The Disappearance (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)
Page 19
I’d only once seen Markham hit a man, but I’d never forgotten it. He’d coolly watched for an opening, then stepped in close, dropped one shoulder, and hit the suspect just below the heart. The blow traveled only a few inches, but the suspect had dropped in his tracks. I’d been standing so that I could see Markham’s eyes: killer’s eyes, expressionless, except for an almost imperceptible glint of pleasure.
Still, Markham was an intelligent, hard-working, conscientious cop. He could think on his feet, and he wasn’t afraid. He was cautious, but willing to gamble in the crunch. His sadistic temper had never distorted his judgment. And he was ambitious; he’d already passed his sergeant’s exam, and was rising on the list. When Kreiger made Chief of Detectives, and Friedman made Captain, Markham would probably be my co-lieutenant. I didn’t like the idea, but I couldn’t think of a more qualified man.
“How’s it look?” I asked, gesturing toward the Draper house.
Markham took a moment to adjust his tie, then said, “According to the background information, the Drapers didn’t get along. He’s too lazy to make much of a living, and she didn’t let him forget it. About half the time he’s minding the kid while she works—worked. One neighbor, apparently the local gossip, said that Mrs. Draper’s father sends them checks all the time—even made a big down payment on their house. All of which bugs Draper, especially when he’s drinking, which seems to be a lot of the time. Anyhow, the basement is filled with empty bottles. According to my informant, Mrs. Draper refused to throw out their empty liquor bottles because she didn’t want to make a bad impression on the garbage man.”
“What did Draper tell you about his movements yesterday?”
Markham eyed me for a moment, thoughtfully scrubbing his heavy five-o’clock stubble. “I thought you were just talking to him.”
“I was.” I said it quietly.
“Well,” he answered reluctantly, “Draper says it was just an ordinary day. But their next-door neighbor—the gossip—says that she heard them arguing from about seven o’clock until Mrs. Draper went to the movies. No one else seems to’ve heard it, though.”
“Did you talk to the little girl?”
His glance slid aside. “No. Not yet,” he answered shortly. “I was going to do that next.”
“Does it look like a regular mugging to you?”
He eyed me cautiously, alert for a trap. “It looks more like a mugging than a husband-and-wife thing. Draper might not be any prize, but he’s no Yo-Yo, either. He’s smart. And murdering your wife in the front entryway with an iron pipe isn’t very smart. Not compared to pushing her down a flight of inside stairs, for instance, then finishing her off.”
“Where was he when the uniformed men arrived?”
“In his daughter’s room, checking on her.”
“How long did it take the uniformed men to answer the call?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered reluctantly. Then, defensively: “We haven’t checked everything out yet. I haven’t even been able to make a decent search for the weapon. There’s just Sigler and me, you know.”
I nodded, deciding not to make the elapsed time of the radio car’s response an issue. Markham would find out before I saw him tomorrow. If I didn’t press him, he’d volunteer the information, offhandedly. Markham resented direct orders.
I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes, and I’d have to leave, still without anything new for Kreiger. Irrelevantly, I was remembering the moment when I’d waited for my cue during the high school senior play. It was a moment that could still come back in uneasy dreams.
“How about witnesses?” I asked.
He moved his head toward the pink-and-white house directly across from the Draper place. “The only thing I’ve been able to turn up is over there: a sixteen-year-old girl named Cindy Wallace. Last night she and her boyfriend were parked about where we’re parked now, from approximately eleven-thirty till one. I couldn’t get her away from her mother, but I get the impression that Cindy and her boyfriend were necking. I also figured out, from the way the car was parked, that the boyfriend would’ve been facing the Draper house, assuming they really were necking. Which, as a matter of fact, they might not’ve been really doing. At least, not all the time.”
“How do you mean?”
“I got the impression that they might’ve had an argument. Anyhow, she let it slip that she went into the house by herself. Then she let it slip that her boyfriend stayed parked in front of the house for ten or fifteen minutes after she went inside. I figured he might’ve been sitting in the car steaming at her.”
“Who’s her boyfriend?”
He’d anticipated the question, sliding his notebook smoothly from his pocket. Everything Markham did seemed smooth, effortless, self-contained. “Here it is,” he said. “Dan Haywood. He lives at seventeen sixty-one Greenwich.”
“That’s just a couple of blocks from my place,” I said, surprised. “Just around the corner, I think.”
Not commenting, he slid the notebook back into his pocket.
“Do you think he might have something for us?” I glanced at my watch.
Markham shrugged. “Maybe. I thought I’d go over there later.”
“I’ve got to phone the captain,” I said. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll talk to this Dan Haywood on my way home. If I get anything important, I’ll get back to you through Communications. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning. In the meantime,” I said, “maybe you should question Draper again. I can’t tell whether he’s in shock or worried stiff. But the book says the husband is suspect number one. And the book is usually right. So if you think you want to get a search warrant, go ahead.”
He nodded in grudging agreement, leaving the car without looking back. As I watched him move smoothly, self-confidently across the street, I was thinking that he moved like a stereotyped Western badman, stalking his prey down a dusty, deserted street.
I was also thinking that because I’d suggested it, he would delay getting the search warrant, hopeful of breaking the case on his own terms.
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