The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Was Mrs. Connoly trying to get into the movies?”

  “No. She was too smart for that. She realized the odds were too long, even for someone with her looks. She was simply looking around for the best bargain she could make, bartering her charms. And she was obviously learning fast, perfecting her techniques. She was a natural predator.”

  “What do you mean by that, Mr. Farwell?”

  “I mean,” he answered, “that in the battle of the sexes she had a cool, dispassionate instinct for the jugular. Most combatants dissipate their energies in histrionics—pointless accusations, extravagant anger, chest thumping, screaming—most of it designed actually to avoid the moment of combat. Carol, though, had no such hangups. She was an instinctive man-killer. If she hadn’t made one tactical error, she could’ve gone all the way to the top. Which is to say, she could’ve married a top star. Maybe even a producer or director.”

  “What was this ‘tactical error’?”

  “She looked back,” Farwell answered promptly. “You can’t look back, Lieutenant. Because when you do, you get that first fatal glimpse of yourself. That’s what happened to Carol. That’s why she didn’t get to the top.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Because she took that first backward glance at almost precisely the moment I met her. I’d been watching her operate. She’d been skillfully playing a big-shot publicist, getting ready to slip the gaff into him. To me, she stood out from all the other meat like a—a—” He stopped speaking, then shook his head as a spasm of pain twitched at his thick features. “Anyhow, the place was very crowded. I was standing behind her when some drunk put a hand on her. She thought it was me, and she turned to look at me with a kind of cold, pitying look. Something about that look, coming from her, infuriated me. I gave her a quiet, concise thumbnail sketch of herself, then went to get my coat. I was drunk, and suddenly I’d had enough of the party. But, incredibly, she followed me. She was drunk, too, as it turned out; I didn’t know it, but she was. And she was feeling maudlin, for probably the first and last time in her life. She asked me to take her home. I said I was going in the other direction; I lived way out in an unfashionable part of the San Fernando Valley, as far as I could get from Hollywood. She said she’d go home with me. She did. She stayed the next day, then the next week. Finally she stayed a year.” For a moment he stared off across the office, his eyes suddenly blank—and vulnerable. Then he repeated in a softer voice, “A year—almost exactly a year.”

  He’d been in love with her, was probably still in love with her. So he wanted to help find her murderer. I thoughtfully studied him. I was thinking of the four mismatched men who’d been involved with her: Connoly and Phillips, both so bland; Keller and Farwell, so twisted and tortured.

  “As I understand it,” I said, “you don’t have any information that could help us directly. I mean, we’re looking for a suspect that we can place with Carol Connoly on Tuesday night, someone with the motive and the opportunity and the desire to kill her. Do you have that kind of information, Mr. Farwell?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

  “Do you know anyone who might’ve had a motive, someone from her past life in Hollywood?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I can’t give you a name. But—” Again he hesitated. Then: “But I was aware that there was some … strange shadow over Carol’s life, if you’ll pardon the purple prose. She wouldn’t talk about it, and she wasn’t the kind of person that you could press for information—at least, not directly. But I remember one time, about six months after she came to live with me, that I arrived home to find her frightened. She didn’t admit it, of course. That would’ve been out of character. But I knew something had happened to her that day, something serious. So the next day I began asking around.”

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “And nothing. I lived on what was actually a ranch. The closest neighbor was almost a mile away. However—” He paused. “I finally located a neighboring ranch hand who saw a ‘tall, dark-haired man’ hanging around my place. I asked Carol about it—obliquely, of course—but she professed not to have seen a dark-haired man. Maybe she hadn’t. Anyhow, within a day or so, she was perfectly normal.”

  “You didn’t see this stranger yourself, then?”

  “Well—I saw the ranch hand at the local store a day or two afterward, and he pointed out a young, tall hobo who’d been in the area for a week, more or less. It was the same man, according to the ranch hand.”

  “Did you question the hobo?”

  “No.”

  “Did you double check with Carol concerning him?”

  “No. She’d already denied his presence once. And Carol wasn’t someone you kept picking at. If you’d known her, you’d understand.”

  As I nodded, I was thinking of an old law-enforcement bromide: the successful homicide detective must get to know the murder victim intimately. Was I getting to know Carol Connoly? Or was she still a stranger to me, as she must have been to so many others?

  “There’s only one part of your story that I don’t understand, Mr. Farwell,” I said finally.

  “What part is that?” He said it almost pugnaciously. Suddenly he seemed restless, anxious to leave.

  “I don’t understand,” I began, “why she went to live with you. I mean, she seems to’ve been a very”—I hesitated, groping—“a very cagey, deliberate kind of a person, a girl who apparently played hard to get. Yet you tell me that in a few minutes’ time, during a drunken party, she decides to come home with you. Then, the next day or so, she decides to live with you. I mean—” I smiled, spreading my hands. “I mean, it all seems a little … sudden. And it seems unlike her, completely out of character.”

  For a long, silent moment he remained perfectly motionless, staring at me with his deep-set eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. But it was a smile that reflected pain, not pleasure.

  “I wonder,” he said slowly, “whether her … aberration … would seem so strange to you if I happened to be one of the so-called beautiful people?”

  With an obvious malicious amusement he watched me squirm. Then, still very deliberately, he said, “Carol came to live with me for the same reasons that some people go to sanitariums. She was sick—sick of the men she manipulated, sick of the life she was living. She wanted—needed—a change and a rest. To pursue the sanitarium simile, she needed skilled, diversified treatment—rest, relaxation and counsel. And maybe she needed a shock treatment.” To himself, he smiled, caught in some secret reverie. “Maybe that was my role: the personification of shock treatment. She suspected all along that men were evil, and ugly. Maybe she needed the suspicion confirmed. Maybe—” He broke off, snorting to himself bitterly. Then, in a brisker voice: “Anyhow, whatever the treatment was, it worked. After the year, she re-emerged into the world, ready to do what had to be done.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Find a rich man and marry him. Which she did. Less than a year later.”

  “Were you still in touch with her at the time of her marriage, Mr. Farwell?”

  “No, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I left town shortly after she moved out. My vogue, as they say, had passed. Regrettably.”

  “Did you come directly to the San Francisco area from Hollywood?”

  “No. I made the circuit first: San Miguel, Taos, Martha’s Vineyard. Even the Haight Ashbury, a few years ago. I was writing novels then—very bad, very unsuccessful novels. I used up my capital about the time I arrived here. Which was about the time, coincidentally, that Mephistopheles caught up with me, in the earthly guise of a comic-book czar. He’d been stalking me, I suspect, for some time. Who knows,” he said softly, “maybe my friend Mephistopheles escorted Carol to that party.”

  I answered his smile, then slowly rose to stand behind my desk. Immediately he also rose, anxious to go.

  As we shook hands I asked, “Do you think if you were to see that dark-haired young hobo now that you could recognize him?”
>
  He shrugged. “I could try. He had a rapacious look about him, as I remember. Call me. It’s only an hour’s drive into San Francisco from Bolinas.”

  “Good. Thanks again for your help, Mr. Farwell. You might be hearing from me. Soon.”

  He nodded curtly, turned and briskly left the office. I glanced at my watch, then reached for the phone book. Just as I’d found Maureen Phillips’ number, Friedman stuck his head in the door.

  “They located Blanche Touhy,” he said. “She and her husband will be in town about noon Monday—tomorrow. They’re going to check with us as soon as they get in.”

  “Good. Are you going home?”

  “No. They just found a dead hippie down in the Haight Ashbury, so I’m stuck. Therefore, I’m going out for a snack. Enjoy your interview with the dangerous Mrs. Phillips.” He closed the door.

  15

  SHADOWS MOVED ACROSS THE ceiling and down the wall as a car slowly passed outside. From the hallway, the German shepherd’s toenails clicked on the hardwood floor as he paced from living room to kitchen, then back again.

  “When do you feed your dog?”

  The glow of the cigarette illuminated her face as she lay on her back smoking, staring up at the ceiling. She took the cigarette from her mouth, deeply inhaled, then placed the cigarette in a bedside ashtray. Now she momentarily closed her eyes, sighing with faint exasperation.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, “that Caesar and I aren’t really chums. He’s a necessary item of protection in the household. Therefore, he eats according to my whim, like the refrigerator waits to be defrosted.”

  “Maybe you’d be happier with a burglar alarm.”

  She turned her head to look at me, then decided to smile. “You turn a neat phrase, Lieutenant. When the spirit moves you.”

  When I didn’t reply, she said, “I did some research on you today—some accidental research, I guess you’d say. I was drinking gin fizzes in Sausalito with some of the girls, and it seems that one of them knew you. Or knew about you, anyhow. She knew your ex-wife. Didn’t you used to live in Detroit?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t you used to play football—professional football?”

  “For a while.”

  “And then your marriage broke up, according to my friend, and you moved out here to begin a new life. Your wife, meanwhile, is married to a ‘prominent Detroit executive,’ as the saying goes.”

  “Your friend is very well informed. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Sally MacLean. Her husband’s Dan MacLean. He’s in advertising, and they spent some time in Detroit. He was doing advertising for Chevrolet, I think.”

  “I never heard of them.”

  “I suppose that happens when you’re a celebrity: you never hear about the people who hear about you.”

  “I was never a celebrity. Not while I was in Detroit, anyhow.”

  “Yes,” she answered, “that’s what Sally said.” In the darkness, a hint of practiced mockery was plain in her voice. I sighed and raised my wrist to check the time. It was a little after midnight—time to go home.

  She grasped my wrist, turning the watch toward her. She kept her grip as I let my arm relax. I could feel a quick rippling of desire as she moved her long, bold fingers on my arm, now resting against my thigh.

  “How’d you happen to become a policeman?” she asked softly.

  “I needed a job.”

  “But—” She hesitated. “But you must’ve had connections. I mean, athletes are constantly in demand, I’ve always thought. You always hear of them doing wonderfully as salesmen or stockbrokers. It’s quite chichi, actually, to have an athlete for a broker.”

  “I spent a little time in P.R. It didn’t take.”

  “Why not?”

  “Point one, I was working for my father-in-law, who didn’t really like me very much. And, point two, you can’t be a P.R. man unless you’re a good drinker. And I discovered that I couldn’t drink.”

  “Couldn’t? Or shouldn’t?”

  I shrugged, then turned toward her, responding to the slowly tightening coil of my body’s gathering desire. With my free hand I began slowly stroking her throat. I felt her breathing quicken and her fingers tighten on my arm.

  “Did you try to call me earlier?” she whispered.

  “No. I was too busy, frankly. I didn’t have a minute.”

  “Have you found out who killed her yet?”

  “No. You didn’t do it, did you?”

  With my hand on the first full swelling of her breasts, I felt her stiffen. But her low, bitter chuckle sounded authentic as she said, “Not unless looks can kill—and dark, evil thoughts.”

  “You never did tell me where you were Tuesday night.”

  “I know.” She moved her wide-spread fingers slowly from my forearm to my thigh, expertly. “I’ve got it figured out that I’ll just keep you coming back, asking about my alibi. You feel very good to me, Lieutenant. Very muscular, very exciting.” Her voice had dropped to a low, husky murmur. I felt her body urgently stirring.

  “If you did the job,” I said, twisting toward her, “we’ll both need lawyers.”

  “I’m not your man, Lieutenant,” she whispered. “In spite of the fact that they’re wonderfully phallic, I’m afraid of guns.”

  16

  “THE LAST TIME I went to the Starview Motel,” Canelli was saying, “was when that sailor off the Enterprise got knifed about six months ago. I never saw so much blood in my life, honest to God. There was even blood on the ceiling. No fooling.”

  “What kind of a place is it?”

  He shrugged. “Cheap. The word is that it’s a hot-sheet operation: ten bucks for a couple of hours, no questions asked. Why? Is this Blanche Touhy mixed up in something?”

  “Not that I know of. She probably just picked a cheap motel.” I glanced at my watch as we waited for the Army Street traffic light. It was just past noon. Los Angeles had promised preliminary reports on Connoly’s movements by one o’clock. When I’d left the office, minutes ago, Culligan and Haskell were leaving to interrogate Keller and Angie, keeping up the pressure. Sobel and his partner were canvassing the Connoly neighborhood, checking out tipsters, cranks, kids and kooks. The lab was due to report on Carol’s car by two P.M. And—still—three men were laboring at Yellow Cab headquarters, fruitlessly. The ownership of the Army blanket was still in doubt, providing Friedman with endless material for countless horseshit jokes.

  “How many men are still down in Pacifica?” I asked.

  “Two. But I wouldn’t hold my breath, Lieutenant. The way that gravesite’s situated, the murderer could’ve driven an M-l tank in and out during the night. There’s just nothing out there. It’s like the moon, only with trees.”

  “What about witnesses to someone digging in the area just before the murder?”

  He shrugged. “If you saw the place, like I say, you’d know what I’m talking about. There’s even a screen of trees hiding the site. The only thing I can say, the murderer must’ve spent a lot of time picking his spot.”

  “Still, I’ll give it another day or two. It’s a small planet, you know.”

  “You mean that I got to go back down there, Lieutenant?”

  I glanced at him, smiling. “I think I’m going to give you a break, Canelli. After we finish talking to Blanche Touhy, I’m going to drop you off at the Yellow Cab lot. We need a little Canelli luck out there.”

  “Aw—” He shifted in the seat, his pudgy face furrowed in an unaccustomed frown.

  “What’s the matter, Canelli? It’s a nice indoor assignment. Think of it as a promotion out of Pacifica.”

  He glanced at me speculatively, obviously framing a delicate question. “I hear,” he said tentatively, “that a coupla men might be sent down to L.A.”

  Again I smiled. “If you find that cabdriver for me, Canelli, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No fooling, Lieutenant?”

  “No fooling.”

  “Okay,
it’s a deal.” He pointed ahead. “There it is, Lieutenant: the Starview Motel. Such as it is.”

  As I pressed the buzzer, I glanced at the dusty, dented Ford pickup parked in the unit’s sagging carport. I could imagine Victor Connoly’s distaste, surveying that bedraggled car.

  The plywood door opened, revealing a blowsy, broad-faced, fortyish blonde. She was wearing tight magenta stretch slacks, a bedraggled, fluffy-knit pink sweater and run-over gold slippers.

  “Mrs. Touhy?”

  She nodded. “Right. You’re—”

  “Lieutenant Hastings.” I showed her the shield. “This is Inspector Canelli.”

  As she stepped back from the door, beckoning for us to enter, she arranged her face in a pained, pouty expression that she probably considered appropriate to the unhappy occasion. “Come on in, please. Bill, he’s still in the shower. He’s my husband. We didn’t think you’d be out so soon. We just got in about an hour ago, see, and—” She seemed to lose the thought. Sighing and frowning, pursing her lips, she looked around the cramped room. “There isn’t much of a place to sit, I guess.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Touhy. This’ll be fine.” I sat on the edge of the bed, motioning Canelli to an unsteady desk chair, badly scarred. Blanche Touhy sat in the room’s only remaining chair. She crossed her heavy legs, deeply sighing as she drew her penciled brows together.

  “It’s terrible,” she said. “Just simply terrible. When’s the funeral?”

  “Two o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Yeah—” She nodded. “I guess I knew that. She’s at Chapin’s Funeral Home. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced at a gaudy wrist watch. “I still got to get a black dress downtown. A black crepe, I guess. What’s a good store, anyhow?”

  “Well, the Emporium’s very good. Or Macy’s. I think I’d go downtown, if I were you, and just look around. You’re bound to find something.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She sighed again, then began fretfully pushing at the strands of her faded blond hair. I remembered Carol’s picture, and her thick, shoulder-length hair.