The Watcher (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

  The Watcher

  A Lt. Hastings Mystery

  Collin Wilcox

  This book is dedicated to

  Bill and Bruni Pronzini …

  Him because he helps me

  untangle my own plots,

  Her because she’s so nice

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  One

  I PUSHED OPEN THE door marked AIRPORT SECURITY and found myself facing a girl I’d never seen before.

  “Is Walter in?” I gestured to an inner door labeled WALTER FRAZER, CHIEF OF SECURITY.

  “Not at the moment, sir.” She reluctantly touched her typewriter’s “off” button. She was a thin girl with a narrow face and a small, petulant mouth. The purple jersey of her blouse was drawn taut across pubescent breasts. Her complexion was acne-blotched. “Can I help you?”

  I took the leather badge folder from my pocket and showed her my shield. “I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, San Francisco Homicide. I’m here to meet someone arriving from Detroit. Instead of checking my gun with the deputy at the metal detector, I thought I’d rather leave it with Mr. Frazer.”

  “Well, Mr. Frazer won’t be back for at least a half-hour, I’m afraid.” She spoke with prim, perverse satisfaction, as if she enjoyed inflicting this small disappointment on me. “Why don’t you meet your friend at the scanner?”

  “Because,” I answered deliberately, “it’s my son I’m meeting. And I want to meet him at the gate. Not the scanner.”

  “Oh. Well.” Her pale eyes blinked. “Well, if you want me to, I guess I could keep your gun for you.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll try the deputy. Tell Walter that I said hello.”

  “Yes, I will.” She nodded, then frowned as she added, “Sir.” The effort had cost her more than the single syllable was worth.

  As I walked down the long broad slope of the concourse leading to American Gate 6, I checked my watch. The time was twenty minutes after noon. Darrell’s plane was arriving at twelve-thirty. I chose a seat facing the gate, and unfolded the newspaper I’d gotten from a machine. Over the top of the paper I saw a towheaded boy looking at me with large, solemn eyes. I’d seen him at the scanner, when I’d surrendered my revolver and cuffs and badge to the deputy. Since that moment those solemn eyes had constantly followed me. I smiled at him, nodded, then raised the paper between us.

  In less than ten minutes, Darrell would come through the gate. He would be taller than he’d been when I’d last seen him. He’d be heavier, too. At age fourteen, a year made a big difference. Next year, he’d told me on the phone, he hoped to go out for football.

  In spite of my advice—in spite of the surgeon’s scars on both my knees—he hoped to go out for football.

  Or, more like it, because of my advice.

  Darrell had been two years old when I’d left Detroit. When my cab had pulled up at the front door and sounded its horn, he’d started to sob. Carolyn had picked him up in her arms and held him with his face buried in the hollow of her shoulder. Released from the look in his eyes, I’d picked up my suitcase and left the house without a word. As the cab pulled away from the curb, I’d seen the curtains part in Claudia’s room upstairs. She’d refused to say goodbye to me—refused to open her bedroom door. Claudia had been four years old. For more than a year, she would not talk to me when I called.

  Of the two children, Claudia was the tough one.

  Darrell was the vulnerable one—the one who would always be searching.

  At that moment, Darrell’s 747 was doubtless on its final approach to San Francisco. The FASTEN SEATBELTS sign would be switched on, and the NO SMOKING sign.

  What was Darrell thinking, strapped in his seat? Did his thoughts match my own? Did we share the same hopes for our next two weeks together—the same hopes, and the same misgivings?

  Was he remembering Disneyland, last summer? We’d checked into the Disneyland Hotel, and ridden the monorail to Disneyland. I’d bought two books of “A” tickets—the best, most expensive pleasure packet.

  But the tickets had promised more than they delivered. The laughter of others had accented the awkward, lengthening silences between us. The ingeniously designed fun machines had mocked us. I especially remembered the time we’d spent waiting our turn for the submarine ride. We’d been confined by a system of back-switched chromium rails that duplicated exactly the herding pens used by the Chicago stockyards. We’d had nothing to say to each other—but we couldn’t escape each other. Whenever our glances touched we smiled perfunctorily, then looked quickly away. Darrell had been almost fourteen then. Now he was almost fifteen …

  “Ladies and gentlemen, American Airlines Flight 230 from Detroit is arriving at Gate 6, and passengers will soon be deplaning. Thank you very much.”

  I folded my newspaper and got to my feet. Across the aisle, the towheaded boy was still staring at me. Already, the first passengers were emerging from Gate 6. I stepped forward, hesitated, then decided to leave my newspaper on a table. I wanted both hands free. A squat man wearing a double-knit blue suit and an orange tie was coming out of the gate, followed by a beautiful girl wearing fashion-faded Levis and a skintight beige sweater. The jeans clung brazenly to the contours of her hips and crotch; the sweater outlined perfectly proportioned breasts. A Qantas flight bag swung jauntily at her side. Unable to deny myself a rear view, I turned as she passed me—then shifted my gaze back to the passenger gate. Darrell was walking slowly toward me, smiling gravely. He wore a blazer and a soft white shirt. His shoes were brightly shined; his dark hair was earlobe long, freshly combed. He carried a white plastic shopping bag in one hand and a cased fishing rod in the other.

  This summer, I’d told him, we would try fishing.

  Hand outstretched, I stepped toward him.

  “Hi. How was the flight?”

  “It was great. Just great.” He shifted the shopping bag awkwardly from his right hand to his left, with the fishing rod clamped under his arm. We shook hands. His grip was tentative, his hand was quickly withdrawn. His eyes met mine briefly, then quickly fell away. The top of his head came almost to my eyebrows. He’d grown. Next summer he’d be my height, or taller.

  “Have you got your baggage checks?” Now we were walking side by side up the incline that led past the metal detector.

  “Yes. Do you want them?”

  “No, that’s all right. Just a minute”—I pointed to the deputy—“I’ve got to get my things.”

  Surreptitiously, the deputy handed over my revolver, my cuffs and my badge.

  “That’s a gun that looks like it’s seen a lot,” the deputy said cheerfully. He was an overweight black man with a broad, easy smile and quick eyes.

  “It has. Thanks.” I clipped on the holstered revolver and looped the cuffs over my belt, at the same time slipping the badge folder into my inside pocket.

  “How come they didn’t let you take your gun?” Darrell asked.

  I smiled. “They wouldn’t let the President on an airplane with a gun.” We were walking again. Ahead, I saw the girl in the beige sweater kissing a squat, swarthy man. It was a long, intimate kiss; his hands moved confidently down from the small of her back to the first swell of her buttocks.

 
“What about the President’s bodyguards, though? What about their guns?”

  “The problem wouldn’t come up, because the President doesn’t travel on commercial flights. He travels on Air Force One. His own plane.”

  “How about his children, though?” he insisted. “Don’t they have their own guards, if they go on regular flights?”

  “Yes,” I answered slowly. “Yes, they do, as a matter of fact.” I glanced at him. Was he seeking information—or a contest? Was this a friendly discussion, or the opening gambit in a tough new game—a man-to-man disputation aimed at finally making me pay for taking that taxi, so long ago?

  Briefly he met my gaze. His eyes revealed nothing—neither malice nor friendship.

  “I suppose,” I said, “that if the President’s children travel—if they go by commercial airliner—then their bodyguards get permission to carry guns. The Secret Service would arrange it with the airline security people.”

  Satisfied, he nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

  Ahead, the passengers of American Flight 230 were already clustered around the baggage carrousel, watching the chute for the first suitcases.

  “Here—” I gestured. “Let’s go this way.” He followed me down the curve of the carrousel, and we stood side by side against the knee-high barrier. With a low grumble, the interlocking metal sections began to move. A black plastic suitcase emerged and slid down toward the barrier. As Darrell turned toward the chute, I had my first chance to assess him.

  Over the years, approaching manhood, he’d come to look more like me. His thick brown hair grew low on a broad forehead. His eyes were hazel, set wide beneath full, level brows. His nose was short and broad-bridged; his chin was slightly cleft. His mouth was small, with the upper lip extended over the lower. It was a vulnerable mouth, still unformed. The eyes, too, were vulnerable, moving uncertainly now as he watched for his luggage. He was a big, solidly built boy, but his wide shoulders were slightly hunched as he stood beside me. His stance was tentative, narrowly braced.

  Was he unsure of himself—or of our next two weeks together?

  Was he remembering last summer?

  “There”—he pointed—“there’s my backpack.” He handed me the cased fishing rod, braced himself and swung a big orange nylon backpack effortlessly over the carrousel barrier. He moved easily, economically. Properly coached, he’d do well on the football field—if he could hit hard enough.

  He propped the backpack on the carrousel and reached for a big brown valise. This time, he grunted when he heaved. But the valise cleared the barrier cleanly.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.” He shrugged into the backpack and held out his hand for the fishing rod.

  “This way, then.” I lifted the heavy valise and pointed toward an exit. “The car’s in the garage.”

  “When’re we leaving for vacation?”

  “I don’t think we can leave until Friday. I have to be in court on Thursday afternoon. But if we leave by Friday noon, we’ll be all right. It’s only a four-hour drive.” We’d reached the movable sidewalk that led to the parking garage. Gratefully, I lowered the valise to the black rubber matting that carried us along.

  “Where’re we going for vacation, anyhow? All you said was ‘just fishing.’ ”

  “A friend of mine has a cabin in Lake County, about a hundred fifty miles north of here. Her family’s had the cabin for years, and my friend guarantees that we’ll catch our limit, every time out.” I hesitated, then decided to say, “I want you to meet her. Her name is Ann Haywood. We’re … good friends.”

  He glanced at me, but said nothing. Had I told him about Ann? I couldn’t remember.

  “How about some seafood tonight?” I asked as I swung the valise to another movable sidewalk. “Feel like some Crab Chappino?”

  “I don’t like seafood much.”

  “How about Italian food, then? Spaghetti. There’s a place just a few blocks from my place. Best spaghetti in town.”

  “All right.” It was a diffident response. His mouth was pursed, subtly pouting. He was disappointed. Already, he was disappointed.

  “Is there something you’d rather have than spaghetti?” I asked. “How about Chinese food?”

  He shook his head. “Spaghetti’s fine,” he answered shortly. “Besides, I don’t like Chinese food, either.”

  Two

  “HOW’D YOU LIKE THE spaghetti?” As I said it, I gestured for Darrell to turn right at the next corner. I was surprised that he’d forgotten the way we’d come, walking to the restaurant.

  “It was okay.”

  “Tomorrow night, maybe we can go to a movie.”

  “Okay.”

  “What kind of movies do you like?”

  He shrugged. “Anything but love stories, I guess.”

  I smiled. “I can remember that feeling. It’ll pass.”

  “That’s what Mom says.”

  I hesitated, then decided to ask, “Do you and your mother ever talk about … love?”

  “No.” There was a flat note of finality in his voice. The meaning was clear. He didn’t want to talk about love with me, either.

  He was almost fifteen years old, and we’d never discussed sex. I’d dutifully tried to introduce the subject two summers ago. But he’d shut me off then, too—with the same cryptic monosyllable.

  “How about tomorrow during the day?” I asked. “Is there anything you’d like to do? Anywhere you’d like to go?”

  “Not especially. Except that—” He paused.

  “Except what?”

  “Except maybe I could get some more fishing stuff.”

  “All right. Fine. How much money do you need?” I reached for my wallet.

  “That’s okay. Mom gave me fifty dollars before I left.”

  In spite of myself, I grimaced. I’d married an heiress. From the first, her money had been a problem. It was still a problem.

  For half a block, we walked in silence. We were going north on Laguna, still two blocks from my apartment. It was a low-crime area, as safe as any in the city. But, still, I glanced over my shoulder as I walked. Less than a week ago, less than a mile from here, a patrolman had been shot from ambush as he walked his beat—just because he was a cop. Lately there’d been other attacks.

  “If you’d like,” I said, “I’ll have a car drive you to a sporting-goods store tomorrow.”

  “A police car, you mean?” Interest sparked the question. It was the first time today that he’d spoken with even a hint of animation.

  “Sure. Take your choice: a black-and-white car, or a cruiser.”

  “What’s a cruiser?”

  “An unmarked car. For detectives.”

  “A cruiser,” he answered promptly.

  “It’s a deal. I’ve got to leave the house early in the morning, before eight. But about ten I’ll have a cruiser stop by for you. Then later you can come down to Headquarters.”

  Whenever he visited me, he always came down to Headquarters. When he’d been ten years old, Pete Friedman, then my superior officer, had showed him how handcuffs operated, then airily told Darrell to keep the cuffs, taken from a hoodlum the day before. Darrell had been ecstatic. But less than a week after he returned to Detroit, the cuffs had been stolen from Darrell’s locker at school. Carolyn had asked me not to send another pair. The implication had been plain: she disapproved of policemen and the tools of their trade. For Darrell, she wanted something better.

  “I saw you on TV,” Darrell said suddenly. “About two months ago. It was about those doctors and lawyers who were murdered.”

  Making a conscious effort to keep my reply laconically level—suppressing the pleasure I felt—I said, “And a merchant, too. And almost a chief. The police chief.”

  “They said you solved it single-handed. It was on the six o’clock news.”

  His remark, too, was laconic. Did he feel as uninterested as he sounded? Or was he making a companion effort to mine, concealing the pride he felt?
r />   Why?

  Why were we manfully suppressing pleasure and pride as we walked side by side, together?

  “Did your mother see me on TV?” It was a quick, involuntary question, ironically asked.

  Why?

  Why?

  “No, she didn’t see you.” The note of finality had returned to his voice. And again we were walking in silence. I gestured for another turn. It was the last corner; my apartment building was in the exact center of the block, eight doors away.

  A black-and-white patrol car was parked in front of my building.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  I pointed to the car. “They want to talk to me, I’m afraid.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know.” My response was terse and irritable. Friedman and I had agreed that I would take no new cases. Nothing must jeopardize my vacation. For two more days—Wednesday and Thursday—Darrell could amuse himself in the city, even though he had no friends here. By Friday, though, we must leave. San Francisco offered Darrell little. Except me.

  As we approached the black-and-white car, the driver swung open his door and stepped out on the sidewalk. He was a young, thin-faced patrolman. His uniform hat looked too large for his head, and his collar was puckered around a scrawny neck. His tie was askew, and his revolver was slung at an awkward, unconvincing angle.

  “Lieutenant Hastings?” It was an overture more than a question.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Hardy Towne, from Central Station, Lieutenant. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What’s the problem, Towne?”

  “It looks like there was a prowler on your premises, Lieutenant.”

  “What?”

  Towne’s Adam’s apple bobbed—once, twice. “Well, that’s the report we got, anyhow. Sir.”

  At my side, Darrell muttered something that sounded like “Jeeze.” Finally, his interest was aroused.

  “What’re the particulars?” I asked crisply. Instinctively, I’d assumed the role of the superior questioning a subordinate.

  “Well,” Towne began, “we got a report of someone trying to enter the rear of your building.” He gestured toward a service doorway. “If you can open that, sir, I can tell you how it came down.”