Tuesday night, Angie,” I said quietly. “Let’s start at, say, eight o’clock. I want to make sure I’ve got it all straight. After all—” I paused, drawing on my cigarette. “After all, Tuesday night is the night Mrs. Connoly disappeared, you know. Then last night she was found murdered, buried in a shallow grave. By the time the coroner gets through with her body, sometime this afternoon, we should have the time of her death pretty well established. For now, though—” Again I drew on the cigarette, leisurely exhaling. “For now, we’re going on the assumption that she was killed late Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. According to our witnesses, that is. So naturally we—”

  “Witnesses?” The single word came involuntarily.

  I pretended surprise. “Yes, witnesses. There’s always a witness, you know. It’s a crowded planet, Angie. Someone’s always watching.”

  She began to speak, then bit her lip. Her eyes began circling the room, as if seeking escape.

  “Speaking of witnesses,” I said softly, “we’ve got one that saw you—eyeballed you—Tuesday night, not at home like you said. So maybe you’d like to change your story, Angie. It’s only fair to tell you that Keller’s changed his. So I thought—” I let the sentence go unfinished.

  “He didn’t change his story.” Her voice was suddenly harsh. Her sullen gaze rose to challenge me. “There’s nothing to change.”

  “What’d you do, Angie—drive around the block and pick him up?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Pretending regret, I shook my head. Then, sighing resignedly, I picked up the phone. Cunningham answered.

  “This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. “It looks like we’ll have to book her. I’ll give her her rights, and you can—”

  “Wait.” She said it very quietly.

  “Just a minute,” I said into the phone. Then, looking at her mildly, I said, “I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished, Angie. We have certain procedures, you know, that’re actually for your protection. So—”

  “You’re going to book me? For what—murder?” Her hooded, street-wise eyes widened. “You must be insane. I—I’ll get my father on the phone. He—he’ll sue you for false arrest.”

  “I’ve got no choice, Angie. We’ve got a murder, and we’ve got a witness who contradicts your story. We’ve also got Keller, contradicting your story. So there’s nothing I can—”

  “What’d he say? Tell me what he said.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said to her, pretending slight annoyance. Then, into the phone: “I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” I replaced the phone in its cradle, then leaned back in my chair, spreading my hands. “I’m sorry, Angie. Once these things become a matter of evidence, of departmental record, there’s not much we can—”

  “I demand to see Charlie.”

  “You can’t do that. You can see your lawyer or the bail bondsman. And you can make that phone call to your father. But you can’t see—”

  “Bail bondsman?” Her voice rose to a sudden, outraged falsetto. “What’re you trying to—” She gulped, then began slowly shaking her head, rapidly blinking. “It—it’s like a—a nightmare or something. 1984. You—you just can’t—” Again she gulped, then began biting at her lip, avoiding my eyes. Her lean, taut body sagged back in the chair, as if something inside, drawn too tight for too long, had suddenly let go. Now, in seconds, she seemed smaller, softer, younger: a slim girl with a good figure, too far from home.

  A little more pressure, and I’d have her.

  Sighing regretfully, I reached for the phone. “I’m sorry, Angie, but—”

  “It was his idea,” she mumbled. “All his idea.”

  Still with my hand on the phone I said quietly, “Keller’s idea, you mean.”

  She nodded.

  “He went with you, then, Tuesday night?”

  Frowning, puzzled, she raised her eyes. Now she began shaking her head. “No,” she said softly. “I went alone. She would’ve recognized him, you see. And it—” She shook her head again. “It wouldn’t’ve worked.” Her voice had sunk into a monotone; her eyes were dulled, confused. She licked at her lips.

  In a slow, tentative gesture I moved my hand away from the phone.

  “You’d better take it from the beginning, Angie.” I looked at her, considered and then decided to lead off with my only sure trick. “You left Fredericks Alley a little before nine, in Keller’s car. Where’d you go then?”

  “I—I went to The Dramatists.”

  I paused a moment, to make sure my voice would be completely matter-of-fact as I said, “All right, Angie. What happened then?”

  She spread her hands. “Nothing happened. I mean, I just waited until she came out.”

  “And you followed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d she go next?”

  “She went to a small house on Telegraph Hill.”

  I nodded, watching her thoughtfully. Incredibly, during the past moments, her manner had become almost contrite. Something in the mention of a bail bondsman had shocked her into sudden submission.

  Even more incredibly, she was telling the absolute truth.

  “When did she leave Telegraph Hill?” I asked.

  “About midnight.”

  “Then you followed her to the Interlude. Right?”

  She swallowed, then nodded.

  “Were you alone in your car at that time?”

  She looked puzzled. “What’d you mean?”

  “I mean what I said: were you a
lone?”

  “Yes, of course I was alone.” Her voice was edged with its previous sarcasm.

  “All right. What happened then, Angie?”

  The girl shrugged. “She stayed inside for about fifteen minutes. Then she came out and got a cab. So—” She shrugged. “So I decided to split. I mean, I knew she was going home. Besides, I thought it was a stupid idea—the whole thing. So I just went home. That was about one o’clock, I guess.”

  To mask my disappointed surprise, I looked at the desk, frowning down at some papers as I tried to decide on the next question. Finally I asked her, “What kind of a cab was it, Angie?”

  “A Yellow.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she hail it, did you notice? Or was it specifically calling for her at the Interlude?”

  “She hailed it. Definitely. I saw her do it.”

  “Where were you, in relation to the cab?”

  “Right across the street—directly across.”

  Again I frowned down at the papers. So far, as nearly as I could cross-check it, she’d told a completely straight story. Thanks to a fictitious bail bondsman—and to a basically decent family, probably, in Wilmington—she seemed to have turned herself completely around.

  “Okay, Angie,” I said quietly. “For the moment, I’m going to let you go home while we check your story. As far as I know, you’ve told me the truth. Until I find out differently, I’ve got no beef with you. There’re just a few more questions. First—most important—why were you following her?”

  She snorted contemptuously. “Blackmail,” she said shortly. “Charlie’s annuity plan. His art scholarship, he called it. But he did it all, made all the contacts. I didn’t do a thing except follow her. And if he says—” She stopped, then shook her head. She didn’t go on.

  “Don’t worry, Angie. Just keep telling the truth, and you won’t have a thing to worry about. That’s a cliché, I know. But it works. Now, for the present, I’ve just got two more questions. First, did you get a good look at the cabdriver?”

  She thought about it, then shook her head. “No. It was dark, and he didn’t get out. All I could see was a silhouette.”

  “All right. Second, was Keller at home when you got back?”

  She nodded. But something flickered behind her eyes—a hint of her earlier fear.

  “You’re sure, Angie?”

  She swallowed. “I’m sure, Lieutenant. He—we stayed in all night after I got home.”

  I looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then I rose to my feet. I thanked her, warned her not to leave San Francisco and then showed her to the door.

  14

  “I STILL THINK,” FRIEDMAN said, “that one of us should be over at Yellow Cab, getting things organized. Until we find that cabbie, we don’t have any place to go. Assuming, of course, that you were really successful in transforming Little Miss Switchblade into Little Miss Muffet. Which I’m still inclined to doubt. Once a topless waitress, I say, always a topless waitress.”

  “And I say she’s just another teenager rebelling against silk sheets. One real good scare and she regresses, all the way back to finishing school. Maybe farther.”

  “Or maybe she’s just smart. Maybe she had the lead in the class play at that finishing school.” He shook his head. “I’ll never forgive you for releasing her. We had already agreed, you know, that I was going to interview her. All morning I was looking forward to it.”

  “Sorry. If you’re looking for kicks, why don’t you transfer to the vice squad?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Four-thirty. Why don’t we go around the corner for a snack?”

  “Because I don’t want a snack. I’ve already told you: Tulare’s trying to locate Blanche Touhy for me.”

  “Why don’t you take off, then? We seem to be in a slump developmentwise, and I’m stuck here anyhow. I’ll take care of Blanche Touhy.”

  As I glanced at my watch, I was remembering Maureen Phillips. All day I’d meant to call her. Now, with evening approaching, the memory of last night’s love was even more urgent.

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on it. I’ll have dinner and then maybe check in on Maureen Phillips.”

  Friedman raised an elaborately suspicious eyebrow. “That’ll be two nights in a row that you—”

  My intercom buzzed. With relief, I flicked the switch.

  “Lieutenant?” It was Culligan.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m on my fifteenth or sixteenth so-called informant, and I’ve got a guy over at my desk who claims he knew Carol Connoly real well, in L.A. He hinted, in fact, that he used to go around with her, which I doubt. Anyhow, he wants to talk to the officer in charge, so I figure I should check with you.”

  I hesitated, then said, “All right, send him in.”

  “Roger. His name is Farwell. Peter Farwell.”

  Friedman rose, announcing that he was going to initiate an investigation into Connoly’s movements in Los Angeles on the night of the murder. I asked him to take the Blanche Touhy call, too, if it should come in during my conversation with Farwell. Friedman agreed and left the office.

  A moment later a knock sounded.

  “Come in.”

  I rose from behind my desk as a small, stocky, misshapen man entered the office, banging the door behind him. He looked in his middle fifties. His face was dominated by heavy brow ridges and bunched muscles along the jaw, chin and neck. His nose was a swollen, belligerent beak; his small, intent eyes were sunk deep beneath the bulging brows. His thick, graying hair badly needed cutting.

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” He advanced to my desk and stood with his thick legs apart, looking me up and down. He had heavy, powerful shoulders, with hands to match. He looked like a miniaturized N.F.L. lineman.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Mr. Farwell?”

  He nodded, then sat down to face me. He was wearing wrinkled corduroy trousers and a tweed sports jacket, also wrinkled. He wore no tie; his plaid shirt was open at the throat.

  I pointed to the tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record what we say, Mr. Farwell? It’ll save us a lot of time.”

  He waved his arm in a short, jerky arc. “Not at all. Go right ahead.”

  “I understand,” I began, “that you knew Mrs. Connoly before she was married, while she was still living in Los Angeles. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you live now, Mr. Farwell?”

  “In Bolinas, just up the coast. When I heard this morning that Carol had been found, I decided to drive into town.”

  “Do you think you can help us?”

  He spread his thick-knuckled hands. “I don’t know. If I can, I will.” He said it abruptly, frowning as he spoke.

  “Good.” I nodded, feeling a little at a loss. Finally I asked, “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Connoly?”

  “About thirteen years ago.”

  “You mean—” I cleared my throat. “You mean you haven’t had any contact with her since then?”

  “I just told you, Lieutenant: I haven’t seen her for thirteen years.”

  “Inspector Culligan,” I said slowly, “thought you had some information that might help us, information that you’d give only to the officer in charge. Was he wrong, Mr. Farwell?”

  “No, he wasn’t wrong. I know a little about police work. I know you need background information. And knowing Carol, I don’t imagine she revealed much about her past. However—” He got to his feet with a single, powerful thrust of his bandy legs. “I’m not here to waste your time. Mine either.”

  “Wait a minute.” I motioned him back into his chair. “Take it easy.”

  “I’m not in the habit of taking it easy, Lieutenant. It’s not my nature.”

  “How is it that you know something about police work, Mr. Farwell?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “What do you write?”

  “At the moment, I’m writing comic books—horror comic books, in fact
.” His thick lips parted in a kind of leering smile, as if he’d just told an obscene joke. “However, it was not always so. There was a time, in fact—fifteen or twenty years ago—when I had something of a vogue in Hollywood. I won’t bore you with a list of my screen credits, Lieutenant. Besides, you might not have been addicted to B and C horror movies. But within my specialty I enjoyed modest fame. Until, that is, my vogue ran out. And in Hollywood you leave town when your vogue runs out. There’s no such thing as accepting a reduction in rank, because an ex-success reminds the current successes that they’re fallible—very, very fallible.” He said it with a kind of clinical indifference, as if he were talking about another man’s failure. Yet his deep, brow-buried eyes clearly reflected the embittered resentment of the loser.

  “You were a screen writer, then, when you knew Mrs. Connoly.”

  “Yes. Her name was Brady then. Carol Brady.”

  “How’d you happen to meet her, Mr. Farwell?”

  “At a party. I very seldom went to parties because I was fully aware that I was expected to assume the role of a grotesque. But my producer—he was actually my patron, too—gave a party to celebrate finishing a picture that I happened to write. So the party was obligatory. At the time, Carol was working as a receptionist for a talent agency. Her role at the party was meat.”

  “Meat?”

  Again his misshapen mouth parted in a leering smile. “Yes, Lieutenant, meat. Hollywood is filled with beautiful young girls who’ll do anything—assume any position—to please a man who can help them. So, whenever one gives a party, it’s essential to have caterers, a small orchestra and a dozen or so of these girls. They’re called meat. If they don’t give satisfaction, they don’t get invited back. And unless a girl’s seen at these functions, she may as well buy a bus ticket home. Unless, of course, she has actual acting talent.”

  “In other words, they’re prostitutes.”

  He shrugged. “Technically you’re wrong. Morally I suppose you’re right. Perhaps ‘semipro’ would be more accurate. However, I happen to believe that most love affairs are conducted on the barter system, which makes the question of morality sociologically academic.”