Power Plays (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Read online

  I stood with my back to him, contemplating the doorknob.

  “He did. I swear it. He phoned.”

  I turned to face him. Folding my arms, I leaned against the door. Once more I saw truth tearing at his face.

  “How’d he get your name?” I asked.

  “He—I—I—don’t know.” But he couldn’t meet my eyes as he said it.

  “If I turn around, Blake, you’ve had it. If I go through that door, you’re dead. I’ve told you once. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Suddenly his body went slack. Sniffling—whimpering—he said, “I was in Kelley’s, Tuesday night. That’s a bar, on Mason. It—it’s near O’Farrell.”

  “I know Kelley’s.”

  “Well, there’s—” He stopped speaking, gulped, then took the last hopeless plunge: “There’s a bartender there. His name is Ricco. And he—he asked me if I wanted a job. And—” He shrugged. “And I said okay. I mean, I—you know—I haven’t been doing so good, lately. So I—you know—” Helplessly, he broke off.

  “You and Ricco had done business before. Is that it?”

  His head bobbed loosely as he nodded. “Yeah. Right.”

  “What’d he tell you to do?”

  “He—he just told me to go home and wait for a call. And I—I did. And that’s all. I mean, I went home, and I waited. And about an hour later—about midnight, maybe—the phone rings. The guy says that his name is Thorson—that he’s a friend of Ricco’s. He asked me my name, and then he told me about the job, and what he’d pay, and everything. And I said okay. Then he told me where he’d pick me up, and when. And that was it. He just—just hung up.”

  “How’d he describe the job?”

  “It was like I told you. He said a guy owed him money, and he was going to collect. And that’s the whole thing. I swear, Lieutenant. That’s all of it. Everything.” As he spoke, his voice had dropped to a hoarse, exhausted whisper. Hunched over the table, sniffling, he was drained, beaten. He’d told it all. Silently, I gave him another tissue—then decided to leave the box.

  “He’ll off me, if he finds out,” Blake muttered. “He’ll kill me, for sure.”

  “Thorson?”

  “No. Ricco.”

  Six

  JUST BACK FROM THE Beresford Hotel, Canelli and Culligan were waiting for me in my office. In every respect, the two men were opposites. Culligan was a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man with a long, morose face and mournful eyes. His nose was pinched, his cheeks hollow. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, permanently discouraged. His collars were always too large, his trousers too short. His face was sallow, sagging in sad, bassetlike folds. Culligan expected the worst from human nature and usually found it. He was resigned to evil.

  “What’d you find out?” I asked the two men.

  With his notebook already open on his bony knee, Culligan recited, “The subject, Eliot Murdock, checked into the Beresford Tuesday night at eleven-thirty. He gave his address as 3636 Occidental Boulevard, Los Angeles. He left a call for eight the next morning—yesterday, that is. At eight-thirty yesterday morning, he phoned New York—” Culligan held his notebook at arm’s length, reading off the phone number. “That’s the switchboard number for Barbour Publications,” he said. “They publish Tempo. Manhattan South is checking to find out who he called. They’ll get back to us.” As he spoke, Culligan glanced at his watch, frowning. “They should’ve called by now. Anyhow, after he phoned, Murdock left the hotel. He took his room key with him. He didn’t return to the Beresford until about eight that evening. There was at least one message in his box, the clerk remembers. At eight-thirty he made a call to—” Again, Culligan extended the notebook. “To 213-824-4076. That’s a Los Angeles number for Barbara Murdock. Her address is 72818 Ralston Street.”

  “I tried twice to get her, just now,” Canelli offered, “but she wasn’t there. So then I called Los Angeles Homicide. And they said that they thought one of their guys was already looking for her. The way I understand it, they’ve already been to Murdock’s place, and they got her name from Murdock’s neighbor, or someone. Maybe it was the building superintendent. Anyhow, she’s his daughter, I guess. But I figured that seeing as Los Angeles is already looking for her, I might as well let them. Unless you got other ideas, Lieutenant.”

  For a moment I stared at Canelli, marveling at his ability to make three words do the work of one. “Did you go over his room at the Beresford?” I asked, including them both in the question. “Really go over it?”

  “Yes,” Culligan answered firmly. “We didn’t find anything, though. He was traveling light—just one suitcase and an attaché case. And those were already in the property room. All that was left in the hotel room was a newspaper, an airline schedule and an empty tube of toothpaste.”

  “Did you check what we have in the property room?”

  “We just came from there,” Canelli said. “There wasn’t anything in the suitcase but clothes, so we left it in Property. Here’s the attaché case—” He reached down beside his chair and lifted a black leather case to his lap. “There wasn’t much in it, either, except for a checkbook and an airline itinerary from a travel agency. If the itinerary is right, then it looks like he flew from Los Angeles to Washington D.C. on Friday, and stayed in Washington until Tuesday. Anyhow, we’re sure he flew American Airlines from Washington to San Francisco on Tuesday, because we already checked with American.”

  “When did he plan to leave San Francisco?”

  “Tomorrow,” Culligan answered.

  “What’s his checkbook look like?”

  “If this is his whole financial story,” Culligan said, flipping open the checkbook and riffling through the stubs, “it doesn’t add up to much. The last deposit he made was six weeks ago, for thirteen hundred dollars. When he made the deposit he was down to a couple hundred.” Culligan looked at the checkbook, reading: “He spent three twenty-five for rent—twice, in six weeks—a hundred three for insurance and three hundred for car repair. Now he’s down to a couple hundred dollars again.”

  “Sounds about like my checkbook,” Canelli said ruefully. “Pretty scratchy.”

  “He was well dressed, though,” I said. “And he had a hundred eighty dollars on him, plus all the right credit cards. Also, Friedman says that a few years ago, Murdock was a well-known political columnist. He even had a TV program.”

  “Is that a fact?” As he said it, Canelli’s swarthy, moon face brightened. “I’ll be damned. A famous corpse, for a change.”

  “I never heard of him,” Culligan observed sourly.

  As they were speaking, I leafed through the lab’s report on Murdock’s room. Beyond “a probable eight different latent fingerprints,” there was nothing in the report. Next I turned to the lab report on Walter Frazer’s car. The preliminary survey showed six different sets of latent prints.

  “What about Walter Frazer?” I asked. “Did you catch up with him?”

  Canelli shook his head. “We went there first, just a little after nine this morning. He lives in one of those big old town houses in Pacific Heights that’s been converted into apartments. It’s a pretty fancy place. He wasn’t there, though. So we finally found one of his neighbors. She said she saw him get into a cab about a half hour before we got there. He’s a lawyer, with an office downtown. We called down there. I guess it was about nine-thirty. But his secretary said he hadn’t come in yet, and hadn’t phoned, either.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  Thoughtfully frowning, Canelli considered the question. “Well,” he said finally, “she didn’t say it was unusual. But that’s the feeling I got. That it was unusual.”

  “What about Frazer himself? What’d the neighbors say about him?”

  “We didn’t do much about him,” Culligan said. “We were mainly checking on his car. Why? Is he involved?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know who’s involved. Not yet. Except that I got a couple of names from Richard Blake.”

  Both men lo
oked at me expectantly. While they took notes I outlined the information I’d gotten from Blake. As I talked I saw disappointment register on Canelli’s face. He realized that Blake’s testimony could provide information that might break the case. Since he’d conducted the basic interrogation of Blake, Canelli plainly wished that he’d been included in the second interrogation. Understandably, he felt upstaged by a superior.

  “…so what we’ve got to do,” I finished, “is find Ricco, the bartender. Right now, he’s the key. If he’ll talk, we’ll be closer to Thorson. So I want the two of you to go down to Kelley’s and get to work on him. Before you leave, though, start someone on the phone, checking out Thorson. Let’s start with the hotels and motels and airlines. I’ve got a feeling that he’s from out of town.”

  “I know Ricco from when I was in Vice,” Culligan said morosely. “He’s heavy.”

  “Has he ever done any time?”

  “I don’t know whether he’s done any time. But he’s taken lots of falls.”

  “What for? What kind of falls?”

  “Pimping, mostly. And receiving stolen goods, I think. He’s got his finger in a little bit of everything.”

  “Then bring him downtown. Don’t fool around with him out in the field. Bring him down, and we’ll go to work on him. If you need help, get it. But I want him. He’s seen Thorson, probably, face to face. I’d give odds on it.”

  “Maybe Blake was lying,” Canelli said. As he spoke, his face brightened. Wishfully thinking, he transparently hoped that his initial interrogation of Blake would stand after all.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. He’s scared of Ricco. Scared to death.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Culligan said wryly. “Ricco scares me, too. He’s built like a tank.” As he spoke, Culligan rose to his feet and went to the door, where he stood with his hand on the knob, waiting for Canelli. Standing stoop-shouldered in his ill-fitting clothes, eyeing Canelli with morose patience, Culligan looked like an undertaker waiting at the mortuary door.

  “You want this, Lieutenant?” Canelli offered me the attaché case.

  “No. Take it back to Property.” As I spoke, my buzzer sounded. Waving goodbye to the two detectives, I flipped the intercom switch.

  “There’s a Walter Frazer in the reception room, sir. He’s just come from Traffic Impound. He says he wants to talk to whoever’s in charge of the Murdock homicide.”

  “Send him in.” I gathered the reports and photographs into a single stack, then placed the manila folder on top. I was slipping into my jacket when an impatient knock sounded and Walter Frazer strode into my office. He was a man of medium height and medium-heavy build, about thirty-five years old. Behind sparkling gold-framed aviator glasses, his eyes were quick and shrewd. Advancing to shake my hand briskly, he walked with a firm and confident stride. Impeccably dressed in a conservative three-piece suit, Walter Frazer projected assurance, intelligence, vitality and fast-moving upward mobility. His hair was dark blond, thinning on top. He wore a thick guardsman-style mustache and sideburns to match. With its heavy jaw, broad nose and prominent brow ridges, his face gave the impression of strength and determination. A small double chin and a roll of flesh just above the collar suggested ten or fifteen pounds of extra weight. His handclasp was quick and hard—but his hand was pudgy, with a broad palm and stubby fingers. His fingernails were manicured.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant,” he said perfunctorily. “But the fact is that I can’t get any answers, about my car. I can’t even see it. So I decided to find the head man. You, I’m told.”

  I gestured him to a chair, and sat down behind my desk. “What can I do for you?”

  He frowned at the question. “I should think that would be obvious.” He chopped at the air with the edge of his hand, exasperated. “I want my car back. As soon as possible.”

  “Your car’s at the crime lab, Mr. Frazer. It’s evidence in a homicide, and it’s impounded. I’m sorry, but you probably won’t be able to get it back for another day, at least. The lab has to make sure their tests have been successful, before they can release it.”

  “What tests are you talking about?” Accenting the single word, his voice was heavily sarcastic.

  “They’re chemical and spectro-analysis tests, mostly.” I spoke mildly, trying to calm him. “They’re made on the contents of the car—dust samples, for instance, vacuumed from the floor. Sometimes, though, the lab shoots blanks. That’s especially true of the spectrographic tests, where they have to burn samples and analyze the results. By this afternoon, though, we should know where we stand. If there aren’t any problems, the lab will probably release your car tomorrow. I’ll release it, too. Then, after we get the D.A.’s release, you’ll be all set. I’m sorry it’s taking so long. But you’re a lawyer, I understand. You know how important physical evidence is—and how tricky it is, too. Once we release that car, we can’t take it back. The chain of evidence is broken.”

  For a moment he didn’t answer, but simply sat staring at me. Plainly, he was struggling to suppress an angry reply. Every line of his body suggested frustration and impatience. Walter Frazer wasn’t accustomed to being opposed.

  “Will you notify me, personally, the moment the car is ready?” he asked truculently, at the same time snapping a business card down sharply on my desk.

  I nodded. “I’d be glad to.” I took the card, glanced at it, then slipped it into my desk drawer. “By the way—” I hesitated, waiting until he looked at me. “Were you told about the damage to your car?”

  “It was a slight accident, I was told.” His voice was sharp and suspicious. His eyes were narrowed. “A fender bender.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you see the car? Personally?” It was a brusque, contentious question.

  “Yes, I did. The front fender is crushed. That’s all.”

  “Is the car drivable?”

  “The only problem might be that the fender is bent so it’s touching the tire. However, if that’s the case, I’d be glad to have the car taken to our garage. They can use a crowbar on it.”

  Eyes still shrewdly narrowed, mouth uncompromising beneath the bristling mustache, he considered the offer. Finally: “If there are any problems, I’ll have a mechanic handle them. After all, the car’s insured. Fully.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Frazer. Incidentally, while you’re here, I’d like to get the details of how the car was actually stolen.” As I spoke, I drew a note pad toward me and clicked a ball-point pen.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, consulting an expensive-looking watch, “that I don’t really have the time. I’ve got a full calendar today. A very full calendar. And this thing hasn’t helped, believe me.” He looked at me accusingly, then added, “By the way, I’ve got to rent a car. Will the police department reimburse me for the time my own car is impounded?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered carefully. “You should take that up with your insurance company.”

  “I will, believe me. You’ll probably hear from them. Especially if your lab ties up the car for another day.” Still staring at me with cold, accusing eyes, he gathered himself to rise from the chair. As he did, I raised a hand.

  “Those details of the theft, Mr. Frazer—” I lowered my voice to a flat, official note. “I’ve got to have them, and as soon as possible. Unless you’ve got something that absolutely can’t wait, I’d like to take your statement now. I realize that it’s inconvenient—that this whole thing has been a lot of trouble for you. But I’d think, since you’re here, that it would be simpler if you made your statement now. However—” I spread my hands. “However, if you’d rather, I can send one of my men along with you, to your office. Your choice.”

  Behind the sparkling gold-framed glasses, his eyes were baleful. Poised to rise, he’d gripped the arms of the chair, hard. Now, still gripping the chair, he forced himself to sit back. “I’m trying to explain to you, Lieutenant, that I’m a very busy man.”

  �
��So am I, Mr. Frazer.”

  For a moment we stared at each other, each silently testing the other’s will. Finally he exhaled sharply and flung another furious glance at the expensive watch. “All right. But make it fast.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t reply.

  To needle him, I let a long, deliberate moment pass before I said, “First of all, exactly when was your car stolen?”

  “Sometime between seven-thirty and ten-fifteen on Wednesday night,” he answered promptly.

  “Was the car in a garage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the car keys in the ignition?”

  He shifted impatiently. “As a matter of fact, they were.” It was an exasperated admission. “I know better, but—” He let it go testily unfinished.

  “We all make mistakes, Mr. Frazer.”

  He grunted. Plainly, he didn’t think of himself as someone who made mistakes.

  “I understand that you live in a town house that’s been converted into apartments.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How many apartments are there in the building?”

  “Three.”

  “And how many cars are kept in the garage?”

  “Just one. Mine.”

  “Was the garage locked?”

  “Yes. Certainly.”

  “Did you hear or see anything suspicious between seven-thirty and ten-fifteen?”

  “Lieutenant Hastings”—he made a visible effort to suppress his impatience—“I’ve already been through all this, last night. You’re obviously unaware of it, but two patrolmen came by about eleven-thirty. They—”

  “I’m aware of it, Mr. Frazer. But they were investigating a car theft. I’m investigating a murder. And your car is evidence in that murder. Important evidence.”

  Fixing me with an angry look, he didn’t reply.

  To emphasize the point, I added, “According to our information, it’s probable that whoever stole your car also committed the murder.” I let a moment pass before I spoke again: “The murder was committed in your car, Mr. Frazer. In the back seat.”