Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Read online

  “She’ll be arriving with the senator, then,” I said. “And James will be coming, too, I imagine.”

  “Considering the importance of the occasion—the dedication of the complex—I’m sure they’ll be here. Whether or not they come with the senator, I couldn’t say.”

  “Will the three of them stay at the family home?”

  “As I mentioned earlier, I hope they will. However, we’ve also reserved a floor at the Fairmont Hotel for the senator’s staff and visiting dignitaries.”

  “A floor?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said briskly. As he spoke, I heard a telephone ringing in the background. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but that’s the senator’s office in Washington again. I’ve got to go. I hope I’ve helped you.”

  “You have, Mr. Hickman. You’ve helped a lot. Thank you.”

  Not replying, he abruptly broke the connection.

  Four

  I PULLED TO A stop behind Ann’s bright orange Datsun and switched off the engine. Dan’s car was parked across the street. In front of Ann’s building, Billy’s ten-speed bike was chained to a small juniper tree. Everyone was home. Ann would be in the kitchen cooking dinner. At five-thirty on a June evening Dan, seventeen, was probably in his room talking to his girl friend on the phone. Unless Ann had been able to press him into service helping with dinner, Billy, twelve, would be sprawled in the living room watching TV.

  Six weeks ago, lying in a hospital bed while the world around me slipped in and out of focus like some monstrous movie made by a mad cameraman, I’d turned my head to find Ann beside me. “When you get out of here,” she’d whispered, “you’re coming home with me. That’s all the doctor will let me say—except that I love you.” She’d kissed me, and gently stroked my forehead. Then, smiling tremulously, she’d turned toward the door.

  Yet, only two days before I’d gotten injured, we’d wondered, separately, whether our love affair was strong enough to last. “Nothing stays the same,” Ann had said. “We either go ahead, or we don’t. We go backward.”

  We’d been together for a year and a half. If we didn’t make a commitment to each other—didn’t take a deep breath and say that, yes, we would get married—then we would probably drift apart.

  At bottom, neither of us could make the commitment. If a spaced-out drug cultist hadn’t clubbed me from behind, sending me to the hospital, we might have drifted further apart, not closer together.

  When we’d met, she’d been divorced for about a year. Working as a grammar-school teacher and raising two sons, harassed by a sadistic ex-husband who would never forgive her for leaving him, she’d been painfully unsure of herself both as a parent and a lover. If the children were home, she would never stay all night with me. Until I’d gotten injured, she’d never let me stay with her, even in the spare bedroom.

  But now the spare bedroom was my room.

  And I was using my own key to open the front door. In my arms I carried a bagful of groceries, bought from a list that Ann had given me on the phone.

  “Hi, Frank.” Watching TV, Billy was wearing a fresh shirt and a navy blue blazer. His hair was combed, and his shoes were shined. He was sitting stiffly on the couch, plainly uncomfortable.

  “Hi. Where’re you going?”

  “My dad’s taking me out to dinner to Pier 39. Then we’re going to a movie.” As he spoke, he paid me the compliment of turning away from the TV.

  Standing with the groceries in my arms, I asked, “Is Dan going too?”

  “No. Dan’s over at a friend’s in Marin County. His friend’s dad’s got an airplane, and they’re going flying. I wish I was going.”

  “Well,” I said, “you’re going out to dinner and a movie. It could be worse.”

  Always suspicious of adult platitudes, he looked at me silently for a moment.

  “I’m going to get rid of these,” I said, nodding to the bag of groceries as Billy turned back to the TV. I walked down the hallway to the kitchen where Ann was standing in front of the stove. She was wearing a checked cotton shirt and blue jeans. The jeans were her favorite pair, old and blue-white, soft and supple enough to cling provocatively to her thighs, hips and buttocks. The blouse was tight at the waist, accenting the trim, exciting taper of her torso and the flare of her hips.

  I put the groceries softly on the counter and stepped behind her, circling her waist with my arms. She leaned back against me, murmuring a greeting. She’d known I was in the room.

  I drew her close, caressing her stomach as I kissed the nape of her neck through her long ash-blond hair. My genitals stirred as I felt her come closer, fitting her body subtly to mine, back to front.

  If Dan was gone, and Billy would soon go …

  At the thought, my caress became more specific, exploring the feel of her flesh beneath the gingham blouse.

  I felt her giggle. She put aside her wooden stirring spoon and turned in my arms, smiling up into my eyes.

  “What, exactly, are you getting at?” she asked. Her gray eyes danced mischievously. As she spoke, she circled my waist, drawing me intimately closer.

  “I think,” I whispered, “that I’m getting at the same thing you’re getting at.”

  “I’m making potato soup,” she said, kissing me on the tip of the nose. “And, besides, Billy’s home.”

  “Not for long, he tells me.”

  As I said it, I sensed her body tightening. I knew that response; I’d felt it before, often. Whenever she thought of her ex-husband, she involuntarily stiffened. Drawing slightly back to look at me, she was about to answer when, suddenly, we heard a sputtering from the stove.

  “Damn.” She whirled, reaching for the burner knob. But the damage was done. The potato soup was boiling over. She turned off the gas, snatched up the spoon and began stirring. “It’s stuck on the bottom. All stuck. It—”

  The doorbell sounded: two long, imperious buzzes.

  “That,” she said, her eyes on the clock, “would be Victor.” Turning to the hallway, she called, “Answer the door, Billy.” And to me she muttered, “Why can’t he pull up outside and honk, like any normal divorced father?” She turned back to the potato soup, spitefully scraping the bottom of the pan with the wooden spoon. Our moment of tumescent intimacy was gone.

  From the front of the house I heard voices: Billy’s voice and Victor Haywood’s. During all the time I’d known Ann, I’d only seen Haywood twice, face to face. Both times Haywood and I had argued; once politely, the second time bitterly. At the end of our second encounter, I realized that I was trembling with suppressed rage.

  “Why don’t you forget about the soup?” I said softly. “Let’s go out to dinner. We can go to Freddy’s. You won’t have to change. Or we can—”

  “Mom—” Billy was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Yes?” As she turned to him, I caught a note of resignation in her voice. She knew what was coming.

  “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  She looked at me with quick apology as she said, “All right.”

  “Here—” I reached for the spoon, saying, “I’ll stir it.”

  Without answering, she turned away and followed Billy down the hallway. I turned the flame on low under the soup and began stirring dutifully. From the hallway, I could hear their voices: Haywood speaking with crisp, brusque authority, Ann answering in a low, cowed voice. He was bullying her. With his head-shrinker’s tricks, he was mercilessly, methodically attacking her, speaking in a low, vicious voice. I’d seen him do it before—just once.

  I switched off the stove and moved closer to the door, where I could hear Ann say, “Victor, this—this isn’t the time to talk about it. Please. Can’t we—?”

  “That’s what you said when I called you last week, Ann.”

  “But I was in the teachers’ room. I couldn’t—”

  “Billy,” he said sharply. “Here. Take the keys. Get in the car. It’s around the corner, on Filbert.”

  In the silence that followed, I heard Ann
making some stumbling, indistinct protest. Then the door opened—and clicked closed. Billy was gone.

  “You might as well know, Ann,” Haywood said, “that I’ve talked to my lawyer about this. When you didn’t make any effort to get back to me after I called, I realized that I didn’t have any choice.”

  “You had a choice, Victor. You could have called me here at home.”

  “Oh? Really? Do you think it was up to me to go following around after you, trying to get an explanation? Don’t you think it was your place to contact me? After all, you’re the one at fault here. You’re the one who’s doing damage to my sons.”

  “But that’s not—”

  “You’ve never been able to function as a mother, Ann. That’s something you’ve never been able to face, have you? You’re totally out of your depth. You’re simply not up to the job. But at least until now you’ve always managed to keep up appearances. I always gave you that. You might not offer much intellectual stimulation or cultural guidance, but at least—”

  “But he was hurt,” she protested. “He was badly injured. I told you that. From the first day, I told you that.”

  “That was six weeks ago, Ann. Six weeks. And I’m here, this evening, to tell you that I’m not going to—”

  Stepping into the hallway, I realized that I still had the wooden stirring spoon clutched tightly in my hand. As I advanced down the hall, I put the spoon on a small marble-topped table.

  Facing me, with his back to the front door, Haywood smiled: an unpleasant twisting of his small, tight mouth. He was a tall, slim man, elegantly dressed in casual clothing. Behind fashionable glasses, his eyes were bright and avid, fixed on mine. Victor Haywood was looking for a fight: his kind of fight, with words for weapons.

  “Ah, Lieutenant. We were just talking about you.”

  “So I heard.” I moved to stand beside Ann, who stood with her back to the wall of the narrow hallway, partly facing Haywood. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “The problem,” he said, “briefly stated, is that Ann isn’t providing a fit and proper home for my two sons.”

  “Because I’m here, you mean.”

  He nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Ann told you how I happened to be here—that I was hurt.”

  “Whether you were hurt or not is no concern of mine, Lieutenant. And for that matter, whatever you and Ann do at your place, or in some motel, or wherever else you do it, is no concern of mine either. But what you do here, while I’m paying to maintain a proper home for my two sons, that’s my concern.”

  “It’s Ann’s home too.”

  “That’s a matter of definition,” he snapped. “As it happens, I pay the rent. And the rent is expensive. Very, very expensive. And I have no intention of—”

  “Why don’t you let Ann and me talk about this?” I said quietly. “Why don’t you take Billy to dinner, and let us talk about it?”

  For a long, baleful moment he stared at me. “Don’t you tell me to leave my own house, Hastings.”

  “It’s not your house. It’s Ann’s house. That’s the law.”

  “Oh—” Venomously, he nodded, his eyes malevolently bright. “So it’s ‘the law,’ is it? Are you a lawyer, by any chance?”

  “No. But I—”

  “But you know the law. Is that what you’re going to say? You scrape a few winos off the sidewalk, so you think you’re an authority.”

  Drawing a deep breath, I stepped around him and put my hand on the doorknob. But, defiantly, he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t step aside to let the door swing open.

  “Excuse me,” I said, turning the knob. We were standing close together, close enough for me to smell liquor on his breath. Staring hard into his eyes, I saw a gleam of manic hatred. If I touched him off, he would hit me. I could sense a surge of wild, false courage in him.

  “You can’t throw me out,” he breathed furiously.

  “I’m not throwing you out. But I’m telling you to leave. You’re bothering this lady. And I’m telling you to stop it.” I drew the door open until it touched his shoulder. Suddenly he struck the door with the flat of his hand, hard. I braced myself and pulled against him. The door hit his shoulder, throwing him off balance. I stepped aside, pivoting to face him as he staggered. He whirled to face me, eyes blazing, fists clenched.

  “You son of a bitch,” he hissed.

  I backed against the wall, giving myself room. If he came for me, I’d hit him in the solar plexus, where no bruise would show. Crouching silently, ready, I watched his eyes—and saw the wild courage suddenly fade. He straightened slowly, squared his shoulders, tugged his expensive jacket into place and walked through the door without looking back. By the time he’d reached the iron gate at the end of the short brick sidewalk, he’d regained his composure. He closed the gate with an ominously controlled click.

  We would hear from Victor Haywood again. Soon.

  I closed the door and locked it. Ann came quickly into my arms, and I held her close for a long, intimate moment. Then, whispering into the soft flax of her hair, I said, “How could you have done it—stayed married to the bastard?”

  She didn’t answer, but only held me closer, pressing her face into the hollow of my shoulder. I could remember holding my daughter like this, feeling her sob against me. How long had it been? How many long, empty years separated me from my children?

  Finally, still with her face tucked against my shoulder, she said, “What’re we going to do, Frank?”

  “We’re going to go out to Freddy’s and have dinner.”

  She drew away from me, snuffled, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. It was another evocation of Claudia, my fair-haired daughter. Suddenly it seemed as if I loved both of them with the same part of myself.

  She sniffed and tried to smile, timidly asking, “Did you turn off the soup?”

  I smiled down at her. “Yes, I—”

  At my belt, a buzzer sounded: my pager. “You get ready,” I said, striding to the phone. “But don’t bother to change. I’m hungry.”

  “All right.”

  As she went down the hallway to her room, I dialed Communications, identifying myself.

  “You have a message to call Mr. Duane Hickman, Lieutenant. We were instructed to call you if we heard from him,” the voice reminded me.

  I sighed, took the number, broke the connection and dialed. The phone rang six, seven, eight times. I was about to hang up when Hickman’s voice sounded sharply in my ear: “Yes?”

  “This is Lieutenant Hastings. I have a message to call you.”

  “Oh, yes, Lieutenant. Sorry it rang so long. Everyone’s gone home but me.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to remind you that Jack Ferguson, the senator’s chief of staff, will be arriving tomorrow. He’s coming in earlier than expected, about eleven. He’ll meet with Richter about noon. I told him you wanted to talk to him, and he’s got you slotted for quarter to one. You’ll have about a half hour, maybe a little less. So you should have all your questions prepared. Have them organized, hopefully with notes. That’s the way Mr. Ferguson prefers it to go.”

  “All right. Fine. Quarter to one, at your office.”

  “Yes. Right. Tell me, have you made any progress?”

  “Well,” I answered, “we’ve pulled a lot of jackets yesterday and today—a lot of case histories. We’ve gone over them, and we’ve picked out twelve subjects with backgrounds that might be a match-up. We’re having them screened.”

  “I hope you aren’t mentioning Senator Ryan.”

  “No. We’re doing what we call a switch, pretending that we’re investigating another crime. A similar crime to the one we’re really investigating.”

  “Good. But it doesn’t sound like you’ll have any progress to report to Mr. Ferguson.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Maybe Ferguson will have some information that’ll help.”

  “That’s, ah—” He coughed apologetically.
“That’s Mister Ferguson, Lieutenant.”

  “Of course. Mister Ferguson. Good night, Mister Hickman.”

  As I put down the phone, Ann came down the hallway toward me. She was smiling as she slipped an arm around my waist. Really smiling.

  Five

  THE STYLISH WOMAN BEHIND the stylish desk caught my eye and smiled. “Mr. Ferguson will be with you in just a few more minutes, Lieutenant. Are you sure I can’t get you some coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” I recrossed my legs and settled deeper into my chair. I was sitting in a small, elegantly furnished reception room, obviously reserved for special visitors. Outside, in a larger area, another stylish woman dealt smoothly and efficiently with the senator’s off-the-street constituents.

  I watched the receptionist as she got to her feet and stepped to a bank of file drawers that had been set into the wall behind her desk. She was about thirty and moved with the calm efficiency of a highly paid executive. Her figure was good, and her clothes expensive. Her shoulder-length hair was ash blond, like Ann’s. Her figure, too, was like Ann’s; she was about the same height, with small breasts and trim hips. Even their mannerisms were similar: thoughtful and, with strangers, remote.

  As I watched the woman, I found myself remembering my first meeting with Ann. I’d met her the way I met hundreds of people: with my badge in my hand, ringing her doorbell in the middle of the night. Her older son, Dan, had been a witness to murder, and at first it seemed possible that he might have pulled the trigger. Ann had taken me into her living room and invited me to sit on the sofa. She’d listened to me quietly. Only her hands, clutched desperately together in her lap, betrayed the fear she felt.

  Last night, in that same living room, we’d sat side by side on that same sofa. With the stereo playing softly, we’d talked about the future. Yet, really, we didn’t talk about it. Because the future for us came down to one simple question: would we get married? Did we love each other enough? Like each other enough? Did we—

  “Lieutenant Hastings.”

  Startled, I looked at the receptionist. She was smiling at me, nodding toward a tall walnut door.