Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)
Stalking Horse
A Lt. Hastings Mystery
Collin Wilcox
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Preview: Victims
This book is
dedicated to
Barbe Hammer,
editor extraordinary
One
“AFTER ALL THESE YEARS,” Friedman said, unwrapping his first cigar of the day and dropping the balled-up cellophane wrapper on the floor of my office, “I’ve finally figured out what it takes to be a good homicide detective. Excluding, that is, a fearless disposition and a natural indifference to the sight of blood and the smell of decomposing flesh mingled with the odor of human excrement.” He bit off the end of the cigar, clamped the cigar in his teeth and began the ritual search for a match, grunting heavily as he shifted from one big ham to another, exploring his pockets.
“Is that supposed to be a poetic way of saying that you’ve learned to hold your nose from the inside?”
Finally finding a match, he lit the cigar, puffed energetically, then flipped the still-smoking match into my wastebasket. For almost two years Friedman and I had shared command of Homicide. Each morning Friedman came down the hallway, settled himself in my visitor’s chair and smoked a cigar while we discussed our case load. And each morning I expected my wastebasket to go up in flames. At first, the prospect bothered me. Lately, I found myself secretly hoping the wastebasket would catch fire—if only to see Friedman’s reaction. During all the years I’d known him, first as my superior officer and lately as my senior co-lieutenant, I’d never seen Friedman surprised. I’d seen him puzzled, and I’d seen him scared. But I’d never seen him surprised.
“That’s pretty good, Frank,” he said condescendingly. “That’s a pretty good comeback.” He nodded, blinking heavily lidded eyes. “‘Hold your nose from the inside.’ Not bad.”
“So what’s your secret of success?” I asked, at the same time initialing an interrogation report. “I’m curious.”
“It’s simple intuition,” he said. “That’s all good detective work is—applied intuition.”
“You’re not the first one to figure that out.”
“I realize that,” he answered blandly. “But the point is, it’s something I keep rediscovering. Like that, for example—” He pointed to the interrogation report. “That’s the Southwick case. Right?”
“Right.” I tossed the report into my “file” basket. Reading the report had been a waste of time; I already knew what the pages contained. But, protecting myself, I’d learned long ago never to initial anything I hadn’t at least skimmed.
“And you and I know,” Friedman continued, “that Robert—the kid—dunnit.” Friedman paused, drawing on his cigar and blowing a slow, reflective plume of smoke gently across the desk toward me. This was Friedman’s favorite role: the lazy-lidded, Buddha-faced sage of the squad room, sitting in his rumpled suit, belly bulging, cigar ashes powdering his vest.
“However—” He raised a professorial finger. “However, it’s odds on that we’ll never—never—be able to prove what happened. Not as long as we don’t have a weapon, or a witness, or a confession, we’ll never be able to prove it. We know what happened, just as surely as if we’d seen the crime committed. All we have to do is listen to Robert talk, and watch his eyes, and his hands, and his face. He’s crazy. We know he’s crazy. His teachers, his friends, they all know he’s crazy. But unless he changes his story, or we find the gun, or a witness turns up, there’s no way in the world that he’ll ever fall.”
I leaned back in my chair and clasped my hands behind my neck. “I don’t understand. Is this an argument for intuition, or against it?”
As his full lips twitched into a slow smile, he shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Take your choice. By the way, how’s your head? Still getting headaches?”
“Once in a while.”
“What’d the doctor say?”
“He says to take aspirin and come back next week.”
“Hmm—” Pensively, he tipped an inch-long ash into the ashtray. His eyes were thoughtful, his lips pursed. I knew that expression. He was about to ask me a personal question, poking into my private life.
Typically, he began obliquely: “How long has it been since you got that knock on the head?”
“Six weeks,” I answered shortly, at the same time pointedly picking up a copy of a lab report.
“I was—ah—” He cleared his throat. “I was glad that Ann took you in after you got out of the hospital. I mean—” Still avoiding my stare, he tapped his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “I mean, I like Ann, as you know. I like her very much. And she’s got plenty of room, even with her two sons. So—” He waved the cigar. “So it was a good solution, I thought. Compared to your going from the hospital to your place and staying alone.”
I decided not to reply, but instead pretended to study the lab report while I waited for Friedman to come out with it.
“I—ah—” Tentatively, he raised his eyes to meet mine. “I never seem to get you at your apartment, lately.”
Suddenly, surprising myself, I guffawed. “The only time I ever see you at a loss for words is when you’re asking questions that aren’t any of your damn business.”
Friedman’s answering smile was almost demure as he delicately lowered his eyes.
“The answer to the question,” I said, “is that, yes, I’m still at Ann’s. And, yes, it feels great living with someone again.” I let a rueful beat pass before I admitted: “And, yes, there are problems. Not big problems, but problems.”
“Are the problems getting bigger?” he asked quietly, “or smaller?”
“That’s a good question. I wish I knew the answer.”
“Is it her kids?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, the kids are fine. I’ve always liked them. And they like me, too, I think.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
“The problem,” I said, “is her goddamn ex-husband.”
“Ah—” He nodded: a single slow, thoughtful inclination of his head. “Ah, yes. The ex-husband. A psychiatrist, isn’t he?”
“That’s right,” I said shortly.
“A society psychiatrist, I think you once said,” he prodded.
“Right.”
“A real asshole.”
“Right again.”
“Well—” He waved the cigar, now almost a stub. “If I were you, I’d tell him to stuff it. I’d talk to Ann, and then I’d—”
My phone rang. Glad of the interruption, I lifted the receiver and spoke into it. “Lieutenant Hastings.”
“This is William Richter, Lieutenant. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you.” It was an intentionally laconic response. Richter had taken over the local FBI office about the time I’d made lieutenant. For whatever reason, his fault or mine, we didn’t like each other.
“What kind of a problem?” I asked. Across the desk, Friedman’s thick eyebrows were raised in a questioning arc. I covered the mouthpiece and said, “Richter.” Friedman grimaced, mouthing a silent obscenity.
“I’d rather not discuss it on the phone, Lieutenant.” Translation: I should have known better than to ask. “I was hoping you could come over here—about ten-thirty, say. I’m setting up a meeting to get the ball rolling.”
I glanced at the clock, saying, “Ten-thirty. I’ll be there. Shall I bring Lieutenant Friedman?”
“No,” he answered, sniffing slightly as he spoke. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
To myself, I smiled. For me, Richter was a minor irritation. But for Friedman, Richter was the enemy: a pompous, puffed-up bureaucrat, the natural target for Friedman’s scorn.
“Whatever you say,” I answered. “I’ll see you in about an hour.”
“It’ll be a little less than an hour, actually,” he reminded me. “It’s nine forty-five, you know.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know.”
Two
SITTING IN HIS ACCUSTOMED place at the head of a long, polished walnut conference table, Richter beckoned me to a seat on his left. As I sat down, I looked around the table. Besides Richter, I saw two resident FBI agents and two strangers. Both strangers sat across the table from me.
“This is Lieutenant Frank Hastings. And this—” Richter gestured deferentially to the first stranger. “This is Clarence Blake, Lieutenant. Mr. Blake is with the Secret Service. He’s just flown out here to work with us on this thing.” He paused a moment, then solemnly added, “Mr. Blake is deputy director of the Service.”
Blake was a small, intense-looking man with dark, snapping eyes and a fierce guardsman’s mustache. Like the FBI men, he was dressed in a conservative suit, white shirt and understated tie—the approved uniform for government law enforcement officers on the way up. Blake was almost totally bald, but his dark hair was carefully arranged in a glistening coil that only partially concealed a large expanse of gleaming white skull.
Blake bobbed his head in a vigorous up-and-down nod that reminded me of a parrot pecking at his perch. “We’re glad to have you aboard, Lieutenant. This thing’s got to be a combined operation if it’s going to succeed.” Plainly pleased with the phrase, he repeated, “A combined operation. That’s our best shot, no question.” As he said it, he glanced expectantly at Richter, then at the two FBI agents sitting to my right. On cue, Richter murmured agreement. The two agents both said something sincere-sounding.
“And this,” Richter said, gesturing to the second stranger, “is Duane Hickman. Mr. Hickman heads up Senator Ryan’s local office.”
Senator Ryan …
Donald A. Ryan …
Majority leader of the U.S. Senate. California’s kingmaker. The man behind the man in the Oval Office. One of the richest, most powerful men in America, infinitely larger than life, more an institution than a man. On camera or off, Donald Ryan looked and acted like a living legend.
And Duane Hickman, sitting across the table, looked and acted exactly as a living legend’s top staffer should look: slim and trim, incredibly urbane and confident in his beautifully tailored gray flannel suit. He was slightly built, but his pale face was incongruously round and puffy, with a small button nose and a pursed mouth. It was a soft, self-indulgent face: the face of a thirty-year-old man who’d been spoiled as a child and never tested as an adult.
But, behind conventional horn-rimmed glasses, his shrewd eyes were quick and calculating. Hickman was a watchful man. The looseness of his indolent, Ivy-League mannerisms was meant to disarm and deceive.
“I’ve heard about you, Lieutenant,” he said. “In fact, it seems to me that I saw you being carried off on a stretcher a month or so ago on TV. Am I right?” As he asked the question, his petulant mouth stirred, faintly smiling. The memory of my misfortune seemed to amuse him.
“You could be right,” I answered quietly.
“It was in connection with the Rebecca Carlton murder, if I remember correctly.” He spoke slowly and softly, almost lazily. But his eyes never left mine. He was sizing me up, deciding about me.
“Yes.”
He straightened in his chair, leaning toward me, elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin. “Everyone here is filled in, except you, Lieutenant. So—” He glanced at Richter, who answered the silent question with a nod. “So I’ll give you the picture.” He paused momentarily, staring thoughtfully at a point just above my head. Then, in precisely measured sentences, he said, “The problem—the reason for this meeting—is that, for the last three weeks, Senator Ryan has been receiving anonymous threatening letters, one a week.” As he spoke, he pointed to a manila file folder lying on the table before him. “There’re Xerox copies for you, along with FBI reports and field studies.”
At the head of the table, Richter cleared his throat. “We’ve been working on the case from the outset, Lieutenant.” As always, Richter spoke quietly, with an air of condescending smugness. Richter was a tall man, narrowly built, with the prim face and fussy manner of a turn-of-the-century schoolmaster. He’d come up through the “accounting” side of the FBI, not the “field” side. Richter’s most prized possession was a pair of cufflinks presented to him by J. Edgar Hoover. In his office or in the field, I’d never seen him without the cufflinks.
I nodded to Richter, then turned silently to Hickman. As I waited for him to continue, I was thinking that again Richter and his bureaucratic friends were succeeding in their obvious attempt to make me feel ill at ease in this elegantly furnished conference room with its superb view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
“As you’ll see, Lieutenant,” Hickman was saying, once more pointing to the folder, “all the letters have San Francisco postmarks. Which, of course, is where you come into the picture.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the regret in his voice. Obviously, he would prefer to have me out of the picture.
“Whoever wrote these letters,” he said, tapping the folder, “means business. That’s not only my opinion. Both the FBI and the Secret Service have had experts—psychologists—examine the letters. And they all agree.”
“Are they extortion letters?” I asked. “Or death threats?”
“Death threats,” Hickman said. “Every one of them.”
I turned to Richter. “Are there any suspects?”
Instead of answering the question, Richter said, “When you read the letters, Lieutenant, you’ll see that there’s a strong possibility that the writer, whoever he is, has some kind of a personal connection to Senator Ryan. Or at least he thinks he has some connection. And that’s the problem.”
“The problem?”
“Yes, that’s the problem,” he repeated, at the same time looking to Hickman, who took up the explanation.
“Before I tell you this, Lieutenant,” Hickman said, staring at me intently, “I must have your promise—your guarantee—that what I’m about to tell you won’t go any farther than this room.”
I glanced around the table, from Hickman, to Clarence Blake, to Richter, to the two agents sitting on my side of the table, both of them craning their necks to meet my gaze. Each man’s expression was identical: almost comically grave.
I nodded—and promised.
Hickman exchanged a final look with both Blake and Richter. Then: “Almost exactly five weeks ago,” he said, “Senator Ryan had a heart attack.”
Surprised, I said, “I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t. That’s precisely the point. Nobody knows it. And that’s the way we intend to keep it.”
“We don’t have to tell you,” Blake said, speaking in his improbably high, tight voice, “how important the senator is to this country. Not only is he the Senate majority leader, but he’s one of the handful of men who actually run this
country. Which means, obviously, that his heart attack was nothing short of a national emergency.”
“Which is the reason,” Richter said, “that we’ve got to keep the whole matter of the letters strictly between us. We can’t afford a leak. Because, sure as hell, the word would get to Senator Ryan. Which is something that can’t happen.”
“What you’re really saying,” I said, “is that we can’t question Senator Ryan about the letters because of his heart attack. We can’t risk his health by worrying him. Is that right?”
Almost in unison, the five other men at the table nodded, each one of them looking at me, hard.
“What’s his prognosis?” I asked Hickman.
“His prognosis is excellent,” Hickman said, speaking now in a brisker voice. “The senator is only sixty-six. He’s basically healthy, and he’s kept himself in good shape. His doctors agree unanimously that his heart wasn’t damaged. If he follows medical advice, which he’s doing, he should make a complete recovery. In fact, there’s every hope that by Labor Day, when the Senate reconvenes, he’ll be able to resume his normal duties. The public will be none the wiser. Which, of course, is the purpose of this exercise.”
“Well, then, what’s the problem? Isn’t it possible to keep him under wraps until we find this letter-writer?”
But when I looked around the circle, I realized that there was more.
“The problem,” Blake said, “is that one week from today, on June the nineteenth, the new federal office building here in San Francisco is being dedicated.”
“It’s the Donald A. Ryan Building,” Hickman added heavily. “And everyone will be here for the dedication. Including the Vice-President and the secretary of state.”
“Is it safe for him to show up?” I asked. “Medically, I mean.”
“Medically,” Hickman said, “There’s no problem. As long as the senator just makes a little speech, and smiles, and gets in his car, there’s nothing to worry about. As long as he avoids stress, it will do him good, according to the doctors. In fact,” Hickman said, “that’s the goddamn problem. His doctors want him to go to the dedication, as a means of phasing him back into his normal routine. It’s made to order, they say,” he added bitterly. “And of course we can’t tell them different. Not without tipping our hand. Plus, the senator would go to the ceremony anyhow, no matter what the doctors said. I don’t have to tell you what the Ryans mean to San Francisco—and what San Francisco means to the Ryans. So there’s no way—no way at all—that we can keep him away. Because, literally, that building is Donald Ryan’s monument. It’s his own personal pile of marble.”