Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Read online

  Power Plays

  A Lt. Hastings Mystery

  Collin Wilcox

  This book is dedicated to

  Lurton Blassingame,

  a gentleman

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Preview: Mankiller

  One

  I WAS SITTING AT the head of the table; Ann was sitting at the foot. Ann’s two sons, Billy and Dan, sat on either side. The occasion was a small celebration. A grammar-school teacher, Ann had just learned that tomorrow a TV crew would film her fourth-graders as they painted a mural on a playground wall. So we were celebrating with a rack of lamb for Ann, spaghetti for Billy, macaroni and cheese for Dan and pound cake for me. It was a family-style scene, evoking family-style memories, and during the meal I’d constantly found my thoughts wandering back into the past—the distant past and the recent past. I’d been divorced for more than ten years; Ann had been divorced for two years. I’d met her a little less than a year ago when Dan, her teen-age son, had been a witness to murder—briefly a suspect. I’d been looking for Dan when I’d first seen Ann. I’d been standing on her front porch when she’d opened the door. In my left hand I’d held my badge. My right hand had been free, ready to draw my revolver. Teenagers, I’d learned, could be dangerous.

  When Ann saw the badge she’d taken a quick, involuntary step backward, at the same time raising one hand to her mouth in the classic gesture of a woman distressed. She’d been wearing blue jeans and an old turtleneck sweater. Her thick, tawny hair had been loose around her shoulders. Her feet had been bare: five toes with pink-painted toenails peeping from beneath denims that dragged on the floor. Her eyes had been wide, mutely searching mine.

  Even in that first moment I’d sensed something unique about her—something special, for me. Without her shoes, dressed in her old sweater and faded jeans, she’d seemed very vulnerable: a small, slim woman, deeply troubled. In her hushed, wide-eyed anxiety for her child, she’d seemed especially feminine, especially appealing. Looking down at her toes, I’d decided that she was slightly pigeon-toed. Later, I discovered that I’d been wrong.

  Now, dressed in a beige silk blouse that accented her hair, sitting at the foot of a polished pine table that had been in her family for three generations, Ann seemed very assured—and still very appealing. She reached for her wineglass, smiled at me and lifted the glass in a silent toast. As she drank, her gray eyes regarded me with grave good humor. About the time I discovered that she wasn’t pigeon-toed, I also discovered the intriguing difference between Ann’s public and private personalities. With strangers she was often remote, reserved. With her friends, though, she shared a private warmth and quiet sense of pixy-lit humor.

  Making love, she could be bold—playfully bawdy, even.

  Noisily swallowing a huge bite of lamb, Billy turned to me. At age eleven he was a quick-thinking, quick-talking extrovert with a lively imagination and a vivid sense of himself.

  “When I’m sixteen,” he announced, “I’m going to learn how to fly an airplane. That’s all you have to be—just sixteen. Then, after I get out of college, I’m going to be an aeronautical engineer. They design airplanes.”

  “Oh, God.” Dan, seventeen, raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Last week he was going to be a scuba diver and discover sunken treasure. That was after he saw The Deep.”

  “And after you saw The Deep,” Billy retorted, “you bought a poster of Jacqueline Bisset.”

  “In her T-shirt,” Ann added, smiling mischievously. “Wet.”

  Suddenly flushing, Dan lowered his eyes to his plate. Frowning, he began to cut his meat busily. Whenever Ann mentioned sex, however obliquely, Dan quickly dropped out of the conversation. If she persisted, he’d leave the room. As Billy’s high-pitched voice trilled in the background of my thoughts, I tried to recall whether I’d ever talked about sex with my mother. When I was thirteen my father had deserted us. He’d been a big, good-looking man with broad shoulders, bold eyes and an easy smile. As a young man he’d played semi-pro baseball. Later, after several unsuccessful big-league tryouts, he’d done “a little of everything.” Finally settling down in San Francisco, he married my mother and began selling real estate. Eventually he opened his own real estate office. One day I’d come home to find my mother crying. Silently, she’d handed me a letter. My father had gone away with his secretary. He was sorry, he said. He couldn’t help himself. He was taking the car, but nothing else. When he was settled, he’d send money.

  Four years later he’d died in an auto accident in Texas. The car had caught fire, and he’d been burned beyond recognition. Except for the checks he mailed at Christmas, and sometimes on my birthday, he never sent us the money he’d promised.

  In those four years my mother and I had never discussed sex. I was sure of it. I couldn’t remember our talking of anything substantive. We almost never argued. But we never really talked, either. She’d been numbed by despair and loneliness. I’d been trying to find my way through adolescence—alone.

  Obliquely, I glanced at Dan. What were his fantasies, contemplating Jacqueline Bisset in her wet T-shirt? Dan was a handsome boy, big for his age. He carried himself gracefully. His features were regular; his dark eyes were calm and clear. He was a quiet boy, slow to reveal either anger or pleasure. While Billy warbled, Dan watched.

  “Are you ready for coffee, Frank?” Ann asked.

  I shook my head. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Sanka?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “We’ve got some Ovaltine,” Billy said. “How about some Ovaltine?”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, Billy. But—”

  In the hallway close by, a telephone rang. Dan quickly rose from the table and answered the phone. During dinner he’d already taken two calls. Both the callers, I’d guessed, had been girls.

  “It’s for you, Frank,” he called. “Inspector Canelli.”

  Resigned, I dropped my napkin beside my plate and pushed back my chair. I alternated “on call” nights with Pete Friedman, my co-lieutenant in Homicide. Tonight was my turn.

  I waited for Dan to return to the dining room before I answered the phone.

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” Canelli asked.

  “Yes. What is it, Canelli?” As I spoke, I took a notebook and pen from my jacket pocket.

  “Well, Lieutenant,” Canelli said heavily, “I hate to bother you. But I’ve got a real situation here, it looks like. And I gotta have some authorizations.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “The situation is that there was this traffic accident at Columbus and Vallejo. It was a fender bender, no big deal. A woman driving a silver-colored Mercedes hit a couple of guys in a brown Buick. She ran a red light and hit them in the right front fender. But then, Jesus, it all hit the fan. Because the two guys in the Buick—the driver and another guy in back—they suddenly jumped out of the car and started to run. Well—” He paused for breath. Canelli had his own long-winded, rambling style, making a report. No matter how tight the time frame, he built the suspense. “Well, Columbus is pretty heavily traveled, as you well know. And there just happened to be a two-man black-and-white unit going north on Columbus that saw the whole thing. When th
ey see the two guys running away from the Buick, one of the patrolmen from the unit took out after the driver. And his partner, he secured the accident scene. So then—” Again, he paused for breath.

  “Listen, Canelli. Get to the point, will you? I haven’t had dessert yet.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Lieutenant. Well, the goddamn point is that it turns out there was another guy in the Buick. He was in the back seat. And he’s dead.”

  I sighed. From where I stood I could look into the dining room. Billy was serving the dessert: chilled fruit cocktail with a slice of pound cake on the side. Anticipating the dessert, I’d only had one small helping of the rack of lamb.

  “Go on, Canelli,” I said heavily. “What’s the rest of it?”

  “Well, Lieutenant, I just got here. I haven’t been here for more than five minutes. So I’m flying blind, you might say. But to me it looks like the guy was either shot or stabbed. But that’s not the problem.”

  “What’s the problem, Canelli?”

  “The problem is the goddamn traffic, Lieutenant. It’s backed up all the way down to Market Street. There’s two sergeants from Traffic here. Ferguson and Durrant. And they’re raising hell. They want me to move the car. But I’ve told them that I can’t move the body without authorization. So they claim that all I’m moving is the car, not the body. So that’s why I’m calling, Lieutenant. For instructions.”

  “You tell Ferguson and Durrant on my authority that the cars aren’t to be moved. Tell them they’ve got to set up a permanent traffic diversion.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant.” It was a doubtful-sounding rejoinder.

  “Make them swallow it, Canelli,” I said. “If the victim was shot, the shot could’ve come from outside the car. If we move the car, we lose our angle of fire.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Still doubtfully.

  “What about the two men from the Buick? Did they get away?”

  “One of them—the guy that was sitting in back—he got away. But the driver, he might be cornered. Like I said, one of the patrolmen took out after him and saw him duck into an alleyway that runs beside a three-story building. So the patrolman called for a backup, instead of going after him alone. Which was the right thing to do, of course. But then, when the backup arrived, and they swept the alleyway, they didn’t get the guy.”

  “What does the patrolman think?”

  “He thinks the guy’s hiding in the building. There was a window broken, so I guess he’s probably right.”

  “Have you got the building sewed up?”

  “Yes, sir. Sewed up tight.” He hesitated, then said, “Are you going to come down, Lieutenant?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes, Canelli. Just keep the lid on until I get there. Don’t move the cars. Don’t go in after the suspect. Don’t do anything except make the calls to the coroner and the lab. Just keep it cool.”

  “Right. Thanks, Lieutenant. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome.” I stepped into the dining room, kissed Ann, apologized, and reached across the table for my slice of pound cake. I’d eat it while I drove.

  Two

  WITH MY SIREN WAILING and my red light flashing, I drove the final two blocks on Vallejo Street against an angry, wildly weaving flow of one-way traffic. Ahead, I could see the Columbus-Vallejo intersection. Canelli hadn’t exaggerated. With emergency lights winking from roofs and windshields, a half-dozen official vehicles blocked three of the four traffic lanes on Columbus Avenue. I parked beside a fire hydrant, left my card on the dashboard and locked my car. As I walked the last half block, I pinned my badge on the lapel of my corduroy sports jacket. The night was soft and warm, unusual for November. Overhead, stars sparkled in a dark, clear sky. If there was fog tonight, it lay west of the Golden Gate, miles from the city.

  Columbus Avenue passes through the oldest, most historic section of downtown San Francisco. Carrying two-way traffic, Columbus begins among the towering skyscrapers of the city’s financial district, touches the bawdy glitter of the old Barbary Coast and ends at Fisherman’s Wharf. The Vallejo intersection is about halfway between the financial district and Broadway, center of the skin trade. On Vallejo Street, most of the buildings are old, built of brick and stone. Many of the buildings had survived the 1906 earthquake.

  As I ducked under a makeshift rope barricade loosely strung between two lamp poles, I saw Canelli step from behind a coroner’s van and walk quickly toward me. At age twenty-seven—at a suety, shapeless two hundred forty pounds—Canelli looked more like an overweight fry cook than a homicide detective. When he walked, he waddled. When he was worried, he perspired. Now, in the glare of police department floodlights, his broad, swarthy face glistened with sweat.

  As Canelli approached me from the left, Traffic Sergeant Ferguson came at me from the right. We converged close to the brown Buick sedan. The car was angled across an inside lane of Columbus, headed north. The silver Mercedes had evidently come west on Vallejo, crashing into the Buick’s right front fender and grill. The position of the cars made it impossible for either the Mercedes or the Buick to be driven forward.

  Both cars were four-door sedans. On the driver’s side of the Buick, the front door was standing slightly ajar. On the opposite side, a rear door stood wide open. Ignoring Canelli and Ferguson, I stepped to the open rear door, crouched and looked inside. A five-hundred-watt floodlight had been set up to shine through the open door. In the glare I saw the body of a man propped in the far corner of the rear seat.

  He was wearing gray woolen slacks, a thigh-length brown car coat and a lemon-colored turtleneck sweater. His brown loafers were brightly shined; his expensive clothing was neatly pressed. His head lolled back against the seat cushions. From where I stood I could only see his throat, the underside of his chin and his foreshortened face. His thick-growing hair was gray, modishly long. The flesh of his neck and jowls was flaccid, middle-age slack. He’d worn a tweed hat that was now jammed between his head and the cloth headliner of the car. His coat was double-breasted, with leather buttons and leather trim at the collar and cuffs. The coat was unbuttoned, open across his chest. Above his heart, the ribbed, yellow material of his shirt was stained by a small circle of blood, hardly larger than a half dollar. The blood was red, still wet. The area around the stain was smudged, as if someone had tried to rub the stain—or stop the bleeding. His left arm was close to his side, pinioned against the car door. His left hand lay in his lap, palm up. His right arm was flung away from his body, lying across the seat cushions. The fingers of both hands were crooked in death’s final claw of agony. On his left hand he wore a gold signet ring. The hands were long and thin, crisscrossed by blue veins. Like the neck and jowls, the texture of the hands suggested a man in his fifties or sixties.

  Careful not to touch the car with my hands, I leaned forward through the open door until I could reach his right hand, lying on the seat. The flesh was still warm. Clammy, but still warm. He probably hadn’t been dead for more than an hour.

  Still crouching, I minutely examined the interior of the car, and the seat cushions. I saw nothing—no spattered blood, no bits of discarded paper, no cigarette butts or burned matches or other refuse. My shadow lay across his legs, obscuring the floor of the car. Stepping aside and squatting on my heels, I looked carefully at the richly carpeted floor. I saw an ice pick lying between the victim’s polished brown loafers. It was a professional-style pick, with a solid metal handle. The pick’s tine was bloody, but the handle was unstained, doubtless wiped clean of both blood and fingerprints. Behind the victim’s left foot, between the loafer and the door, I caught a glimpse of a torn scrap of wax paper.

  Knees cracking, I straightened and half turned to Canelli. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the scrap of wax paper.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I didn’t want to move it until you got here.”

  I took out my ball-point pen, leaned into the car and used the pen to push the fragment of paper away from the vic
tim’s foot. A larger piece of paper was attached to the fragment. Both torn pieces, fitted together and flattened, formed an envelope measuring about eight inches square. “Compress, 6 x 6 Inches” was printed in blue block letters on the envelope. I returned the fragments to their original position and backed out of the car without touching anything but the carpeting.

  “It’s the wrapping from a surgical pad,” I said. I pointed to the small circle of still-wet blood in the center of the yellow turtleneck shirt. “He was probably stabbed with the pick, and then a compress was used to soak up the blood. That’s the reason for those smudges around the wound.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Canelli said, surprised. Then, marveling, “That’s planning.”

  “Is there anything else? Anything I missed?”

  “There’s a big lump over his right temple. You can see it through the rear window.”

  “Was the skin broken?” I asked.

  “No, sir.”

  I nodded thoughtfully, at the same time turning my attention to the front seat of the car. The mirror, I noticed, was angled so that the driver couldn’t see into the rear seat. For the first time, I realized that the car’s engine was still running—and the temperature gauge was glowing red. I took out my handkerchief and turned the ignition key, killing the engine. “Take this key to the lab,” I ordered.

  I looked carefully at the death scene one last time, then stepped away from the car. Ferguson, the traffic sergeant, stepped forward. Ferguson was an old-timer—a motorcycle cop who still preferred two-wheelers to a squad car. Wearing a white helmet, dressed in a bulky double-breasted black jacket, with a big .44 Magnum swinging on his hip, he looked like a storm trooper.

  “When can we move the car, Lieutenant?” His voice was thick and hoarse, roughened by years of riding in the wind. “I got traffic backed up for two miles.” As he spoke, he turned to face me squarely, gauntleted hands propped pugnaciously on his hips, fists clenched. His booted legs were spread wide apart.