The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  I watched them lift the stretcher carelessly. Now they were carrying her toward me. One of the ambulance stewards casually nodded as he passed. The coroner’s wagon was just behind me, and as they loaded the body I caught the excremental odor of death mingled with the background smell of dampness and garbage. Again I ruefully smiled. On my way home, I’d intended to stop at the Vortex, officially to try and discover the reason for Angie’s curiously significant glance as we’d questioned Keller three hours earlier. But there’d been another, more private reason. I’d been looking forward to seeing Angie Rayburn topless. Instead, though, she was just another reeking corpse. By tomorrow at this time, her family would have—

  “Lieutenant.”

  I turned to face Sigler, who’d come around my car, surprising me.

  “How’s it going at the hotel?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Nothing, so far. But—” He glanced over his shoulder. Following the movement, I saw a scrawny, gray-haired Chinese man, dressed in tattered, cast-off clothing. I’d never seen him before, but I recognized the type. Chinatown was just a few blocks away. And in Chinatown there were countless scavengers—old, bent, ravaged little men, most of them tubercular, many of them a little mad. They passed their days shuffling from refuse heap to garbage can, from alleyway to alleyway, usually with a limp burlap bag clutched close to their emaciated bodies.

  “That one might have something for us,” Sigler said. “I’ve had dealings with him before. His name is Lieu Eng. He’s balmy as hell, but he usually gets his facts straight.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “He says that he was going through some trash behind the hotel, right there.” Sigler pointed to a rear service entrance, midway back from the mouth of the alley. “I get the impression he was sitting on the doorstep, so that he was concealed by the cans. Maybe he was asleep—I can’t get that part of it straight. Anyhow, he saw the victim walking toward the Vortex, there. She was maybe ten or fifteen feet from the Vortex door when, according to Lieu, a man entered the alley. Now—” Sigler raised a cautioning hand. He’d been an inspector less than a year. He was young, but he was steady and careful. “Now, there’s no way of telling what really happened. Even if Lieu could speak English halfway, which he can’t, he’s still nutty. So I—”

  “Never mind, Sigler. I know what you’re saying. What is it that you think he meant? I’m not holding you to anything.”

  “Well—” He frowned, clearing his throat. “Well, as near as I can piece it out, the suspect was dressed in a jacket and slacks, and he was wearing a hat. That’s about all I can get. Maybe later we can get more. But—”

  “Tall or short?”

  He spread his hands. “I’m telling you, Lieutenant, that’s all there is, at least for now. When you talk to Lieu, you’ll see what I—”

  “All right. Sorry. What else?”

  “Well, Lieu said that at first he didn’t even think the suspect was following the girl especially. Then, just as the girl got to the door, the suspect went up to within five feet of her. At least, that’s my impression. Anyhow, according to Lieu, the guy was cool—looking up and down the alley, even looking up at some of the windows.”

  “Was the girl facing him?”

  “I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say no. I get the feeling he was just following her, slow and easy. And, of course, she was shot in the back. So—”

  “All right. What happened then?”

  Sigler shrugged. “He shot her. Then he took off—walking fast, according to Lieu. Not running.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s all Lieu saw. I mean, he stayed put, scared. Except—” Again Sigler hesitated. “Except, this is the interesting part.” He pointed to the hotel service entrance. “Lieu was there, see, leaning against the door, peeking out between the garbage cans. And he stayed put, like I said, so that once the suspect got to the sidewalk and turned to the left, he was out of Lieu’s sight. Now, of course, I’ve got three men right now, trying to turn up someone who saw the suspect after he got to the sidewalk. But, so far, we haven’t—”

  “Listen, what’s the interesting part?”

  He looked startled, then a little hurt. Again clearing his throat, he said, “The interesting part is that, according to Lieu, he heard a door slam—a car door. And then, almost immediately, he saw this Yellow Cab pulling out, as if it might’ve been parked immediately to the left of the alley entrance, just out of his sight. And—”

  “Has anyone else corroborated that Yellow Cab?”

  Sigler nodded. “I’ve got one tentative identification, only he’s a little gassed—drunk.” He suppressed a sheepish smile. “I know all this might not add up to much, Lieutenant. I mean, a wacko Chinese rag picker and a swacked junior executive, or whatever he is. But—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sigler. You’re doing fine. Now listen—” I gripped his arm. “I want you to hold onto those two witnesses. Threaten the drunk with a D and D pinch unless he cooperates. Give the rag picker a couple of bucks to stay put and promise him a couple of bucks every hour, or something. But hold onto them.” I opened the door of my cruiser. “I’ll give Lieutenant Friedman the word. This might be important, and I want it done right. Understand?”

  “Yes, but—” He frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, I’ve only got about three bucks on me, Lieutenant. See, I wasn’t expecting to—”

  “Here.” I put a ten-dollar bill in his hand. “If you don’t have to use it all, don’t. If you want me, I’ll be over at the Yellow Cab lot, probably. I’ll probably be there as long as you’re here. And remember, keep digging.” Impatiently, I blew my horn, beckoning for someone to move a squad car blocking my exit. Then, turning to Sigler, I said, “Next time, make sure you’re carrying some money. In this business, money means more than a gun. You should’ve learned that by now.” I nodded to him, then pulled sharply away, ducking the reporters.

  20

  THE GIRL WAS A thin-faced, unattractive brunette. As she looked at the shield, she was frowning, pettishly shaking her head. “We’ve got the eleven o’clock check-out coming up,” she said, “and I’m sure Mr. Harrington won’t be able to talk with you until after that. Inspectors Canelli and Haskell have been here all day, you know. And Mr. Harrington goes off at midnight. So he just simply can’t—”

  “Where’s Inspector Canelli now?”

  She pointed her yellow pencil primly over her shoulder indicating a short corridor. “He’s back there. Room three. But I don’t think—”

  “You tell Mr. Harrington I’m investigating a homicide that may involve one of your cabs. Tell him I expect to talk to him just as soon as he finishes his check-out, whatever that is. And, either way, I want to see him within fifteen minutes.” I turned away and walked down the hallway, opening the door of room three.

  Canelli, sitting across the table from a bald-headed taxi driver, looked up in surprise. Then he hesitantly smiled. “Hi, Lieutenant. What’s—”

  I turned to the cabbie. “That’ll be all for now. You can go home, or wherever you’re supposed to go.” As the driver hurriedly left, I turned back to Canelli. “Where’s Haskell?”

  He moved his chin to the left. “Next door. What’s up?”

  Briefly I explained, then said, “I want you and Haskell to get together with the radio dispatchers here. Put it out on their radio that we’re looking for the Yellow Cab parked at Wren Alley and Pacific Avenue sometime between ten-oh-five and ten-fifteen tonight. Tell them we’re going to require that every single cabbie on this shift account for his precise movements during that time. Make it an A.P.B., or whatever they’d call it. Make damn sure everyone knows about it, and knows it’s police business—serious police business. Tell them we’ve got our own cars rolling, and we’ll be checking them on the street. But don’t mention the homicide. Pull out all the other stops, though. These cabbies are licensed by the police, and I’m ready to start making it stick. Got it?”
/>   “Yessir.” He was halfway to the door.

  “How many drivers on this shift?” I asked.

  “About two hundred forty.”

  “Christ.” I rapped my knuckles painfully on the table, then jerked my head toward him. “All right, get going. I’ll get some more men down here.”

  He opened the door, hesitated and then turned back. “If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d get together with Harrington. He’s—”

  “Don’t worry about Harrington.” I walked back down the corridor. Every detective is familiar with the taxicab routine. I knew that Yellow Cab operated a fleet of four hundred cabs, twenty-four hours a day, three shifts. Now—on a late Monday night—they were at their lowest operating level. Harrington, the second-shift manager, would be leisurely checking his drivers in and out. He’d been on the job less than a year and cooperated with the police only grudgingly.

  I knocked on Harrington’s door and immediately entered. He was just emerging from the glass check-out booth adjoining his office. He was a bald, beefy, red-faced man of about fifty, a retired naval officer.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, pointing angrily to the loudspeaker, sputtering out my instructions. “This is a private company we’re running, you know. And it seems to me that you could at least do me the courtesy of—”

  “A little more than thirty minutes ago,” I said quietly, “we had a homicide at Columbus and Pacific. A Yellow Cab was eyeballed leaving the scene. Last Tuesday night, when Mrs. Carol Connoly was murdered, a Yellow Cab was seen at the scene. And I want—”

  “That’s coincidence. It doesn’t give you the right to—” Outside the glass booth, a horn discreetly sounded. “There, you see? I’m going to have twenty cabs lined up out there by the time you finish this. I’ve got a driver coming in and a driver going out every ninety seconds.”

  I stepped closer. Still in a very quiet voice—pointing past his shoulder to the glass booth—I said, “You get back there and attend to your business, Harrington. And I’ll attend to mine. But I want you to understand this: don’t get in my way, and don’t take up my time. If you’ve got any complaints, take them up with your boss. If he wants to, he’s welcome to take them up with my boss. Now, how many drivers are you expecting in here between now and midnight?”

  He’d gone pale with anger, but after drawing a long, deep breath, he said, “About eighty.”

  “All right. In a few minutes, I’ll have four more inspectors here. Each of those eighty drivers is to check with an inspector before he leaves. Otherwise, he’ll get his license yanked. Permanently. Is that clear?”

  He looked at me with pale, furious eyes. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  “All right, then.” Again I pointed to the booth. “Get back to work. And if those drivers don’t check with us, I’m going after your ass first.”

  Glancing at the large electric clock, I was surprised to see that the time was almost 2 A.M. During the past hour, the check-ins had considerably slowed. And still we hadn’t come up with our man. I’d last talked with Sigler, at the Vortex, about 12:30. He had nothing new to report. Friedman had called at 1:15 A.M. to say that Maureen Phillips and Vincent Connoly had both been home when inspectors had arrived at approximately 10:35. Arch Phillips, at 1:15 A.M., was still out. Keller had apparently been asleep when Culligan knocked on his door at approximately 10:25 P.M. The M.E. had phoned about midnight to say that he couldn’t do anything about an autopsy until the next morning, unless I wanted to make a big thing of it. He did say, though, that the bullet was still inside Angie Rayburn. It was the only promising development of the long night.

  I saw Canelli finishing with a tall, good-looking black driver who smiled at me and waved. Realizing that I should know him, I waved back. Then I gestured for Canelli to come over to me.

  “When’d you come on duty?” I asked.

  “About eleven this morning,” he said, yawning.

  “How many drivers have we interviewed since I came?”

  “About a hundred fifty. Maybe more.”

  “All right, now listen, Canelli. I’m going to leave you in charge of this whole thing. According to what Harrington says, the last man who could’ve been driving at ten-oh-five would’ve checked out of here on the ten P.M. shift, so he’d finish at six A.M. this morning. Right?”

  “Right, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay. So take tomorrow—today—off. Report Wednesday morning. Got it?”

  Faintly he smiled. “I got Wednesday and Thursday off, too, Lieutenant. They’re my regular days off.”

  I returned the smile, tapping him on the shoulder. “There you are, Canelli: a three-day weekend. It all works out for the best. And don’t forget to set up a four-man shift before you leave here. If you can, get either Sobel or Carruthers to take charge. And make damn sure you give your report to your replacement. Got it?”

  He nodded. Then, hesitantly, he said, “What about that Los Angeles trip, Lieutenant?”

  I spread my hands. “You still haven’t found me that cabbie yet, Canelli. Fair’s fair.”

  He snorted. “If I ever find that cabbie, Lieutenant, it’s beginning to look like I’m going to find your murderer, too.”

  I yawned. “With your luck, Canelli, I wouldn’t doubt it. Goodnight. I’ll be downtown about nine A.M.”

  21

  STUBBORNLY CULLIGAN SHOOK HIS head. “There was no way, no way at all, that Keller could’ve got out last night without my boys seeing him. Besides, why would he kill his own girlfriend?”

  “To keep her from talking,” Friedman said quietly, looking at Culligan with a chilly superior’s stare. “She already told us about Keller’s blackmail plans. Maybe she had more to tell.”

  “But—” Culligan shifted impatiently in his chair. “I’m telling you that—”

  “I think,” Friedman said, “that Keller could’ve slipped out through the back alleyway. Your boys started dogging it, I think, when they saw Angie leave with the car. It happens all the time: cops start thinking that without a car no one goes anywhere. But people can still walk—and still hop fences, too, which Keller could’ve done. You already told me that it was pitch-black behind Keller’s place. And if he got out, killed the girl and got back inside without being seen, he’d have the world’s best alibi: a police stakeout.”

  Watching Culligan’s face angrily flushing, I decided to interrupt. Pointing to the small stack of reports lying on the desk, I said to Friedman, “What about the other possibles?”

  He yawned, reaching heavily for his paper cupful of coffee. Watching him, I realized that he was tired. Neither of us had gotten more than four hours’ sleep, and it was showing.

  Finally, sighing, he leaned back in his chair, half closed his eyes and recited, “Sobel got to Victor Connoly’s house at approximately ten-twenty-seven P.M. last night. Connoly’s house is about a seven-minute drive from Pacific and Columbus. Connoly came to the door in his pajamas, with his hair messed up. He said he’d been upstairs in bed, sleeping. His son was also sleeping, he said, and the maid was spending the night with relatives. Sobel didn’t feel like he could exactly roust Connoly, which was true. However, Sobel thought fast. He pretended to be concerned for Connoly’s safety, and on that pretext went through the first floor of the house. He found the back door unlocked, and the lights on in the kitchen, the bathroom and the hall. He asked Connoly whether he—Connoly—was in the habit of retiring with the downstairs lights burning and the back door unlocked. Connoly said that he’d had three stiff drinks before going to bed, because of his bereavement. Sobel didn’t see that he could do anything but accept Connoly’s story. And he was right, I guess.”

  “What about Arch Phillips?”

  Friedman smiled wryly. “Phillips arrived home at approximately one-forty-five A.M. Carruthers met him on the doorstep, which seemed to distress Phillips. At first, he wouldn’t talk. Finally, though, the whole story came out: Phillips had been to a dirty movie, which he sat through twice. He went to the movie at about nine P.M.
and got out about one-fifteen.”

  “Neither Connoly nor Phillips is completely off the hook, then.”

  “Correct.”

  “What about Maureen?”

  Friedman looked at me sharply. “You seem to be on a first-name basis with one of our prime suspects, Lieutenant.”

  Not replying, I tried to appear impatient, waiting for him to continue.

  Finally he said, “Mrs. Phillips was supposedly home, watching TV. When our man arrived at ten-thirty, she was wearing a bathrobe. She said she returned from a cocktail party at about nine P.M. Naturally, the boys are checking this, not to mention Phillips’ dirty movie and Connoly’s—”

  Friedman’s phone rang. “That,” he said, “is probably trouble. I told them to hold the routine calls.” With a deep, noisy sigh he lifted the phone. After a puzzled moment he frowned, shrugged and then passed the phone to me, without comment.

  “Who’s this?” It was Canelli’s voice.

  “This is Hastings, Canelli. What’s up?”

  “Well, like I was telling Lieutenant Friedman, a very strange thing happened. I’m down at Yellow Cab. I decided that I might as well come back down here this morning. I mean, I couldn’t get anyone that—” He hesitated, then said, “I mean, I decided that as long as I started with this and everything, I might just as well finish it. So I figured that—”

  “Listen, Canelli, get to the point, will you?”

  “Well, the point is that something very strange happened down here.”

  “You already said that, Canelli. What happened that’s so strange?”

  “Well, you know the setup down here: how they keep most of their cabs in their parking lot, but sometimes they park them on the street, especially during the slow shifts, when there’s lots of cabs not being used. It’s against the codes, parking the cabs outside the fence. And, as a matter of fact, I was going to mention it to Mr. Gross, the manager. But then I figured that greater minds than mine must have—”

  “You’re off the subject again, Canelli.”