The Disappearance

A Lt. Hastings Mystery

Collin Wilcox

This book

is dedicated to Chris

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Preview: Dead Aim

1

AS I PULLED TO a stop and set the brake, the reporters came to cluster in a listless group around the cruiser. Dan Kanter, from the Bulletin, was yawning. Crime reporters weren’t accustomed to working in the morning, and as I glanced at my watch I saw that the time was only 9:15. It would be a long day.

I got out of the cruiser, automatically taking the count: two squad cars, a motorcycle, two cruisers, the crime lab truck, an ambulance and the assistant coroner’s car. It was the standard assortment, indicating a standard departmental homicide—nothing very dramatic, or puzzling, or very important. Yet the neighborhood was Sea Cliff, one of San Francisco’s best. Thus the larger-than-usual gaggle of reporters, so early in the morning.

“When’re we going to get a look, Lieutenant?” Kanter was asking.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a look yet myself.”

“How’d the squeal read?”

“I don’t know. I got the call on my way to work. Just the call, no squeal.” I began pushing my way along the sidewalk. “You probably know more than I know.”

“They’re about ready to move the body,” someone complained, “and we haven’t got any pictures yet.”

“There might be a reason,” I answered shortly. “Anyhow, they won’t move it until I’ve had a look.”

“We understand it’s the family maid,” Kanter said.

Not replying, I nodded to the patrolman standing in the lushly planted entryway. As he opened the front door, I turned back to the reporters. “As soon as I find out anything, I’ll let you know. Before the body’s moved.” Then, ignoring the ritual rumblings of protest, I walked into the house.

Dick Culligan got to his feet, nodding. He’d been sitting at one end of a long brocaded sofa, talking to a slim, pale woman, a brunette of medium height, probably in her middle forties.

“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” Culligan said. “Mrs. Allingham, Lieutenant.”

She looked at me with large dark eyes. She was wearing a tailored silk housecoat. Her lips were pressed into a tight, prim line. Her face, without make-up, was creased with a network of small, well-bred wrinkles. She looked intelligent, rigidly self-possessed—and worried.

She nodded to me, then managed a low-voiced greeting. Her fingers, clasped in her lap, were fretfully twisting. As she swallowed, the cords of her neck tightened spasmodically. But she held my eyes steadily, determinedly.

I stared at her a last long, deliberate moment before Culligan said, “The lieutenant and I will be a few minutes, Mrs. Allingham. If you’d—” He paused, then said, “If you’d like to get something on—” He let it go unfinished.

Nodding, not replying, she got to her feet. Her walk was steady and self-possessed. She held her head straight and didn’t look back as she left the large living room.

As I followed Culligan down the rear corridor, I looked in at each room as we passed. The furnishings were elaborate and expensive. The Allinghams, I was thinking, must have paid a hundred thousand for the house and another thirty or forty thousand for the furnishings.

The corridor ended in a narrow flight of stairs. Culligan led the way down to a second level, obviously the maid’s quarters, laundry and utility rooms. A lab man was dusting the door handles, the doorframes and the opaque glass of an outside door. We squeezed past a big motorcycle patrolman, even bulkier in leather jacket, crash helmet and boots. As the lab man turned, I recognized Carl Estes, a young, breezy health-food fadist with a dumpy little wife and three dumpy little children.

“Hi, Carl. How’re you doing?”

“I got a thousand prints, Lieutenant, and one lovely little bloody smear.” He pointed to a brownish smudge on the frame of the outside door, close beside a heavy barrel bolt, drawn back. Culligan examined the blood closely, then grunted, “That’s no print, Carl.”

“I didn’t say it was. I said it was a smear.”

Culligan grunted again, straightened and waited for me to look. Then we walked the twenty-odd feet to the maid’s room.

She was lying beside the bed, flat on her back. Charlie Benson, the assistant coroner, was kneeling over the body. He looked up, then silently straightened, standing back. The room was perfectly quiet. I walked slowly forward, taking Charlie’s place beside the body.

Her right arm was extended straight out from the body; her left hand clutched the covers of the narrow bed. Her long dark hair had fallen across her face, but among the heavy dark strands I could see her right eye, staring straight up. Her left eye was concealed. Her mouth was open wide; her swollen tongue protruded between clenched teeth. Her throat was bruised, and on the dark flesh beneath her jaw were several small, shallow scratches. Her legs were drawn up in the typical agony of violent death.

She was wearing a transparent pink nightgown, cheaply made. The nightgown had been ripped down to the waist. She’d been stabbed repeatedly, perhaps a dozen times, from the base of her throat to her navel.

She’d been short, compactly made. Her breasts were full and firm, her waist narrow, her hips wide. She’d probably been in her middle twenties and weighed about a hundred and ten pounds.

I glanced at Charlie Benson. He stepped forward to stand beside me, staring thoughtfully down at the body.

“How long’s she been dead, would you say?”

He shrugged. “Six to ten hours, maybe. We’ll know more when we take the temperature and cut the stomach open.”

“What about those scratches on her throat?”

“Fingernails, probably. Looks like she was strangled, then stabbed. She might’ve been dead from asphyxia, as a matter of fact, before she was stabbed. Unusual.”

“Has she been raped?”

Again he shrugged. “Can’t tell. Not until we get her downtown. If I had to guess, though, I’d say no.”

I nodded, then looked carefully around the room. A table was crumpled against a wall, broken like a balsa wood movie prop. A small chintz armchair was overturned. A lamp, an alarm clock and broken bottles of perfume littered the floor. The odor of cheap perfume somehow made the excremental stench of death even worse. The alarm clock, I saw, was still running; the time was correct.

“Have you got everything you need?” I asked the photographer.

“Not quite, sir. I had one job already this morning, and—”

“All right. When you’ve finished, check with Inspector Culligan, will you?”

I took a last look around, nodded to the silent detectives and patrolmen, then walked out into the hallway, followed by Culligan. The door to the laundry room was open. I found a light switch, and we went inside.

“Well?” I asked, leaning against a large table heaped with laundry. “How’s it look? Anything?”

“Nothing yet.” Culligan looked back over his shoulder, toward the open door, obviously anxious to resume his investigation unhampered. Culligan was only thirty-three, young for a senior homicide inspector. But he looked forty-five. He was tall, stooped and balding. His complexion was sallow, accentuated by heavy, frowning brows and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His biggest professional problem was a kind of ill-tempered impatience. He sometimes jumped to the wrong conclusion, rather than take the time to check his leads, then check them again. But Culligan was a hard-working, conscientious cop, unconcerned about the time clock. If ulcers didn’t slow him down, or cynicism affect his judgment, he’d be a good homicide detective. Someday.

“What’s the rundown?” I asked.

“Well—” He sighed, then returned his gaze to concentrate reluctantly on me. Culligan wasn’t interested in impressing a superior officer. That was something else about him that I liked.

“Well,” he said, “the call came in about seven-thirty this morning. The victim, Maria Gonzales, was supposed to’ve been up by that time, fixing the Allinghams’ breakfast. When she didn’t appear, Mrs. Allingham came down here to get her up. Apparently the girl overslept once in a while. Anyhow, the girl’s door was closed. The outside door at the end of this hallway—the one with the blood smear on it—that was closed, too. Everything appeared normal. But—” Culligan shrugged, gesturing to the room across the hall.

“What happened then?”

“Well, Mrs. Allingham let out a squawk and ran upstairs. Her husband came down, looked at the body and then phoned in downtown. His name is Herbert Allingham.”

“Where’s Mr. Allingham now?”

“He, uh, left about nine o’clock.” Culligan’s eyes flickered up to meet mine. He’d exceeded his authority. But I didn’t comment or change my expression. “He’s a stockbroker, see. I questioned him from about eight-fifteen until quarter to nine. He said that he had a big, important deal that he couldn’t miss out on. He was on the phone to his office and everything. They even called him from New York during that time—all of them in a lather, apparently. So, finally, I let him take his kid and leave. They’ll both be back just after three P.M. And, hell—” He jerked his hand in a typically impatient gesture, frowning. “The guy’s a big shot. Obviously. He did everything he could to cooperate, but he said that if he didn’t get downtown by nine-thirty at the latest, his big deal would fall through. And I believed him.” Now Culligan’s narrow dark eyes were touched with a kind of defensive defiance. “I verified his employment and everything. It all checked.”

Something about verifying Herbert Allingham’s employment struck me as funny, but I didn’t let it show.

“All right. What about the kid?”

He nodded, anticipating the question. “Darrell Allingham. He’s—” Culligan fished out his notebook. “He’s seventeen, a senior at Farnsworth School. That’s a private high school for boys, not too far from here. He usually leaves with his father in the morning, and both the mother and father seemed anxious to get him out of the house. So, again, I didn’t see any harm.”

“Did you talk to the kid?”

“Just to get a statement on his movements last night and cross-check his parents’ movements.”

“Does it all add up?”

“So far it does.”

“What’s the story?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Allingham went out about six-thirty P.M. They got home late, about two A.M. It was—” He glanced again at the notebook. “It was one of those museum openings, at the De Young. Mr. and Mrs. Allingham went to a cocktail party first, then to dinner, then to the opening. Then they went to another big party afterward. Apparently it was a big social occasion—tuxedos and all. Like opening night at the opera or something.”

“What about the kid?”

“Maria—the victim—gave him dinner about seven P.M. He says he did his homework and watched TV until eight-thirty, then went out.”

“Where?”

“To a movie. He got home about midnight. And—”

“On a Thursday night?”

Culligan nodded, then shrugged.

“All right. What about—”

The photographer stuck his head in the door. “All set, Lieutenant. I’m leaving. Prints in an hour and a half, downtown. Mr. Benson wants to know whether it’s all right with you if he moves the body.”

I looked at Culligan. He shrugged again, then nodded.

“All right,” I said. “He can take it away just as soon as Inspector Culligan gets there to witness the removal. Five minutes. Tell him, will you?”

“Check. See you later, Lieutenant.”

I said good-bye to him, then turned back to Culligan. “What about the maid’s movements last night? Anything on that yet?”

“We haven’t had a chance to check. But Mrs. Allingham says the girl had a couple of friends in the neighborhood—other servants, including a chauffeur just down the street that the victim used to date.”

“Okay, so far so good.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go downtown. You canvass the neighborhood and look around for the weapon. I think you should be able to handle it with the men you’ve got. I’ll get the lab findings and the coroner’s report, then get back out here sometime between three and five. If I can’t make it, I’ll call you. And if I leave for anywhere but here, I’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Yessir.”

“I’ll talk to the reporters on my way out and tell them they can’t come inside. It’s too close quarters, don’t you think?”

“Definitely.”

We were standing in the narrow hallway. Estes, the lab man, was carefully sweeping the floor, a square yard at a time. Marking the squares, he emptied the contents into separate plastic envelopes, tagging the envelopes to correspond to the floor areas swept.

“Anything else turn up?” I asked him.

“Not that I can see, Lieutenant. It’ll take hours, I’d say, to sort out those prints and eliminate the members of the household.”

Not replying, I looked thoughtfully up and down the hallway. Beside me, Culligan was doing the same.

“That bolt on the outside door,” I said finally. “It was found open. Is that it?”

“Right. But the door was closed, on a spring lock.”

“Was she in the habit of bolting the door?”

“Most of the time she did, but not all the time, according to Mr. and Mrs. Allingham.” Culligan hesitated, then decided to say, “I haven’t been able to pin it down yet—I was just starting to interrogate Mrs. Allingham, for instance, when you came—but I get the feeling that both she and her husband are holding something back, where Maria’s concerned. For instance, I asked them whether Maria entertained men in her room. And Mrs. Allingham especially didn’t seem willing to give me a straight answer.”

“What about her husband?”

“Well, he—” Culligan hesitated again, searching for the thought. “He’s kind of a high-powered, big businessman type. You know: used to asking the questions instead of answering them. So it was hard to pin him down, especially about Maria’s habits. But I just get the feeling that both of them are holding back, like I said.”

“Maybe the old man visits Maria downstairs once in a while. It’s happened before. Or the boy. He’s seventeen, you say?”

Culligan nodded, frowning. Benson came out into the hallway. “Hey,” he said, “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

“You’re not the only one,” I answered. “Tell you what: you get the body moved, and I’ll talk to the reporters. Then I’ll toss you for ham and eggs.”

“Beautiful. I know a good place just a few blocks from here. Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes.” I jumped over one of Estes’ unswept squares, stared one last time at the blood-smeared door and then went upstairs.

2

BY 10:45 BENSON AND I had finished a hurried breakfast and gone our separate ways. It was a warm October morning, and I was driving down Pine Street with the windows open, heading for the Hall of Justice. I’d turned the radio low and didn’t catch the call the first time. The second time, though, the urgency in the dispatcher’s voice caught my attention, just in time.

“… oh-two. Repeat: Code two-oh-two, sector twelve. Location: O’Farrell Street, between Scott and Divisadero. All units, sector twelve, respond. Officer needs assistance.”

Code 202: homicide in progress. Our lucky number.

I jammed the flashing red light into the dashboard bracket, opened the siren and made the six blocks in good time through light morning traffic. Two squad cars were already on the scene, nosed into the curb in front of a ramshackle tenement building, the kind originally built as two elegant Victorian flats fifty years before. Two officers crouched behind their cars, both men aiming their shotguns at the house. A third officer was sitting propped against the nearest squad car. His face was white, his eyes half closed, lips pale. Blood soaked his uniform at the belt line.

I pulled in behind the nearest squad car, turned up the radio, clipped on my badge and left the door open, providing cover as I dodged to the next car. Close by, several sirens sounded; an ambulance was rounding the corner. Now two more squad cars were arriving, and two motorcycle units. I motioned the motorcycles to either end of the block, to divert traffic.

The face of the wounded man was familiar, but I couldn’t remember his name. He was deep in shock, his eyes rolling up. I moved aside as the two ambulance stewards came up, crouched low. I turned to Bert Harris, the nearest patrolman. “Where’s your fourth man?” I asked. “Covering the back?”

Harris nodded.

“Who is it?”

“Charlie Byrnes. I don’t think you know him.”

“Does he have a shotgun?”

“No. He had to jump a couple of fences.”

“Is there an alley back there?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I don’t think so.”

I cupped my hands toward the closest squad car. “Cover the back,” I called. “Drive around the block. There’s already someone back there, so watch yourself.” The two men nodded, backing their unit toward the intersection, already clogged with cars.

“What happened?” I asked Harris.

“We were turning the corner of Divisadero and O’Farrell, heading in this direction.” Harris’ voice flattened into the official tones of an officer reporting. “We were just cruising. Byrnes and I. Then I see someone running down the street in front of us, going away—running like he’s scared. I looked again and saw that he had a pistol in his right hand. He was a white male, brown hair, about a hundred fifty pounds, I’d say. He’s wearing black jeans, I think, and some kind of a blue shirt. I think the shirt has white trim—one of those cowboy-type shirts, as near as I could see. He—” Harris gulped for breath. “He kept running down O’Farrell, here, and we just drove behind him while we put in the call for assistance. For about a block, he didn’t even notice us. He was just running, with his head down, like he didn’t know there was anyone within miles. But then, just here, he suddenly looked over his shoulder and he saw us. So, right quick, he dodged in between these two houses.” Harris bobbed his head backward, toward the shabby Victorian tenement. “By that time, we knew assistance would be along in a minute or two. So we got out of the unit and proceeded down between the houses, slow. We were just going to keep contact with the suspect and wait for help. So then Smith and Blackman—” He moved his head toward the wounded man, now feebly groaning as they strapped him into the gurney. “They came up. They were covering the front while we looked around in the backyard. But then, all of a sudden, the suspect shot right through the front window and hit Blackman. It turned out that the suspect entered the house through a tiny little door under the back porch, that we didn’t even notice. He must’ve known it was there, the way I figure.”

As he was talking, I raised my head for a look, and for the first time noticed that most of the glass was gone from the front windows—two full stories and two smaller windows on top. Dirty lace curtains stirred in the warm breeze. Nothing else.

“So,” Harris was saying, “Byrnes and I ran around to the front and covered Smith, while he hauled Blackman back to—”

“Just a minute,” I interrupted. And to the ambulance stewards: “Hold it, you men. Wait till I give you the word before you get out from behind this car. You could draw fire.” I looked around the crouched semicircle of a dozen officers, half of them with shotguns, all of them clustered behind the two cars, waiting for instructions. I found four familiar faces, two with shotguns. I ordered them to break in pairs for the houses on either side of the Victorian tenement, where they could get a good angle of fire, protecting the ambulance men without exposing themselves. Another half dozen men I assigned to crowd control; someone was already on the loudspeaker, haranguing the sluggish rubberneckers, forcing them beyond the suspect’s line of fire. Now I saw a cruiser pulling up and was surprised to see the bulky figure of Pete Friedman behind the wheel.

As the four men broke for the two adjoining houses, dodging and running low, we all drew our guns to cover them. But, carefully watching the gently blowing curtains, I could see nothing stir. Was he still in there? Could he have—?

A shot cracked out. Glass splintered from one of the small third-floor windows. The savage whine of the ricochet sounded behind me. I dropped to the street and whirled. No one was hit, and now the crowd, black and white mixed, was pulsating with the particular low, primitive mumble of a mob, restless and frightened.

“Hold it,” I called as several officers raised their weapons, aimed at the small window. Then pointing to the single man with an automatic rifle, I said, “When these ambulance men move, you put a timed volley into those two windows. Empty the whole clip. Got it?”

“Yessir.” He rested the big rifle on a squad car’s roof, carefully sighting. The man looked good, calm and competent, deliberately nestling his cheek snugly against the rifle’s stock.

I turned to the crouching ambulance stewards. The older of the two was licking his lips, looking walleyed back over his shoulder.

“All right, you men,” I said softly. “Are you ready?”

The older man seemed about to shake his head, but finally gave me a sick, sheepish grin. He looked as pale as the victim, who still lay with eyes closed, lips twitching. I wondered whether the patrolman was dying.

“All right,” I said sharply, gesturing to the stewards. “Go.” And to the rifleman I called, “Shoot.”

The rifle cracked as the patrolman began squeezing off his shots. The savage, mind-searing crack of the high-powered weapon took me fleetingly back to a foxhole—face in the mud, hands clasped over my helmet, trembling, desperately wondering whether I’d soiled myself. Frantically praying, wildly, incoherently.

A patrolman opened the ambulance doors; another patrolman waited at the wheel. The two stewards pushed the gurney inside; the doors slammed shut. The ambulance was moving, gathering speed. I exhaled, called for the rifleman to stop shooting, then returned my gaze to the house. A hand lightly clapped my shoulder. Friedman’s broad, sweaty face was close to my own, just below the level of the squad car’s window. Lieutenant Friedman, at two hundred and fifty pounds, was always very particular about his cover.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

“I was on my way downtown when I heard the two-oh-two.”

He snorted. “I was on my way to the dentist. Next time I’ll leave the radio off. I think I’ve got an abscess.” He eased himself down to sit flat on the pavement.

I realized that I was smiling. “Well, you’ve probably missed your appointment by now. You may as well stick around. We can co-manage this operation.”

Again he snorted, settling his bulk more comfortably, then sighing. “I’m senior. I’ll plan the strategy. You can execute it. What’s going on?”

Harris and I gave him the details. Friedman listened sourly, constantly exploring the inside of his mouth with his tongue, occasionally touching his cheek tenderly. Finally he rose laboriously to his knees, took off his hat and studied the house. “Anybody got any vests?” he asked.

“We have,” Harris said. “Byrnes and I.”

“Get them, then,” Friedman ordered. “Then get on the horn and find out whether there’s anybody in the crowd from that house who knows the layout.”

Harris nodded, then moved away.

“What’d you think?” Friedman asked.

“I think we’d better call in and let the captain know what’s happening. Then I think we may as well send four men into the house, to make the suspect stay put. Then we can fire a gas grenade through that upper window and see what happens.”

Friedman promptly nodded. “Excellent. Right out of the book. You want to go in?”

“Not really.”

“You take this one, I’ll take the next. Honest to God, Frank, I don’t want to jiggle this tooth. You’ve just got no idea how—”

“All right.” I looked around. “I’ll take Harris, Smith and that guy with the rifle. Do you know him?”

“Yeah. His last name is Lloyd. He’s a good man. Doesn’t get rattled, and he got a departmental citation not so long ago. He’s one of those killer types, though. You’ve got to—”

Harris was running across the street to us, keeping low. I watched the blowing curtains, but could see no sign of movement. Harris dropped to the ground, his notebook in his hand.

“Here’s the house layout,” he said breathlessly. “If the guy’s still up in that front window on the top floor, according to this colored girl I found, he’s got himself bottled up. There’s only one stairway leading up to that apartment. See?” He pointed, explaining the rough sketch.

“Does this girl live there?” I asked.

Harris nodded, gulping for breath.

“Does she know the suspect?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you describe him to her?”

“Well—” He hesitated.

“Never mind,” Friedman said. “Why don’t you and Harris get the vests on, Frank, while I call in to Captain Kreiger? If there’s a chance the suspect’s got himself bottled up, we’d better move.”

I nodded, assembled the three officers and explained the plan. Harris and I, with the vests, would go first, carrying our service revolvers. Smith and Lloyd would back us up, carrying shotguns. We buckled on the vests, checked our weapons and waited behind the cars, crouched low. We all had gas masks, slung over our shoulders. In my left hand I carried a walkie-talkie; in my right hand, my service revolver. Friedman and I checked our walkie-talkies. Then, at Friedman’s nod, we ran for the building—spreading out, running low, zigzagging.

I got to the porch first. We were still exposed to fire from a downstairs window. I hit the door with my right shoulder, popping it open, splintering the panels. We were inside the dingy entryway, littered with papers and candy wrappers. The stairway was to our right, just as Harris had drawn it. Four ground-floor doors opened off the entryway, all of them closed. I looked at the door that apparently led into the front apartment.

In a low voice, struggling for breath, I said into the walkie-talkie, “We’re by-passing the front apartment downstairs, Pete. Nobody’s stirring. But you could station a couple of men in the entry hall down here. We’re proceeding upstairs. I’ll tell you when to fire the gas.”

“Roger. I’ll send in the two men immediately. Watch yourself. Kreiger told me, before I left, that he’s got some kind of a new, cushy assignment for you. So stay well.”

“Roger. Here we go.” I slipped the walkie-talkie into my side pocket, telescoping the aerial. I instructed Lloyd to keep an eye behind us. Then, slowly, Harris and I began climbing the stairs. Smith came next, then Lloyd, coolly glancing back over his shoulder.

We reached the second-story landing. There were two doors, one for the front apartment, one for the rear. I pointed to the front apartment and placed the men: Harris to the right of the door, myself to the left; the other two stood back to either side. It was the operation repeatedly drilled into every policeman: how to enter a dangerous room. I nodded to the three men and got answering nods in return. I shifted my gun to my left hand and slowly tried the door. The knob turned, the door moved inward a fraction of an inch, unlocked. I took a deep breath, nodded again and crouched low. Harris, on the other side, was doing the same. I would go in first, breaking to the left. Harris, coming right behind me, would break to the right. If trouble developed, we would fall flat, the two men behind us firing over our heads.

At the last second, I remembered the walkie-talkie. I took it out of my pocket, placing it carefully on the floor beside the door. Then, nodding a last time, I slammed open the door, throwing myself into a narrow, dark hallway. Ahead was a living room, opening on the street. I was standing in the center of the room, still crouching, my feet crunching bits of shattered glass littering the floor.

The place seemed empty—silent, harmless. I instructed Lloyd and Smith to keep the outside hallway under surveillance while Harris and I checked the closets, beds and bulky furniture. We finished in the kitchen. Seeing a dirty glass on the drainboard, I opened the cold-water tap and filled the glass, thirstily gulping. The two faucets both dripped, and beneath each faucet the porcelain of the sink was worn through to black iron. I filled the glass again and offered it to Harris. He shook his head. I drained the second drink, hearing myself noisily swallowing. Something in the sound momentarily evoked the sensations of football on a fall afternoon: drinking from the water bucket, watching the plays, listening to hurried instructions; breathing deeply, absently feeling for bruises; wincing unconsciously when a player got badly crunched.

“Okay,” I heard myself saying. “Let’s try the top floor. I’ll call for the gas.” I went out into the hallway, switching on the walkie-talkie. “We’re going up to the top floor, Pete. Can you get a gas cannister in there?”

“Sure. I’ll confirm it. I’ve got Bertha now. No problem.”

“Roger. Let me know.”

Bertha was an armored car, similar to a Brinks van.

I slipped the walkie-talkie into my pocket, leaving the switch open. Then, nodding to the others, I started up the last flight of stairs.

As I cautiously poked my head above the floor level of the third landing, I saw only one door. If he was up there, we had him. I motioned for the others to look, then to keep their heads down.

“I’ve never figured out,” Harris was whispering, “why they always head for the top floor. If he’s there, he’s cooked.”

“Sometimes they’re looking for the roof.”

Harris shrugged, shaking his head. Lloyd was between us now, slipping his shotgun into the bannister spokes, training the gun on the single door. He settled himself comfortably—naturally—behind the gun. He was young, still in his twenties. He was tall and well muscled, and he moved with a slow, deliberate grace. His face was good-looking, clean-cut—an all-American face. But his dark eyes, staring down the gun barrel, were somehow too calm. Deadly calm, they suddenly seemed. Dead and calm.

I watched Lloyd raise a deliberate hand to remove his uniform hat. His eyes never left the door. He dropped the hat to the stairs. I watched the hat tumble slowly down to the landing.

“Don’t shoot too quick,” I warned. “If he gets any of that gas, he won’t be able to—”

I heard a small thud, then a low hissing. At the same moment, the walkie-talkie crackled.

“There it is, Frank,” I heard Friedman say. “Have you got good cover?”

“Roger. We’re all set.”

“All right. Don’t take any chances. Remember that cushy assignment Kreiger’s got for you.”

“Roger.” I clicked off the radio, slipping it back in my pocket. “Keep your heads down,” I cautioned. “Don’t—”

From the paint-peeling door came the stifled sound of a cough. For the first time, I saw that the door was splintered around the lock. He’d kicked it in.

“All right,” I yelled. “Come on out. Open the door and throw out the gun. Then, when we tell you, come out with your hands clasped behind your neck. We’ll give you exactly ten seconds. And remember, first the gun. Then, when we give the word, you come out. Not before. You have ten seconds.”

Now the coughing was louder. I listened for the sound of movement, my eyes fixed on the door. Nothing stirred. I reached for the walkie-talkie.

“Give us another cannister, Pete.”

“Roger. Half a minute.”

But almost immediately I again heard the thump, and the hiss. Two perfect shots, in succession. Lloyd still stared fixedly down the barrel of his shotgun. Now his lips were drawn back. His teeth were clenched, his jaw muscles corded.

The door opened. From inside came the sound of choking, gasping. The yellowish-white gas eddied out into the hallway.

“Throw the gun out,” I called. And to my three men: “Keep your heads down. He might—”

He was staggering out into the hallway. He tripped on the torn carpeting, falling to his knees. He looked young, barely twenty. His eyes were tightly shut, his cheeks wet. With his left hand he reached out, clutching the bannister. He was retching; vomit stained his shirt and trousers. I could smell the odor plainly. The small revolver was in his right hand, raised to point at the opposite wall, twelve feet from our heads. He was still on his knees, shaking his head like a groggy fighter. Beside me, Harris was shifting his pistol to his left hand, drawing his night stick. He began crawling up the stairs, silently, keeping low. If Harris could get close enough with the stick, he could—

The suspect suddenly lurched blindly to his feet, then fell against the bannister. The revolver was pointed down at the floor.

“Drop it, goddamnit,” I was yelling. “Drop it, or—”

Lloyd’s shotgun blasted, a foot from my head. The suspect smashed back against the far hallway wall, hung spread-eagled, then slipped to the floor. His shirt was bloody; the wall above him was blotched with bits of bloody flesh and shreds of bloody clothing. His legs jerked spasmodically, his fingers twitched. He was huddled in the fetal position. The head lay at a strange, awkward angle, as if the neck were snapped. The eyes, still streaming tears, stared at the blank wall, a few feet above my head. The mouth gaped. The legs no longer jerked; the fingers were still.

I stood up, reaching for the walkie-talkie. I cleared my throat, biting my tongue against a rising sensation of nausea. “Okay, Pete. Tell them to bring the stretcher up.”

“Roger.” There was a pause. Then: “Everyone all right?”

“Everyone’s all right. No problem.”

“Here we come.”

I returned the walkie-talkie to my pocket, then holstered my gun. Harris was climbing the stairs, his gun held on the dead boy while he took his revolver, emptying the cylinder. Smith, behind him, was covering. I watched Lloyd take his shotgun from between the bannister spokes. He ejected all the shells, according to regulations, then reloaded the magazine, leaving the chamber empty. He pointed the gun toward the ceiling, clicked the hammer, then set the safety. Now he lowered the gun, and without glancing at the body, walked the few steps down to the landing, picking up his uniform hat. He carefully brushed the hat, adjusted it on his head, then turned to stare silently up at me. He held the shotgun easily, as if the weapon were a part of his arm. His dark eyes were expressionless.

Friedman’s battered brown felt hat appeared on the stairway. Looking down, I saw a small, graying, bald-headed man plodding behind Friedman’s heaving bulk. He wore a tattered gray sweater, with a dirty undershirt beneath. His chino trousers were wrinkled and badly stained; his blue-veined feet were thrust into run-over carpet slippers.

As Friedman gained the last landing, he stepped aside, puffing, to let the small man go ahead.

“This is Mr. Kirsch,” Friedman said, glancing briefly at the corpse. “He lives—lived—in the same building with the suspect, just a couple of blocks away.” He pointed to the body, still bleeding heavily. “Is that your neighbor, Mr. Kirsch? Leo Powell?”

The bald man glanced once at the body, then closed his eyes. He turned, suddenly sitting on the stairs. I saw a single tear slowly streaking Mr. Kirsch’s pale, gray-stubbled face.

“Well?” Friedman prodded.

“That’s him, all right. That’s Leo.” He shook his head. “Honest to God, I don’t understand it. Some of the punks in this neighborhood, black and white, you can tell from the time they’re little tiny kids, they’re going to end up bad. But Leo, I known him for five, six years. He’s like a little kid, even though he’s eighteen, nineteen. He never hurt nobody—nobody at all. Never gave nobody any trouble.”

“What was he doing with the gun, Mr. Kirsch?” I gestured for Harris to hand me the suspect’s revolver. “Here, look. This is the gun he was carrying. Have you ever seen it before?”

Listlessly Mr. Kirsch glanced at the gun. His hands hung dangling loosely between his knees.

“It looks like Charlie’s gun—Charlie Powell. Leo’s old man.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I don’t know nothing about guns; they all look the same to me.”

“Is Mr. Powell home now?”

“I guesso. I don’t know; I didn’t come from home. I was shopping. Buying some food, up at the corner. But Charlie, he’s probably sleeping it off. He came home last night gassed, like he does about half the time. Then he starts knocking the old lady around, like he does. So he’s probably sleeping it off. I dunno. I left the house about ten o’clock this morning. I thought I heard them arguing, but I wasn’t sure. Usually Charlie, after he gets gassed, he sleeps all morning. Especially Fridays. That’s his day off. Friday. He goes out Thursdays and gets gassed. Then, on Fridays, he sleeps.”

“Was Leo in their apartment this morning, do you know?”

“I guesso. He quit school, I understand, last week. He’s been looking for a job. But—” Mr. Kirsch hesitated, his wayward glance straying back toward the body. “But it’s pretty tough, you know, for someone like Leo to get a job.”

“Why’s that?” Friedman asked.

“Because he’s, you know, deaf and dumb. Has been, all his life. Well—” He gripped the railing, pulling himself upright. “I better get home, see what I can do for Charlie and his old lady. When he’s not drinking, Charlie’s all right.”

Friedman and I exchanged a glance.

“We’ll send someone with you,” Pete said quietly. “A couple of men.”

“Okay.” Mr. Kirsch shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He got to his feet, half turned toward the body, then caught himself. “What’d you suppose Leo was doing with the gun, anyhow?” he asked Friedman. “Robbing someone, or something?”

“Let’s go over to your place, Mr. Kirsch.” Friedman took his arm.

I watched Mr. Kirsch clumping stoop-shouldered down the stairs, followed by Friedman. Then I looked at Lloyd. The handsome patrolman was staring down at the tattered stairway carpeting. He was thoughtfully frowning.

3

“WELL,” CAPTAIN KREIGER SAID, carefully sprinkling Parmesan cheese into his minestrone. “You’ve had a pretty busy morning.”

Not replying, I sipped my coffee.

“Friedman’s taking care of the reports and procedures on that Leo Powell thing,” he said. “All he’ll need from you is a routine report. Any time today. Or tomorrow, for that matter.”

“All right. How’s Blackman doing?”

“Fine. Most of his symptoms were shock, according to the doctor. The bullet didn’t damage anything vital. It was only a .22. Luckily. It nicked a little of the intestine, but nothing else.”

“That’s good.” I was staring off across the restaurant. Then, surprised, I realized that I’d been thinking of absolutely nothing. I blinked, shifted in my chair and focused my attention on Kreiger. He’d been watching me, his eyes speculative.

“It’s too bad,” he said slowly, “about that Powell kid. Still, it almost sounds like he’s better off dead. He’d’ve had to get around being a deaf-mute, and then get around killing his father, no matter which way it went for him in court.”

I still said nothing. I could never measure the depth of Kreiger’s compassion. His expression seldom changed; his face almost never betrayed anger, or pleasure, or pain. He often smiled, but the pleasure was always very private. Yet over the years a single cryptic, dispassionate phrase of Kreiger’s sometimes seemed to sum up everything that was bad about police work, and still leave some of the good.

I’d known Kreiger for more than twenty years, off and on. Our lives in some ways had developed almost identically. Yet the results, for me, had been so different—sometimes so disastrous. We’d both gone to college on football scholarships. We’d both been drafted into the Army in the spring of 1943. We’d both played football in the Army, then become M.P. lieutenants late in the war. We got out of the Army, went back to college—and played football. We’d kept in touch. Kreiger had played tackle for Minnesota; I’d played linebacker for Stanford. We’d both gotten honorable mention in our senior years.

But that’s when it all began to change. After his M.P. experience, Kreiger had changed his major to criminology. He married Nancy in his senior year. They moved to San Francisco, started a family and decided never to leave. At forty-four, Kreiger was still physically squared off. He could press two hundred pounds in the police gym, and I never saw him hit a man more than once. Without a doubt, Kreiger would be the next chief of detectives.

I’d graduated in business administration—still specializing in football—coasting through classes, finding the real meaning of college in sports clippings, fraternity parties and the back seats of convertibles.

After college I’d gone with the Lions, first as a second stringer, next as a third stringer, finally as a free agent, on my own. Out of a job. But by that time I’d made my second mistake. I’d married Carolyn. We’d—

“—don’t look like you’re enjoying that coffee much,” Kreiger was saying.

I lowered the cup into the saucer, shrugging. “Like you say, it’s been a busy day.”

He sipped two spoonfuls of minestrone, allowed perhaps a full half-minute to pass, and then said in a slightly more official tone, “I meant it when I said that Pete’s handling the Leo Powell thing, Frank. Don’t worry about it; don’t waste your time thinking about it. With the Maria Gonzales murder and this new case, you’ll have plenty to do, plenty to think about. But—” He hesitated, eating a deviled egg in one large, precise bite. “But I want your reconstruction of what happened with Leo Powell. Just for my own information—unofficially.”

“Well, unofficially, I’d say that Leo Powell’s father got home last night drunk and started beating up on his wife. Then, this morning, they started in again. To me, just looking at the two of them in their apartment, I’d say they both clobbered each other pretty good—both of them using something to hit the other with. Then I’d say that at some point Leo got the family gun and shot his old man. Maybe he thought his mother was already dead; it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. That’s what I thought when I first looked at her. So then I think Leo ran out of the apartment, with the gun in his hand. And that’s when Harris and Byrnes spotted him, purely by luck. The rest of it, of course, is cut and dried.”

Kreiger ate his second deviled egg, wiped his mouth, then looked at me directly. “Still unofficially, do you think it was necessary for Lloyd to blast the Powell kid?”

I chewed a mouthful of pastrami and rye, swallowed and said, “We didn’t know until afterward that the kid was a deaf-mute. Under the circumstances, I don’t think Lloyd was wrong.”

“Would you have pulled the trigger, Frank?”

I finished my coffee and signaled the waitress for a refill. “Probably not. But it was all happening pretty fast.”

Kreiger nodded, satisfied. He drained his own coffee cup as the waitress approached. He glanced at his watch, then said, “Have you got anything from the coroner or the lab on Maria Gonzales?”

“No. But I’ll probably have the reports when we get back to the office. I told Culligan I’d be out to the Allingham house between three and five this afternoon. What’s this new assignment, by the way? Pete said it was cushy.”

Kreiger allowed a hint of humor to soften his thoughtful stare. “I don’t know whether ‘cushy’ is the right word. But we’ve just inherited the job from Missing Persons, and it’s a job I want done right. I think you should stay on it for two or three days at least. Personally. Use enough men and really dig.”

“All right. What’s the job?”

“The Carol Connoly disappearance.” He looked at me. “You know the case?”

“Isn’t she the so-called ‘beautiful young society matron’ who disappeared without a trace a few days ago?”

“Right. Tuesday night. The file’s on your desk right now. Why don’t you look it over before you go out to check on the Gonzales thing, then stop by the Connolys’ afterward? Talk to the woman’s husband.” Kreiger paused, frowning down as he toyed with his teaspoon. “The fact is, this Connoly woman’s husband—his name is Victor Connoly—has been making quite a stink ever since his wife disappeared. I talked to him this morning and told him that Missing Persons had jurisdiction during the first seventy-two hours. So he insisted—” Kreiger took a deep breath, tightly clenching a fist and wrapping his knuckles softly on the table. “He insisted that I have my ‘best man’ at his home this evening. After dinner. And an hour later, I got the same word from the boss.”

“Influence.”

“Right.”

“It doesn’t sound so cushy to me. It sounds more like a Friedman dodge, if you really want my opinion.”

Kreiger’s mouth lifted in a frosty Aryan smile. I’d once told him, joking, that he looked like a Hollywood director’s idea of the perfect Gestapo officer, with his clear blue eyes, close-cropped blond hair and thick neck. Kreiger hadn’t seen the humor.

“Friedman’s supposed to be inside this month,” he answered. “He just happened to have a bad tooth this morning.”

“That tooth’s really bothering him.”

Kreiger glanced at his watch. “He’s at the dentist right now. He got a cancellation for one o’clock.”

I ate my last bite of pastrami and drank the last swallow of my coffee. “What about this Connoly woman? All I know is what I’ve read in the papers.”

Kreiger again checked the time, then watched me with obvious disapproval as I lit a cigarette. He’d decided to quit smoking three years ago, suddenly one afternoon. He didn’t understand why others couldn’t do the same.

“First of all,” he said, “Victor Connoly’s father founded the Connoly Savings and Loan Company. Both of Connoly’s parents are dead, I think, and Victor’s running the business, even though he isn’t much more than thirty-five. If that. Personally, I didn’t care for him much.

“Anyhow, it seems that Tuesday morning Connoly left for Los Angeles, on business. His company has a branch down there, and he’s back and forth all the time. His wife stayed home and apparently went through a completely routine day. But that night, about eight P.M., she went out.”

“Where?”

“To a rehearsal of one of those little theater groups. The name of the group is The Dramatists, and it operates out of one of those old firehouses that’s been remodeled. Apparently she just stayed at the rehearsal for a half hour or so. Then she disappeared. And—” Kreiger spread his hands. “And that’s all there is. Period. End of the report.”

“What’d Missing Persons do?”

“The usual: circulated the mug to the big cities and made routine inquiries locally. In this case, since it wasn’t just some hooker who disappeared, they did the best they could on the routine check. But I don’t have to tell you that Missing Persons is short of staff, so that even their best wasn’t much.”

“What’d they think happened to her?”

“They aren’t speculating.”

“What about her husband?”

“He isn’t speculating either. But he sure as hell wants her found.” Kreiger glanced at his check, then reached for his wallet. “What about the Maria Gonzales murder? How’s it look?”

“There wasn’t enough information when I left. If I had to guess, I’d say she was entertaining a gentleman caller and got herself strangled, then stabbed. She had her own private entrance, and she’s supposed to’ve had a boyfriend. Maybe she had more than one. Also, the multiple stab wounds make it look like a sex killing, like the murderer did it in a frenzy, at least subconsciously trying to mutilate the victim.”

“Was there any actual mutilation?”

“No. But Benson said she might’ve been dead before she was stabbed. Which is a little unusual. Anyhow—” I totaled my own check and counted out the money. “Anyhow, I’ll know a lot more when I get the coroner’s report and the lab findings. I’ll see what they say, then go back out to the Allingham house. I’ll look over the Connoly file, too, and interview Mr. Connoly after dinner, to get started. Okay?”

“Fine. By the way, Nancy’s going to have a dinner party a week from tomorrow night. She’s taking up jewelry making, you know, and she’s having her instructor and his wife over, plus some other people from the class. There’ll be eight or nine altogether, I think. Can you come?”

“Sure. Thanks.” I held the door for him, and we went out into the street, walking slowly toward the Hall of Justice, enjoying the warm sun, watching the girls in their thin, short summer dresses. “What time is the party?” I asked.

“Seven, I guess. I’ll let you know. You want to bring someone?”

I shrugged. “Not especially. Nancy might not want me to, anyhow. You know: the unattached bachelor every hostess is supposed to need so desperately.”

He smiled. “I’m afraid Nancy’s about given up on trying to matchmake for you. I keep telling her that someday you’ll call up and announce that you’re getting married. And until then, I tell her, she’ll be the last to know.”

“Tell her not to hold her breath. In three or four more years, you know, I could be a grandfather.”

“What’s that got to do with getting remarried?”

“I don’t know. Except that the last year or so I’ve reluctantly decided that I spend less and less time thinking about the next roll in the hay.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I still remember that Italian girl you stole from me while we were liberating Rome.”

“It wasn’t so much that I stole her; I just outdrank you.”

Realizing that I’d said it, I stopped myself from looking at him, keeping my eyes to the front. It was the first time in years that either of us had spoken of drinking. And even then, that winter afternoon in my apartment, we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words.

How long had it been?

How many years since—

“And then she outdrank you.” His voice was noncommittal, revealing nothing. He glanced with brief annoyance at a passing hot rod, its pipes rapping.

“I was young then,” I muttered. “Three drinks, and I was on my ear.”

He didn’t reply. We were turning into the last block; ahead was the Hall of Justice, an enormous cube of smooth marble, gleaming aluminum and sparkling glass.

Six years, it must have been, since I’d awakened to find Kreiger standing impassively above me. Maybe seven years. We’d still been in the Old Hall, downtown. I’d gone off duty late at night and gone directly home. A girl had called, then come over—a blonde named Kathy. I could still remember her name and her body and her nervous laugh, but I couldn’t remember her face. She’d brought a bottle of bourbon, celebrating, she said, her final decree. I’d refused a drink; she’d insisted, sitting on my lap, squirming, laughing into my face with her boozy breath, twisting to press her eager breasts against my chest.

Again she’d insisted that I have a drink; again I’d refused. And again she’d laughed and urgently kissed me, then tipped her glass to my lips. Something in the combined sensations made me push her aside, slopping her drink down my shirt front. I’d gotten to my feet, stared at her in a mute fury of disgust, then poured myself a drink silently.

Kathy—my faceless friend.

The next afternoon, I’d opened my eyes to see Kreiger staring down at me. He said, very quietly, that he was off duty, acting privately. Then, just as quietly, he told me to turn in my badge and my gun if I ever again took more than one drink. Then he’d turned and—

“—going to take the last week of my vacation this month,” he was saying as we climbed the broad granite steps of the Hall. “I think we might try Carmel. Off-season it shouldn’t be so expensive.”

I nodded, pushing open the big glass door. “The weather down there’s good this time of year, too,” I answered. “Better than the summer. Just like it is here.”

Silently Kreiger nodded, pressing the elevator’s “up” button.

4

AS I PRESSED THE BELL, I slipped the shield case from my pocket, then stood back to scan the Connoly house. It was a large, elaborate English Tudor, three stories, done in artificial used brick, artificially aged timber and a genuine slate roof. Value: at least a hundred thousand dollars, probably more. The Connolys and the Allinghams were obviously in the same income bracket.

The heavy oak door swung open, revealing a slim Negro girl dressed in gleaming servant white.

“I’m Lieutenant Hastings.” I flipped down the shield. “Mr. Connoly is expecting me.”

“Oh, yes. Come in, Lieutenant.” Her voice was soft, her dark eyes quick and appraising. She walked in front of me to a paneled study—the first room off the wide reception hall. It was a small, ostentatiously understated room dominated by a leather-topped antique desk, two oxblood leather lounge chairs and floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books.

“Sit down, Lieutenant. Mr. Connoly will be with you in a few minutes.” She gestured to one of the leather chairs.

“Thank you.” I watched her trim hips sway as she left the room, closing the door softly. I sighed, settled back in the deep chair and yawned as I allowed my gaze to traverse the study idly. Upstairs the faint note of a child’s voice sounded plaintively. Had the Missing Persons report mentioned a child? I couldn’t remember.

I yawned again, then took my notebook from a side pocket, leafing to the last few pages, where I’d tried to summarize the Maria Gonzales case. Tomorrow, if I went down to the office, I would write a covering report, supplementing Culligan’s.

The notes were sketchy, made less than an hour ago, hurriedly. As usual, Culligan had been anxious to get rid of me.

I glanced at the first entry:

knife, Allin. kitch.

A uniformed man had found a bloody knife in the thick shrubbery of the Allingham back garden, approximately thirty feet from the unbolted rear door. A crew had canvassed the area for other evidence unsuccessfully. The knife had been identified as belonging in the Allingham kitchen and was now being examined at the crime lab.

Maria, tramp?

When she’d been only four, Maria’s father had died in a bordertown tavern brawl. Her family had moved to Los Angeles, where her mother had hired out as a domestic. At sixteen, Maria had been picked up for suspicion of soliciting—a B-girl rap. At nineteen, she’d done thirty days on a D and D charge, at which time she’d become a syphilis patient. At her death, she’d been twenty-four. She’d worked for the Allinghams almost exactly a year. She’d been indolent, often impolite. According to a neighbor, Mrs. Allingham had considered firing the girl. Mrs. Allingham, however, denied it.

Raphael Coria, alibi?

Maria’s boyfriend, the chauffeur, was a short-tempered Mexican boy of nineteen. He’d once spent the night at San Francisco Juvenile Hall for gang fighting, but otherwise his record was clean. He lived over his employer’s garage, three blocks away. He dated Maria “about twice a month,” usually going to the movies. On the night of the murder, he’d been watching TV in his room, but couldn’t prove it. Coria, at the moment, was our best suspect. The assistant D.A. was considering the issuance of a material witness warrant, but I’d suggested surveillance—more rope. The decision, of course, was the D.A.’s.

Strang. first

She’d died of asphyxia, but had apparently been stabbed soon afterward, repeatedly.

Kid odd

Darrell Allingham, the seventeen-year-old son, had seemed jumpy, apprehensive. Some of his answers to routine questions were inconsistent, and when the discrepancies were pointed out to him he seemed oddly indifferent. After a short interview, I’d decided that Darrell Allingham was a neurotic, insecure teenager, probably unpopular with his classmates, possibly a latent homosexual.

Allin. jumpy

The Allinghams, especially the mother, were plainly holding something back. Preliminary investigations indicated that Mr. and Mrs. Allingham had quarreled at the party they attended last night and may have—

The door opened. I slipped the notebook into my outside pocket and rose to my feet. A tall, good-looking man of perhaps thirty-five entered the room. He wore an open white shirt, expensively cut slacks and beautifully burnished loafers. His cashmere sweater picked up the clear blue of his eyes. His wavy blond hair was carefully combed. The effect was studied—self-satisfied, a little smug. He didn’t bother to smile.

“Lieutenant Hastings? I’m Victor Connoly.” He motioned to a sparkling cut-crystal whiskey service. “Drink?”

“No, thanks.” I waited for him to sit behind his large, elaborate desk, then sank back into my leather chair.

“I appreciate your coming.” He said it abruptly, frowning. “I’m sure something’s happened to Carol. Missing Persons didn’t do a thing, that I could see. Are you from the homicide detail?”

“Yes.”

“You are a lieutenant?”

“That’s right, Mr. Connoly.”

He nodded, as if my rank reassured him. Now he was tapping the desk with a long, elegant forefinger, petulantly studying the gesture, still frowning. “Is there any more word?” he asked finally. “Anything you’ve discovered?”

“No, nothing.” I took out my notebook and ball-point pen. “Our jurisdiction doesn’t begin before seventy-two hours after a disappearance. Which is about now.”

He nodded, sighed and recrossed his legs. Something in the impatient restlessness of his body suggested that he felt more annoyance than real grief. He didn’t meet my eye—hadn’t, in fact, since we’d first shaken hands.

“I wonder,” I began, “whether you could tell me exactly what happened: how you discovered your wife was missing, where she was last seen, who saw her.”

“Well, in the first place, I wasn’t even in town. I was in Los Angeles. I left Tuesday morning, on business.”

“What business are you in, Mr. Connoly?”

“The savings and loan business—Connoly Savings and Loan.”

“A family business, then.”

He nodded. “My father started it, built it up. My parents were killed eleven and a half years ago, in a private-plane crash. So I had to take over.”

“Do you have a branch office in Los Angeles?”

“Yes.” He said it with a curious hesitation, his eyes flicking briefly toward me, then quickly away.

“All right. Now, tell me how your wife disappeared.”

“Well, as I said, I left Tuesday morning, so it’s all hearsay as far as I’m concerned. But Dulcie, the housekeeper who let you in, said that Carol went through a routine day: hairdresser in the morning, lunch in the afternoon, then riding in the park for an hour after lunch. And then she—”

“Did she ride alone, Mr. Connoly?”

“As far as I know. We keep two horses, and she loved—loves—to ride. She got back home about three. Usually, if she can, she always manages to be home by three to meet James, coming home from school.”

“James is your son.”

“Yes.”

“What did your wife do next?”

“Nothing, apparently, until dinner. Dulcie thinks she stayed in her room reading. Whatever she was doing, she didn’t go out.”

“What about James?”

He seemed surprised at the question. Then, shrugging, he said, “He was playing, I suppose. He’s only eight, so he didn’t go anywhere. I mean—” Connoly waved an impatient hand. “I mean, he was probably in the neighborhood.”

“I imagine so. Did your wife and son have dinner together?”

“Yes. They finished about seven. Then Carol dressed and went out about eight o’clock.”

“Where’d she go, Mr. Connoly?”

“To a play rehearsal. But—” He frowned. “But I told all this to the other men, from Missing Persons.”

“I realize that. But we like to start from scratch. I’m going to have personal charge of this case for the next few days, and I want to be sure I’ve got all the information I need.”

“Hmm.” His manner suggested suspicion.

“Did she drive to this play rehearsal?”

“No, she took a cab. The playhouse isn’t in a very desirable part of town, and she didn’t like to park and walk any distance.”

“She called a cab, then. By phone.”

“I suppose so.” He said it indifferently, as if he were losing interest in the whole subject.

“All right. What happened then?”

He spread his hands, shaking his head. “Nothing happened. I mean, that’s the end of the trail. She took a cab to the rehearsal and apparently stayed about an hour and a half, according to your Missing Persons colleagues. Then she left. Period. Vanished.”

“How did she leave? By taxi?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Lieutenant.” He was absently eyeing the crystal liquor service. “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

He shrugged, then rolled his chair to the sideboard, pouring three fingers of bourbon into a tumbler, adding ice and water. He jiggled the ice once, then began drinking.

“I understand,” I said, “that the name of the theatrical group was The Dramatists. Is that right?”

He nodded, still drinking.

“How did you discover that she was missing, Mr. Connoly?”

“I didn’t know about it until the following morning. Wednesday. It often happened, you see, that Carol wouldn’t get home from rehearsals until the wee hours. It depended on whether they were rehearsing her part, as I understand it. So, anyhow, Dulcie put James to bed about eight, then watched TV until about eleven, when she went to bed herself. She expected Carol to come in later, you see.”

“So your wife wasn’t discovered missing until Dulcie got up the next morning.”

“Yes.”

“Did Dulcie go to Mrs. Connoly’s room?”

“Well, yes. Of course. After she got James off to school.” He said it impatiently. Connoly’s manners, I was thinking, were beginning to slip. More and more, he was reminding me of a badly spoiled child, thirty years later.

I nodded, deliberately pausing as I scribbled in my notebook, making it last at least a full two minutes. Unconsciously, I realized, I was “Sherlocking”—employing the disconcerting little mannerisms that hopefully kept the subject always a little off balance.

Finally I said casually, “It wasn’t unusual, then, for your wife to be out late at night by herself.”

“Well, no. I mean, not when I’m out of town. I don’t object, either, if that’s what you mean.”

“Did it often happen that your wife stayed out all night?” Keeping my eyes steady on his, I made my voice perfectly noncommittal as I asked the question.

His pale, too-handsome face slowly flushed. “It did not often happen, Lieutenant. And I don’t like—”

“What did Dulcie do?”

“She called my office here in town and talked to my private secretary, Betty Samson. Betty immediately tried to get in touch with me in Los Angeles, but—” He hesitated, then sipped at the bourbon before saying, “But she couldn’t find me. At least, not right away.”

“Why was that?”

“What d’you mean?” Now annoyance was plain in his manner. I was probing close to some secret nerve.

“I mean, why couldn’t your secretary locate you?”

“Very simple, Lieutenant. I didn’t get to the office until about ten-thirty. Then, as soon as I heard about Carol, I made arrangements to leave for San Francisco. I got home at about two-thirty. As soon as I had a chance to talk to Dulcie, I notified the police.”

“I see.” Again I acted out the scribbling charade, thinking about Connoly’s late arrival at his Los Angeles office. During interrogations, the childhood phrases “hot, hot” and “cold, cold” often flitted fugitive through my thoughts.

“Let me get back to your schedule a minute,” I said slowly, watching him covertly. “Why was it that you were late getting to your office Wednesday morning?”

He drew a long, slow breath, avoiding my eyes as he finished his drink. Finally he muttered, “I had a leisurely breakfast, then drove out to Beverly Hills to look at a loan prospect. It was a beautiful day, and I—I never push it too hard whenever I’m in Los Angeles. It—it’s one means of relaxation.”

“A vacation with pay, eh?”

His clear blue eyes rose with a quick, tentative expression of assessment, then slid uneasily away. “Exactly.”

“Were you—relaxing the night before, too, Mr. Connoly?” As I asked the question, I watched the color again rising in his face.

I half expected him to lose his temper pettishly. Instead he said in a steady voice, “This is beginning to sound like you’re as much interested in me as you are in Carol.”

I decided not to answer. There was no indication of foul play, and therefore no need to ruffle him. Instead, shifting my ground, I asked, “Can you think of any reason, any reason at all, that your wife might’ve chosen to leave San Francisco, Mr. Connoly? Voluntarily, I mean.”

“Absolutely not,” he answered with prompt decisiveness. “That’s why I’m so … concerned. I’m positive she wouldn’t’ve left of her own free will.”

“Does she have any history of depression? Nervous disorder?”

“Carol?” The question was incredulous. He snorted. “You must be joking, Lieutenant.”

“No, I’m not joking,” I answered slowly. “Don’t forget, I don’t know your wife. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you to take a minute and describe her for me: what kind of a person she is, what her background is, what she likes to do with her time. All that’s very helpful to us.” I took the Missing Persons sheet from my pocket and looked at the full-face picture of a strikingly good-looking blonde, early thirties, with regular features and thick, long hair. There was a hint of subtle laughter in the wide-set, knowing eyes. The lips were set in a slight, mocking smile. “I can see, for instance, that she’s exceptionally pretty.”

“Yes,” he answered dryly, “she’s very pretty.” The thought seemed to give him little pleasure.

“All right,” I prompted. “Go on. What else?”

For a moment he ignored the question as he thoughtfully, deliberately refilled his glass. Then, seated behind his elaborate desk with the glass held suspended between his palms, slowly rotating, he began to talk. His voice had a strangely wooden quality—distant, almost dreamy.

“Carol is a very complex person, in many ways. But her motivations are extremely simple. And more than anything else—” He paused, then raised his eyes to circle the richly appointed library as if he were assessing the furnishings, dollar by dollar. “More than anything else, she wanted all this—everything that money could buy. Or at least,” he added wryly, “at least, she wanted half of it—her half.”

I let the silence settle for a moment, then said quietly, “Are you saying that she was contemplating divorce?”

His eyes lingered a last moment on the room’s expensively stilted, leather-bound façade. Then, listlessly shrugging, he dropped his eyes again to his drink, staring at the amber fluid sparkling in the thick crystal glass. “Everyone I know contemplates divorce, Lieutenant. Just like everyone who plays the stock market contemplates selling out, when the price is right.”

Again I said nothing, this time slipping the notebook into my side pocket. Then I asked him, “Is there any possibility that your wife has a … friend? A male friend?”

Mirthlessly he laughed. “I suppose that’s one of your occupational hazards, Lieutenant: having to ask questions like that.”

I didn’t reply.

He gulped a noisy swallow of the highball, then said, “The answer to your question is that, yes, there’s a possibility that Carol has a ‘male friend,’ as you put it. But that wouldn’t change the fact that she’d never simply run off. And besides—” He hesitated. “Besides, there’s James. Carol wasn’t—isn’t—exactly the mother of the year. But—” He let it go unfinished.

I rose to my feet, thinking about the two slips he’d made: “wasn’t” instead of “isn’t”; “loved” instead of “love,” earlier. Subconsciously, at least, he thought his wife was dead, or wished she was dead.

“Thanks a lot, Mr. Connoly,” I said, turning toward the door. “I’ll be in touch with you. Are you planning to be in town for the next few days?”

“Yes,” he answered, draining the last of his drink. He didn’t bother to rise. “Yes, I’ll be around.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch with you. Thanks again.”

Still sitting behind his expensive desk, he didn’t reply.

5

“THIS ACT ONLY HAS a few minutes to play,” the girl whispered. “Then Stanley can talk to you.”

“Thanks.”

I looked across the darkened rows of empty seats to see Stanley, the director, dolefully shaking his head. Now he raised his eyes to the ceiling, his teeth set, elaborately sighing. Stanley was a pale, frail young man of about thirty, with a scrawny neck and a long, sad nose. He wore a scraggly Ho Chi Minh beard; his sparse sandy hair fell in lank strands to the open collar of his blue work shirt.

“Is it about Carol Connoly?” the girl asked.

“Yes.” I twisted in my seat to look at her. “Did you know Mrs. Connoly?”

“Not really. I just came to town a couple of weeks ago. I did summer stock in Provincetown. Professional summer stock.”

“Is The Dramatists a professional group?”

Her lip curled. She was a tall, thin, intense girl with uneven teeth, a bad complexion and small, close-set eyes.

“The Dramatists is a hick group,” she answered curtly. “San Francisco is a laugh. It’s supposed to be a big cultural center, but it barely supports one professional theater. The rest—like this one—are lucky to make the rent and pay the printing bill. It’s all ego satisfaction. I just come down here for rehearsals because I don’t know anyone in town.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ll be staying long.”

“You’re probably right.”

Wondering whether she stayed anywhere very long, I turned my attention to the two actors on stage. Finally they gave their last lines, then blinked as the house lights came up. The dark, stark mood of the rehearsal had lulled me back into the past, and I remembered my small part in the senior high school play, recalling the warmth of the late spring evenings as I walked home from play practice with Shirley Clayton. She’d been given the lead in the play; I’d just been named all-state fullback. Often, walking together, we were comfortably conscious of others’ envy, aware even at seventeen that we were a good-looking couple. We were the beautiful people—secretly so tender and tremulous, outwardly so incredibly sure—already venturing in our thoughts far beyond that time and place. The war had already started, already shadowed our fantasies. For me, the war would be an extension of gridiron heroics, with the same calm, wide-shouldered feeling of—

“—wanted to talk to me?” Stanley, the director, had slouched down into the chair beside me.

“Yes, I did. You’re Stanley—?”

“Stanley Baldwin, if you’re looking for a laugh. My parents didn’t know there’d ever been another Stanley Baldwin, believe it or not. If they’d named me Robert, I’d probably be a stockbroker.”

“I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings. I won’t take much of your time, but I—”

“Don’t worry about my time.” He flapped a listless hand. “I’m not going anywhere. The rehearsal’s over, and everyone’ll soon be splitting. The homosexuals will leave with the homosexuals, and the other types will leave with the other types, heading for some narrow room where they’ll fondle each other all night. The society matrons will return to their chic, starched families. But I don’t have a thing to do until seven-thirty tomorrow, when I’ll get on a bus and go downtown and make doughnuts all day so I can support this vice.”

“Directing, you mean?”

“Directing, acting.” He shrugged. “I might as well be hooked on hashish.”

Deciding not to waste time on his problems, I shifted in my seat to face him more squarely.

“I’m trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly, Mr. Baldwin. She’s disappeared, you know.”

He nodded, bored, then called instructions to a pretty girl covering the stage furniture. She seemed to ignore him.

“This is going to be my last play,” he muttered. “So help me, the last. I’m going to forget about art and try Hollywood. My mother went to high school with Barbara Stanwyck. And they’ve always kept in touch.”

“Do you know Mrs. Connoly?” I pressed.

“Well, of course. She had a walk-on in the last play.”

“What about this current play? Has she got a part in it?”

“No. The last few weeks—maybe a month or so—Carol lost interest. It always happens. Society dilettantes, they’re all the same—dabblers, out for the kicks.”

“Is that the way you’d describe Mrs. Connoly—a dabbler, out for the kicks?”

He shrugged. “Superficially, yes. She’s out for the kicks—and for herself. She might be a trifle more honest about it; I never really thought much about her.”

“Think about her now. You’re obviously tuned in on people, Mr. Baldwin. Give me your description of Mrs. Connoly.”

“Well,” he said slowly, chewing his thin lips as he thought about it, “I’d say Carol Connoly is basically a pretty cool customer. Her façade is a lot more intact than most of her social-register contemporaries, and there’s probably a lot more behind the façade, although I wouldn’t say it’s all especially pretty.”

“How do you mean that?”

“I mean,” he answered slowly, “that I had the feeling Carol took some hard knocks psychologically before she finally got herself together and filled up all the chinks. And I had the feeling she got along for a while on bulky-knit orlons before she switched to cashmere. All that, of course, is just speculation, impressions. I didn’t talk to her for more than an hour, I don’t think, in all the time she was with the group.”

“How long was that?”

“A little less than a year, I’d guess.”

“When you say she took some hard knocks psychologically, are you saying that she was a vulnerable person in that respect, apt to be unstable?”

“Just the opposite. I’m saying she’s tough—tough as nails.”

“Sometimes the tough ones, if they’re brittle, can crack.”

He spread his hands indifferently, at the same time morosely nodding goodnight to a pair of lithe young men leaving together.

“Let me ask you this, Mr. Baldwin: if you had to guess why Carol Connoly disappeared, what would you say? For instance, would you say that she might’ve had a love affair going and decided to go off with the man?”

The corners of his humorless mouth lifted in a wry smile. “She might’ve had an affair going, but I doubt that she ran off with someone in a fit of girlish passion. Carol thinks twice about everything. She does it fast, so it might seem she’s only thinking once. But she’s a double thinker. The theater’s full of them. The double thinkers usually make it, too, while the real talents are getting tangled up in their emotions, real or imagined.”

“When you say that she might’ve had an affair going, are you thinking of anyone in particular? Anyone in The Dramatists, for instance?”

He took a long moment to tap his wide-spread forefingers lightly together, soundlessly whistling as he studied the gesture. Then, after a sidelong glance, he said, “If I should venture an opinion that turned out to be libelous, who’d get the rap—you or me?”

I smiled. “Me, Mr. Baldwin. If you read the papers, you should know that cops’re getting rapped more and more all the time.”

“Yeah, I know.” He said it absently. Then, with the slack, listless manner of someone basically indifferent to consequences, he said, “Shortly after Carol joined the group, she met a guy named Keller, Charles Keller. I think they had something going. At least, that was the gossip.”

“Is Charles Keller still with the group?”

Ignoring the question, he said, “Charles Keller is an unpleasant type, Lieutenant. He has a short temper, and he gets in fights. I, on the other hand, am a coward.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Baldwin. Your name won’t be mentioned. We protect our sources.”

“So I’ve heard. Still, the more I talk the more I get the feeling that I’m maneuvering myself into a position midway between Charlie Keller’s talented right fist and Mrs. Connoly’s overpaid lawyers.”

“Is Charles Keller in the phone book?”

“I don’t know.” He laboriously levered himself higher in his seat and turned to look toward the theater’s tiny lobby. “Sue’s still here. Sue Bryan. She can tell you.”

“Fine. I’ll just ask you a couple of more questions, then. First, do you have any personal knowledge of Mrs. Connoly’s movements Tuesday night? We know she came here for a rehearsal, but that’s where the trail ends.”

“I don’t know a thing, Lieutenant. I remember seeing her, and I remember that she left early. That’s all.”

“How early?”

“Well, that night we were rehearsing two acts instead of one, like tonight. So it was a late rehearsal, probably eleven-thirty.”

“What time did Mrs. Connoly leave?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t see her go. If I had to guess, I’d say she left about nine or nine-thirty. But I could be wrong.”

“Did she leave with anyone?”

“I told you: I didn’t see her go. So I couldn’t very well—”

“All right, thanks a lot, Mr. Baldwin. If everyone is as helpful as you’ve been, it won’t take us long.”

“Anytime, Lieutenant.”

I left him sitting slumped in his seat, a hunched, narrow-shouldered figure, alone in the darkened theater. Three youngsters, dressed hippie style, passed close to Stanley Baldwin on their way out. They hardly glanced at him.

Sue Bryan was closing the office. I introduced myself, then watched her eyes ingenuously widen as I asked for Charles Keller’s home address. She backed into the office, turned on the lights and riffled rapidly through a card index. She was a young, pretty, fresh-faced blonde with her hair done in a ponytail. She wore a miniskirt, revealing smooth, well-muscled legs. I wondered whether she danced, or played tennis, or hiked.

“Here—” She printed Keller’s name, address and phone number on a slip of paper.

“Thanks.” I glanced at the address, recognizing a short, scruffy alleyway in a marginal neighborhood at the bottom of Telegraph Hill. “Do you know Charles Keller?”

She leaned against the desk, facing me. She folded her arms beneath full, firm breasts, then nodded. She was a small, almost chunky girl. Her eyes were wide and blue—farm-girl wide, cornflower blue.

“I knew him for a few months, before he left the company. Not well, though. Just slightly.” Obviously, she disliked Keller.

“What about Carol Connoly? Did you know her?”

“Also slightly. But I knew her well enough to be surprised that she just disappeared like that. Has she been kidnapped, do you think? Murdered?”

“We don’t know, Miss Bryan. We’re just checking. Were you here at the theater Tuesday night?”

“Yes.” She turned her head toward a cluttered desk. “I was working on the mailing list. We have about six thousand names. I’m too shy to act—too scared, really. I get out on the stage, and I have to go to the bathroom. It’s terrible.”

I glanced at the theater’s front door, easily visible from the office. “You probably saw Mrs. Connoly when she left, then.”

“As a matter of fact, I did. When I read about it in the papers, I thought I should, you know, volunteer. But I figured that someone would come asking.” She smiled. “And here you are. I’ve never talked to a detective before.”

Tentatively returning her smile, I realized regretfully that Sue Bryan wasn’t much more than twenty-one, about half my age. “What time did Mrs. Connoly leave, would you say?” My voice sounded very official.

She tongue-tipped her lips, frowned and finally said, “About nine-thirty, I’d guess.”

“Good.” I nodded, satisfied with the cross-check of Baldwin’s statement. I was making progress. I glanced at my watch, deciding that I’d have time to question Charles Keller and still get home before midnight. “Did Mrs. Connoly leave alone?”

“Yes, she did. I remember because she was wearing a beautiful handwoven coat from Yucatan. I saw one of them down at Magnin’s last week. They cost two hundred fifty dollars. Unlined. I work just across the street from Magnin’s, and about twice a week I walk through on my lunch hour. I even dress up, those days. So I won’t feel conspicuous.”

“Do you know how Mrs. Connoly left, Miss Bryan?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, did she call a cab?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so, because she didn’t leave in one. I remember, though, that she did make a phone call about fifteen minutes before she left. She hung around the lobby after she called, and we talked for a minute. She’s really very nice, you know—a very direct kind of person. Not pretentious or artificial, like so many of those”—she thought about it, still hugging herself—“those socialites. Carol just took people as they came and didn’t sweat it. And she didn’t try to act half her age, like a lot of them. She was very—democratic, too. I was telling her once that I wish I’d finished college. And she said that—”

“How did she leave, Miss Bryan? Did you actually see her leave?”

“Sure I did. She left in a red Porsche—a 911 or a 912 Targa, with a black top. Of course, all the Targas have black tops. It’s the same car that used to call for her several months ago, before she started letting that creep Charlie Keller take her home. I remember thinking Tuesday that she was back with the same guy she’d had before, giving it another try after Charlie. She’s married, I know, and maybe I’m saying too much. But—”

“Is that T-a-r-g-a?”

“Right. It’s a special body style. It has a brushed-chrome roll bar, and only the front half converts, back to the roll bar. I think it’s the coolest car on the road, if you don’t count the E-Jag. For about two months I went with a fellow who had a Targa. But I couldn’t make up my mind whether he was in love with his mother or his Porsche. Will you give me a ride home, Lieutenant? I only live a few blocks away, and I’ve never ridden in a police car before.”

“Miss Bryan,” I said, “it’ll be a pleasure.”

6

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO come up?” she asked. “My roommates would love to meet you. We have Scotch and bourbon. Some vodka, too.”

“How many roommates do you have?”

“Four.”

“I’d better not, Miss Bryan. But I want to thank you. Very much.”

“Well, if you change your mind, we don’t go to bed until midnight on Fridays. At least.” She opened the car door, smiled and ran up the steps to her apartment. I watched her legs, still wondering whether she danced, or hiked, or played tennis.

I drove to the nearest call box and asked for the squad room. Sergeant Rankin answered on the second ring.

“Who’s on call?” I asked.

I heard his chair squeak as he turned to read the duty board. “Sobel, Sigler, Haskell and Canelli.”

“Who’s actually there?”

“Canelli and Haskell.”

“All right, tell Canelli to meet me at”—I held up Sue Bryan’s slip of paper—“at the corner of Fredericks Alley nearest number thirty-eight. He can hitch a ride if he wants to; I’ll drop him off. Ten minutes. Then I want you to run Charles Keller, that address, through R and I.”

He repeated the instructions. “Anything else, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. Tell Sigler to check the cab companies for a fare at 7859 Pacific Avenue Tuesday night about eight—Mrs. Carol Connoly. Tell Sigler to look over the Connoly file on my desk. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I want him to find the cab driver and interrogate him. I know Missing Persons did it, but I want it done again.”

He repeated everything, and we hung up.

Turning down the radio, I settled back in the seat, closing my eyes and listening to the monotonous muted murmur of Friday night violence. Less than two years ago, I’d been out there on the street, dogging the calls—listening for the sound of desperate footsteps disappearing down a darkened alley, holding my breath against the smell of violent death: vomit, excrement, liquor and filth. Now I sent my subordinates out on the routine calls, protecting myself from the job’s nasty little surprises.

A squad car turned the corner and stopped while Canelli got out, casually waving as the car pulled away. Physically, Canelli resembled Friedman: a perspiring, shuffling, pear-shaped giant. Canelli, only twenty-nine, seldom sat down without sighing appreciatively. His shirttail invariably bulged from beneath his vest, and his wrinkled collar was always mashed beneath the bulk of a massive double chin. But he was conscientious, cheerful and calm in the crunch. And he was lucky. Even Canelli couldn’t explain it, but he often found himself in precisely the right place at the right time, usually yawning, indifferent to his unexpected coup. It was a squad-room joke that Canelli had only once been seen running: when he’d forgotten to park his cruiser in gear, on a hill.

“Hi, Lieutenant. What’s doing?”

I got out of the car, locked it and explained the situation as we walked down the dim, alley-width street. Less than a year ago, I was thinking, there’d been a knifing in this same small street—a robbery and assault, still unsolved.

“How’d you happen to pick me?” Canelli asked.

I glanced at him, smiling to myself. For a cop, Canelli was remarkably outspoken—often naïve, blinkingly perplexed. “This Keller is supposed to be handy with his fists,” I said. “At my age, I need all the protection I can get.”

“Hmm.” He slipped his blackjack into an outside pocket. “No fooling?”

“No fooling. Keep your eye on him. Just stay in the background and look alert. Menacing, too.”

“Yeah. Right.”

I paused in front of number thirty-eight, a narrow, disreputable-looking building that appeared to be a double garage converted into a small house. Looking closer, I realized that it was an old carriage house, built directly on the sidewalk.

I couldn’t find a doorbell and finally knocked. Canelli, taking me seriously, was stepping aside, unbuttoning his jacket.

I listened, then knocked again. Lights were burning inside, and now I heard footsteps. The door opened, revealing a tall, stoop-shouldered man dressed in a heavy sweater and blue jeans. I couldn’t see much of his shadowed face.

“Mr. Keller? Charles Keller?”

“Right.”

“I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mr. Keller. This is Inspector Canelli. We’re trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly. Can we come inside for a few minutes?”

“It’s eleven-fifteen. I was just going to bed.”

“This’ll only take a few minutes, Mr. Keller.”

“I’d rather you came back in the morning.”

“No. We’re here now, and we’re going to ask you some questions. Now, we can either do it inside, or we can do it in my car. It doesn’t make any difference to us.”

Still he stood leaning against the doorframe, insolently relaxed, thinking about it. Finally, shrugging, he slouched aside, noisily exhaling. The pattern of his behavior was familiar: the cop hater, pushing it as far as he could.

I walked inside, leaving Canelli to bring up behind Keller. The place seemed to consist of a single large high-ceilinged room, painted entirely in white. The original heavy timbers and rough siding of the carriage house had apparently been haphazardly sprayed with the white paint, top to bottom. The tall, stark walls were hung with huge paintings. I stood in the middle of the room, taking a long, calculated moment to study the dozen-odd canvases. The motifs all seemed similar: dark, brooding abstractions split by a bright, searing scar of twisted, tortured color.

“Are you a connoisseur, Lieutenant?” Keller’s voice was mocking, close beside me.

“Your paintings?” I asked, turning to face him.

“Yes.” He abruptly turned away, gesturing to a miscellaneous collection of second-hand furniture grouped around a scarred oak dining table, cut to coffee-table height. “You may as well sit down.” He dropped into an old-fashioned armchair trailing white cotton stuffing.

“We won’t take much of your time,” I said, settling myself. “As I told you, we’re trying to locate Mrs. Carol Connoly. I’d like for you to tell us everything you know about her, starting with whether or not you saw her Tuesday night.”

His long, brooding face twisted in a slow, malevolent grin. “Everything I know about her, Lieutenant. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Vital statistics? Taste in food? Taste in men?” He was goading me—testing, teasing, probing.

“Start with her taste in men. You, for instance. I understand the two of you were having an affair. Tell me about it, Keller.”

“Why should I tell you about it? I might incriminate myself.”

“Not if you tell the truth, Keller. If you lie to us, though, we’ll find out. And then you’ll have a problem.”

“All right, then, I’ll start with her love-making technique, which was great. Absolutely unsurpassed. Is that what you had in mind?”

“Go ahead. You’re doing fine.”

He nodded, thoughtfully gnawing at his lower lip, staring at me with his dark, intense eyes. Then, elaborately spreading his hands, he shrugged. “What else is there to tell? Carol was great in bed. She hated men, really. So it was a contest with her, a fierce competition, with only one winner. Carol is a beautifully sleek, tawny, elemental predator—one of the most exciting women I’ve ever known. But I wouldn’t want to marry one, as the saying goes.”

“Are you still seeing each other?”

“No. We had a once-a-week affair going for six months or so. It flamed out about a month ago, maybe a little more. About the time I quit The Dramatists, as a matter of fact.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

He sighed with impatient, practiced insolence. “I’ve already told you, Lieutenant: a month ago.”

“You didn’t see her Tuesday night, then.”

“No.”

“What kind of a car do you drive, Keller?”

“I drive an old, battered, asthmatic Plymouth, Lieutenant—a 1952 station wagon, once green.”

“Do you know anyone who drives a Porsche Targa—anyone who’d know Mrs. Connoly?”

Promptly he nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do. During periodic bouts of boredom, Carol used to dally with an overbred, semi-aristocratic, narrow-shouldered type named Arch Phillips—an old friend of the family.”

“Do you know a Porsche Targa when you see one, Keller?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. An artist’s eye sees everything, records everything. Besides, I’m a refugee from the privileged classes, where Porsches are more common than, say, 1952 Plymouths.”

I nodded, then took a deliberate moment to survey the room slowly. In one corner, behind a tottering screen, I could see bedclothing trailing on the floor. In the opposite corner was an easel supporting an unfinished canvas. Against the back wall were a stove, refrigerator and sink, together with an oilcloth-covered table heaped with dirty dishes.

I returned my gaze to Keller. His dark, defiant eyes snapped with a taunting, secretive excitement. It was an expression every police officer recognizes, reflecting the strange compulsive game a suspect plays with his tormentor, tempting discovery. Some say it’s pure bravado, a superman complex. Others say it’s a suppressed urge to confess. Whichever is right, most cops figure that a talker is someone with something on his mind. And Keller was a talker.

“How’d you happen to meet Mrs. Connoly?” I asked quietly.

“At The Dramatists. She was a demure script girl; I was a fiery, talented set painter.”

“You saw each other once a week, then. Here, after rehearsals. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Did you ever meet anywhere else?”

“No. Carol was very circumspect. She was dedicated to the proposition that any girl with both beauty and brains can have her cake and eat it, too. And she was right.”

“You say ‘was.’ Don’t you mean ‘is’?”

He shrugged. “To me, Lieutenant, Carol Connoly is past tense.”

“And you don’t have any idea what might’ve happened to her, where she might’ve gone Tuesday night.”

“Negative.” He yawned, stretched and pointedly looked at his watch.

“Have you ever been arrested, Keller?” I asked suddenly.

The first response was a quick flickering of his eyes, a momentary tightening of his thin, unpleasant mouth. Then his hands involuntarily clenched, slowly relaxed.

“As a matter of fact,” he said softly, “I have been arrested. Not once, not twice, but three times.”

“Where?”

“Cleveland, Ohio. The scene of my boyhood.”

“What were the offenses, Keller?”

“The usual: juvenile scrapes, of which the judge took a dim view. My mother, you see, makes a career of marriage. During her Cleveland period, which roughly corresponded to my impressionable, turbulent teens, she was married to a pompous, affluent, sadistic son of a bitch named Harvey Reagan, a local wholesale hardware tycoon. One night, returning home drunk from a high school basketball game, my friends and myself broke out most of the panes in Mr. Reagan’s greenhouse, whereupon Mr. Reagan had us all locked up for the night. The episode produced so much friction between my mother and Mr. Reagan that I started out on a modest little crime spree, which finally ended with the theft of a Jaguar and three months at the county work farm, whereupon my mother left Mr. Reagan, who apparently wasn’t much good in bed. We next moved to California. Currently Mother is married to a Los Angeles publicity man, a pompous, sadistic flack, but not very affluent. However, since Mother is losing her looks, I suppose she has to settle for—”

“Have you been arrested anywhere but Cleveland?”

“No.”

“Have you ever used an alias?”

He smiled. “Only when it was absolutely necessary, to conceal my identity from nubile girls with outraged parents.”

“How old are you, Keller?”

“Thirty-five.”

“How long have you been painting?” Canelli asked.

Keller languidly twisted in his chair to survey Canelli disdainfully. “I’ve been painting most of my life. I have an IQ of a hundred sixty, and art is the only thing that keeps me from twitching. When you have an IQ that high, it can be a problem. Genius, Mr. Detective, is—”

The door suddenly opened. A slim, dark girl stopped short, just inside. She wore leather sandals, tight blue jeans and a Mexican serape thrown over her shoulders. Her hair was drawn severely back from a lean, intriguing face. In her dark, smoldering eyes was a wary, restless watchfulness. She seemed poised for quick retreat.

“Ah,” Keller said, “here’s Angie. We live together. These men are detectives, Angela, searching for clues, as detectives do. And this is Angie Rayburn, gentlemen. She’s a topless waitress. But you mustn’t suppose, because of her profession, that Angie is a tramp. Her father, like Mr. Reagan, is wealthy. He owns three cars and a swimming pool. And Angie has been to finishing school, not to mention assorted girls’ colleges. Briefly. So together we are rebelling against the middle class. Blissfully.”

I rose and gestured to a nearby chair.

“Sit down, Miss Rayburn. We won’t be long. Just a few more questions, in fact.”

Wordlessly she obeyed. She moved with a long, tense, dancer’s stride. Seated, she looked at me silently, hostile and contemptuous, returning my stare. As Keller had said, they were rebelling.

I turned back to Keller. “You know, of course, about Mrs. Connoly’s disappearance.”

He nodded, eyes narrowed. I saw him glance quickly toward the girl, then quickly away.

“If you had to guess,” I continued, “what would you say accounts for the fact that she disappeared, without a trace?”

Burlesquing a slack-gestured indifference, he sighed, slouched and finally said in a bored voice, “I wouldn’t have any idea, Lieutenant. None at all.”

I nodded, thought about it and then turned suddenly to Angie Rayburn. “Did you know Carol Connoly, Miss Rayburn?”

I’d caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, but didn’t answer. Her grip on the arm of the chair tightened.

“Of course she knew Carol,” Keller said quickly. “By reputation, anyhow. Angie and I have no secrets from each other.”

Ignoring him, I asked her, “How long have you been living here, Miss Rayburn?”

“About three weeks,” she answered steadily.

“And you’re a topless waitress.”

She lifted her chin. “That’s right, Lieutenant. Going topless is the best way to get the clearest look at the crappiest people in the world: the customers.”

I nodded, smiled and rose to my feet. “There, Miss Rayburn, I can agree with you.” I turned to Keller. “Where do you work, by the way?”

He waved an indifferent hand. “I paint.”

“Do you make a living at that?”

He shook his head, then moved the hand toward Angie. “She makes the living, I paint. I’m not suited to the world of competition, Lieutenant. As a child, I was delicate in my mind. I’ve never gotten over it.”

I nodded again, thanked them and walked to the door.

7

THE NEXT MORNING, SATURDAY, I briefly stopped by the Allingham house on my way to work. Culligan, as usual, had been on the job since eight o’clock, much to the household’s yawning, tousle-headed annoyance. And, as usual, Culligan wasn’t especially happy to see me. He had nothing new to report. He intended to interrogate all the witnesses again, and again, looking for discrepancies. I left after a half hour, instructing Culligan to advise me, at the Hall, of any new developments.

I arrived at the office about ten o’clock and immediately requested a Motor Vehicles make on a Porsche Targa registered to Arch Phillips. Waiting for the results, I discovered from the phone company that Mr. Phillips had recently moved to a new address on Telegraph Hill.

As I was debating whether to phone Phillips for an appointment or ring his doorbell cold, Friedman came into my office with two cups of coffee. We idly discussed the National League’s prospects in the Series and the Gonzales homicide. On the first point, Friedman took the National League for two dollars at even money. On the second point, he announced that at a guess he picked Mrs. Allingham as the murderess, since intellectual-type matrons often went off the deep end during middle age.

We were discussing Keller’s 1952 Plymouth and Phillips’ expensive Porsche when my buzzer sounded.

“Lieutenant?” It was Culligan’s voice, angry sounding.

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a suspect on the Gonzales thing—the goddamn kid. The son, Darrell Allingham.”

“Good. You sound mad.” I motioned for Friedman to pick up the extension receiver.

“Yeah. Well, he—he surprised me. I mean, I started out this morning with the father, then the kid. Both of them were jumpy. I figured something was bothering them, but I couldn’t turn up anything. So I told them both to stay put inside the house while I talked to the mother separately. I was the only one in the house; Canelli and Sigler were down the street, talking to that chauffeur. I had a man outside in a radio car, but—” He drew a deep, impatient breath. “But anyhow, the next thing I knew, the father was shouting something, and it turns out that the kid apparently climbed out his bedroom window and got his Honda and took off through the alley.”

“Is it out on the air?” As I asked the question, I saw Friedman switch on the Communications monitor.

“Sure,” he answered, irked at the question. “Five minutes ago, at least. A.P.B. But—” Again he drew a deep breath. “But the real problem is that, according to Mr. Allingham, the kid took the family gun with him.”

“What kind of a gun?”

“A .357 magnum.”

“Great,” I snorted.

“Yeah.” It was a discouraged-sounding rejoinder. “Should I—”

Friedman snapped his fingers, pointing to the monitor.

“Wait a minute,” I said to Culligan.

Friedman turned up the monitor, saying, “They’ve spotted the kid, they think. Out in Golden Gate Park.”

“Did you hear that, Culligan?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. You and Canelli and Sigler get out to the park. Leave the radio car where it is. I’ll be out to the park myself if it’s confirmed that they’ve really got the kid spotted.” I hesitated, then said, “Why don’t you take Mr. Allingham with you? Might save us some trouble.”

“Right.”

I clipped on my gun, took an extra box of cartridges from the locked drawer and left Friedman in my office, talking to Communications.

8

I MADE A LONG, slow turn into John F. Kennedy Drive, the park’s main thoroughfare. On my way, I’d gotten a supplementary description of the suspect: age, seventeen; height, five feet eleven; weight, one hundred and sixty pounds. Hair, brown, worn medium long. Eyes, brown. Wearing a short-sleeved, button-down, yellow-on-orange plaid sports shirt, slim white Levis, brown leather loafers. Riding a black and silver Honda Hawk, 350 cc.’s.

The hour was almost noon. The weather was warm, the sky clear and bright. Very soon the park would be filled to capacity, crowded at the tourist attractions yet partially deserted in wooded areas. Golden Gate Park was the largest single-tract metropolitan park in the country, if not the world. In my seven years as a cop, I’d probably flushed a dozen suspects from bridle paths, underbrush and simulated forest glades. I’d found a few bodies, too.

As I drove, scanning secondary roads, closely checking motorcyclists, I realized that I was thinking of Leo Powell, the deaf-mute with the gun—another teenager running. Two teenagers in two days, running, carrying firearms—wild enough or scared enough or crazy enough to kill. Dangerous game. Any cop, given a choice, would rather face a professional criminal, no matter how bad his record, than face—

Ahead a squad car suddenly pulled a sharp U-turn, narrowly avoiding a horn-honking station wagon. Quickly I switched into second, glancing in the mirror, then pressing the accelerator hard. The squad car had turned into a small access road.

Over the radio came a low, tight voice: “We have a subject in sight answering description in A.P.B. thirteen-dash-two. Subject is riding a black and silver motorcycle northeast on small dirt service road running behind the museum complex. Subject is—” The officer’s voice slipped to a higher, more excitable note. “He’s taking off over the hill, between the trees. We’re parking, proceeding on foot. Subject is heading north, cutting over on a bridle path now. He’s out of sight. We’re—”

“We see him behind the Flower Pavilion,” came a new, deeper voice. “We see him, but can’t get to him. He’s—he flipped the bike. We’re going to—oh, oh, he’s on the bike again, proceeding down—”

“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. “Let’s get some two-wheelers on those paths. Quick.”

“He’s bottled up in the parking lot,” a third voice said. “Behind the Flower Pavilion. We’ve got two units here. He’s off the bike. He’s—”

“Hastings again,” I cut in, wheeling the car back into Kennedy Drive, clipping the flashing red light to the dashboard, swinging to the left-hand side of the wide, crowded boulevard. “I want two or three more units over behind the Flower Pavilion. Make sure he stays off that bike.”

I switched to General Communications, checked in with Friedman, then switched back to the surveillance channel. It was a general conversation, calmer now. The suspect had ducked into the rear entrance of the Flower Pavilion, just ahead. Pulling up in front of the huge glass conservatory, I ordered all fifteen units assigned inside the park to converge on me. Ahead I saw Culligan, already parked. He was sitting in his car with Mr. Allingham. Culligan was watching me impassively as I pulled in beside him. Mr. Allingham was unshaven, dressed in a light windbreaker. He was staring at me with vague, baffled eyes. His gray-stubbled face was pale, his hair disheveled.

I told Allingham to stay put and Culligan to get out. We walked a few feet away from the cruiser, both of us eyeing the Flower Pavilion. Eight or nine units had already arrived. I instructed the uniformed men to surround the conservatory, pistols holstered, no shotguns. No one was to enter the premises, police or passers-by. Sergeant Dave Pass, Traffic, was spreading the men out. Now two more units were pulling up; behind them I saw Canelli and Sigler. I called to Sigler, telling him to help Dave Pass. Then I turned to Culligan.

“Someone goofed,” I said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I didn’t figure he’d run. It—it’s my own goddamn fault.” His voice was dull, his eyes hot with anger and disgust. It was something else I liked about Culligan; he was tougher on himself than on his subordinates.

“Have you got him made on the homicide?” I cast my voice to a neutral official note, letting him stew.

Culligan ruefully snorted. “Not that I know of. I’d just been questioning him, with nothing new. He was jumpy as hell, but that’s all. I excused him, and I thought he went to his room. But—” He shrugged angrily.

“Do you think he’ll use that gun?”

“Hell, I don’t know. I’d call him neurotic, unpredictable, strung out—really strung out. I guess that kind can do anything.”

Canelli was standing beside us. With his hat pushed back and his arms folded comfortably across his paunch, he looked more like a sight-seer than a participant. “You got two big deals in two days, Lieutenant,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll need a press agent pretty soon.” He moved his head to a TV mobile unit. I looked balefully at the truck as Canelli said, “They were on their way out to the polo field. Quite a coincidence.”

“Listen,” I said, “I want the two of you to get Sigler and then ease inside. Get the visitors out, get everyone out, quickly and quietly. Don’t take a walkie-talkie; look like tourists. Even if you should see the kid, ignore him—if you can. We’ve got the place surrounded; he’s not going anywhere. If we get everyone out, we can take it slow, do it right.”

They nodded, then walked briskly away, quietly calling to Sigler. I stood for a moment, surveying the scene. The Flower Pavilion was a huge greenhouse, made of lightly frosted glass. The ornate, old-fashioned building covered two full acres and was surrounded by enormous green lawns, planted with beautiful beds of roses. Uniformed patrolmen stood at fifty-foot intervals, facing the conservatory.

As I walked to my cruiser, Mr. Allingham called. I beckoned to him as I stood midway between the two cars, my eyes on the conservatory. Allingham approached slowly, hesitantly. Dressed in his wrinkled windbreaker and slacks, untidy and uncertain, he looked like any man, anywhere.

“What are you going to do with him?” His voice was very low. He stood woodenly, shoulders hunched, arms slack at his sides, fingers limp.

“We’re going to get that gun away from him.”

“But—” He frowned, seemingly perplexed. Looking at him more closely, I realized that he was in mild shock. “But Darrell, he might get shot. You’ll kill him.”

“Maybe.” I watched him squirm, then signaled for a bullhorn. “Do you want to talk to him, tell him to come out?” I held the bullhorn out to him.

“But—” Frowning again, he scanned the avid crowd with vague, disapproving eyes. “But everyone will, I mean—”

“All right, we’ll try tear gas, then, and hope for the best. Remember, though: you had your chance.” I turned away, watching the dwindling stream of visitors leaving the Flower Pavilion, many of them lingering, looking back over their shoulders. A station wagon filled with officers pulled up, braking to a smooth stop. Sergeant Pass met them, gesturing, giving orders. More reporters arrived, and an ambulance pulled up. Spectators dressed in vivid weekend colors were clustered on the bright green lawns behind the police lines, fifty feet from the conservatory. At that range, a .357 magnum could penetrate the engine block of an automobile. But I had no men for crowd control in a spread-out area. And somehow I was unwilling to—

“—want to go inside,” Allingham was saying.

“What?”

“I said, I want to go inside. I—I’ll talk to him inside.”

“I can’t let you do that, Mr. Allingham. It’s too—”

“He’s mine—my son. You can’t stop me.” His voice was edged with a habitual brusque authority.

I took a slow, deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Allingham, I can stop you. I’m in command here, and I’m very busy trying to figure out how to keep your son from killing anyone else, with your gun. So either you—”

“Please.” He raised his hands as if he were offering me a fragile gift. There was no authority in his voice now. “Please, Lieutenant. The bullhorn, it—it would embarrass us. Both of us.”

Not replying, I watched the last of the visitors leaving the glass building. Then, deliberately, I turned back to Allingham. His eyes were clearer now, steadier. He looked like a better risk.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Yes. Please.”

“All right. Come on.”

He fell obediently into step beside me.

“You’d better do all the talking,” I said as we began walking together down the gentle slope. “I’ll stay a step or two behind you. Do whatever you want, say whatever you want. If there’s any … problem … I’ll take care of it. But just talk to him, first. Get him talking; say anything. Then tell him to lay the gun down and walk away from it. Don’t tell him to give it to you; that’s asking for trouble. Tell him to lay it on the floor, then tell him to step back. When he does, you advance, get hold of your kid. I’ll take care of the gun. When I’ve got it, then we take him out. Not before. Understand?”

He was looking straight ahead, walking with an odd shuffling stride, as if he hadn’t walked on grass for years. We were passing through the police line. “Will you take him to jail?” he asked in a low, indistinct voice, still staring straight ahead.

“Yes. Certainly.”

He nodded, not replying. As we approached the entrance, my three men came out. I told Allingham to stop a few feet from the plate-glass door, off to one side.

“Did you see him?” I asked Culligan, keeping my eye on Allingham.

“No. But one of the visitors—a teenage girl—said she saw someone crouched down in the orchid section. That’s toward the back, so it could be. Didn’t he go in through the back service door?”

I nodded. “Everyone out?”

“As far as I know. I didn’t actually go into the orchid section.”

“All right, good.” Briefly I explained my plan, putting Culligan in charge. I instructed the three inspectors to stay outside unless they heard a shot, then to come running. Standing in a silent, skeptical semicircle, they nodded. I went to the glass door, pushed it open and waited for Allingham to precede me.

On the threshold he halted, standing motionless. I heard him sigh deeply. He cleared his throat, raised his chin and tried to square his shoulders. He ran fumbling fingers through his thick, graying hair. Something in the halting, awkward ritual reminded me of a has-been actor, waiting for his cue. Now, uncertainly, he stepped forward. I followed, letting the glass door swing silently shut behind me. I unbuttoned my jacket, transferred my revolver from its holster to my belt band, then rebuttoned the jacket. I pointed ahead, down a wide flagstone walkway flanked by enormous exotic foliage and bright tropical blooms. “That way,” I whispered.

He nodded woodenly, walking without hesitation now, his eyes fixed straight ahead. In another few feet, we’d be entering the orchid section.

“That’s the area,” I whispered.

He seemed not to hear me, but his pace didn’t slacken. Slowly, steadily, we proceeded to the intersection of two flagstone walkways, marking the center of the orchid section. We were surrounded by countless plants, most of them rising higher than our heads.

“Stop here,” I whispered. “Stand still.”

He obeyed. I stood beside him. Methodically I scanned the area within my vision, but without turning my head. Was he in there? Could he have slipped out? Could he have—

From behind me came the sudden sound of tight, high-pitched laughter. Slowly I turned to face the sound. Now I saw him. He was crouched behind a counter; only his head was visible. The magnum was propped on the countertop, aimed directly at us. The range was less than fifteen feet; the gun was unwavering. He couldn’t miss. My instinct was to drop to the floor, protecting myself. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I glanced at Allingham. He, too, was facing the gun, standing beside me. He’d gone very pale. The pink tip of his tongue repeatedly circled his twitching lips. His throat bobbed. His hands hung limp at his sides, as if some central nerve had been severed.

“Do you remember the summer you taught me to shoot, Pops?” The mocking words came very softly, as if the boy’s voice were muffled by the heavy, fetid greenhouse atmosphere.

Allingham opened his mouth, but said nothing. His throat was still working. I knew that feeling, that terrible dryness of mouth and throat.

“It was at Lake Tahoe,” the soft voice continued, “just before Labor Day. I was ten and a half. I remember that you were wearing a white sports shirt and flannel slacks, because you were on your way to a cocktail party. All summer you’d promised to teach me to shoot. And you always keep your promises. Even in flannel slacks.”

“Darrell. Please. I—”

“But now we’ve suddenly got a generation gap, Pops. Like everyone else in the neighborhood.” His voice rose, bitter, unsteady. “We’ve got the biggest generation gap of all, just like we’ve got the shiniest Mercedes, and the oldest first editions, and the most expensive Scotch. And the best-stacked maid. Did you ever notice, Pops, how well stacked Maria was? Do you notice things like that?”

“Darrell, give me the gun. Your mother, she’ll—”

“She’ll be distressed. Deep inside her secret, super-refined psyche she’ll be distressed, especially by all the nasty, vulgar publicity. But she won’t let it show. She’ll twist her hands, and hold her neck stiffer, and pinch in her nostrils, watching it all on TV. I see they’ve got a TV camera set up outside. I surprised myself, watching it. I discovered that I like the idea of being suddenly famous. You always hear that people do things like this because they want recognition, want to be a big shot. It always sounded silly to me. Now, though, it doesn’t. Suddenly it doesn’t sound silly at all, Pops. All my life, it seems like I’ve been trying to get someone to notice me—look at me. Listen to me. I don’t think, all my life, anyone’s ever—” His voice caught, and for a moment there was silence. Slowly I unbuttoned my coat.

“You’ve got a gun there, haven’t you?”

I cleared my throat. “Policemen carry guns. It goes with the job, Darrell.”

I saw the magnum move slightly, lining up on me.

“I can shoot you right now, Lieutenant. Right in the chest. Right—”

“Darrell, for God’s sake.” Allingham moved a shaky step forward. “Don’t, for God’s sake. The girl—Maria—we can get you out of that. A good lawyer—two, three good lawyers. We’ll—”

“She laughed at me.” The high-pitched voice quavered. He was cracking, coming apart. In the next few moments, anything could happen. I edged slightly behind the father. I didn’t want a medal.

“She got me down in her room, and turned out the lights, and got me on the bed. I was afraid—afraid to go, afraid to stay. My head was throbbing. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, because of the throbbing. But I could hear her say she wanted money. I said I didn’t have any money—not enough, anyhow. But then she laughed at me when I couldn’t—couldn’t—”

“Darrell—” Allingham was moving toward him, stumbling, groping forward. “Darrell. Please.”

“Everything went black.” The boy giggled. I saw the gun twitch with the half-hysterical laughter. “That’s something else you always hear: that everything turns black. But it—it’s true. It happened. Because black is where it all starts. For everyone. And blackness—nothingness—is where it all ends. And suddenly I looked to see her lying with her tongue hanging out, and her throat all swollen and yellow and blue, staring at the ceiling but not even blinking. So then I went up to the kitchen and—”

“Give me the gun, Darrell. Please. Please give me the gun. We’ll—” Suddenly the father began to cry, his shoulders heaving with deep, convulsive sobs. Mutely he raised both arms, advancing on the boy. Standing perfectly still, hands at my sides, I watched the father stumble toward his son. The boy slowly rose from his crouch, then began to retreat, shaking his head. The gun was lowered, pointing toward the floor. The boy’s back was pressed against the glass panes of the greenhouse wall. Now Allingham, close to the boy, was sinking slowly to his knees. I could plainly see the father’s streaming cheeks. His sagging mouth formed mumbled, meaningless words; his shaking hands were raised in a beggar’s spasm of mute entreaty. He was groping for the revolver. His hands found the boy’s right forearm, then began plucking downward, to fasten crook-fingered around the gun. The boy, head bent, seemed suddenly uncertain—baffled, helpless. He was allowing the gun to slip from his hand as he stared down at his groveling father. Now the man hugged the gun close to his chest, still on his knees sobbing.

Then, suddenly, the boy whirled away blindly, striking the glass. I saw fragmented bits of greenery appear as the opaque panes of the conservatory shattered. Now the boy was flinging himself spread-eagled against the glass, striking with his fists, his arms, his head. I had him from behind, jerking him away, shouting for help. As I moved my arms up for a full nelson, clamping my fingers behind his neck, I felt my hands slip on his blood.

Help was coming, pounding into the huge building. With my knee in the small of his back, I tried to hold the writhing, bleeding boy away from me, thinking of the cleaning bill.

9

I CHECKED THE ADDRESS, then tried the garage door. It was locked. The short, posh Telegraph Hill street was deserted except for three small children playing several doors down. I slipped the simple spring lock, then glanced inside the dim garage. The Porsche was exactly as Sue Bryan had described it. I carefully closed the door, then walked into the redwood and glass entryway, ringing Phillips’ bell. The house was very small and very modern, cantilevered out over the south slope of Telegraph Hill. The view would be superb, the property taxes astronomical. As I waited, I brushed at the sleeve of my jacket, still wet. In seven years, how many times had I sponged a stranger’s blood from my clothing?

The man who answered the door reminded me of Victor Connoly. There was the same feeling of soft, overprivileged indolence, the same expensively casual, well-cut sportswear.

“Mr. Phillips?”

He nodded pleasantly, but the polite smile faltered as I showed him the shield, then introduced myself.

“It’s about Carol Connoly,” I said. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yes, certainly.” The smile came back, a little strained now. “Come in, Lieutenant.”

He showed me into a small, spectacular living room. One entire side of the room was glass, revealing a view that stopped me almost in mid stride. I gave myself a moment of pleasure in front of the view window, then sat down facing Arch Phillips.

I stared at him until he began to shift uncomfortably in his chrome and leather chair, finally dropping his eyes. Then I said: “Can you tell me, Mr. Phillips, where I could look to find Mrs. Connoly?”

His first reaction was a quizzical lifting of dark, well-shaped eyebrows, followed by a pleasantly puzzled frown. His smile widened self-consciously, plainly forced.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he answered. “I’m concerned, naturally, for Carol’s welfare. But—” He spread his hands, gracefully shrugging. Phillips was much smoother than Connoly, much more obviously the Ivy Leaguer, ten or fifteen years later. He seemed a better person, too, kinder and more sensitive, but probably weaker. I was thinking of the three men in Carol’s life—Connoly, Phillips and Keller. They made an improbable trio.

I took a deep, slow breath. The morning had left me drained—totally exhausted, totally tense. I was in no mood to sit in a luxurious living room, politely sparring with an urbane socialite. “I wonder,” I said, “whether you’d mind telling me where you were this last Tuesday evening? About nine-thirty.”

The forced smile faded; I watched the sophisticated, good-humored musculature of his face dissolve, revealing a skeletal fear. He dropped his eyes, then shook his head.

“I should’ve notified you,” he said dully. “It was wrong. I had a reason. But it was wrong.”

“What was the reason, Mr. Phillips?”

He raised his eloquent brown eyes tentatively to meet mine. “My wife. We—we’ve been separated for three months, negotiating about a divorce. I—I didn’t want Carol involved.”

“Named as a corespondent, you mean?”

He nodded, then added, “I didn’t want to give my wife any additional grounds, either. Not as a present, anyhow.”

I decided not to comment on his marital problems. “You picked her up at The Dramatists on Tuesday night, then.”

Again he nodded.

“What happened then, Mr. Phillips?”

He shrugged. “Nothing happened, especially. I mean, I just picked her up at the theater, and we came back here for a drink. We got here about ten, I guess. She stayed until about eleven-thirty. Then I dropped her at Columbus and Broadway.”

“Why Columbus and Broadway?”

“Well, it’s where I—I always dropped her. Somewhere near there, anyhow.”

“You and she were having an affair, then. Is that it?”

For a long, unhappy moment he didn’t reply. Then, meeting my gaze with an effort, he said, “Aren’t you supposed to—to advise me of my rights, Lieutenant? When you ask me an incriminating question, I’d think that—”

“This is just an interrogation, Mr. Phillips. You’re not in custody, you’re not suspected of anything. I’m just trying to discover the present whereabouts of Mrs. Carol Connoly. I think you can help me. Naturally, you can refuse to answer any question you like.”

“But when you talk about my having an affair with her—” He shook his head, deeply sighing, shifting his slim, elegant body in the fashionable leather chair, carefully recrossing his legs, unconsciously adjusting his trouser creases. If Carol Connoly really hated men, I was thinking, she’d probably found the ideal victim in Arch Phillips. Under sufficient pressure, someone like Phillips could completely dissolve.

“Let me put it another way, then,” I said slowly. “It’s my understanding that over a period of some time you picked up Mrs. Connoly at her play rehearsal once a week. You brought her here, where she spent an hour or so. Then it was your habit to drop her near the corner of Broadway and Columbus—the night-club area. Is that right?”

From his expression, it was obvious that he thought I knew everything. Resignedly, he nodded. “That’s right. Except that the last few months, we—we hadn’t seen each other. Tuesday was the first time in months that—” He hesitated, swallowing. “She called me, you see, and asked me to pick her up. I agreed. But we—we just talked. We—”

“All right, Mr. Phillips. Let’s forget about your, ah, personal relationship with Mrs. Connoly. What I want to find out right now is exactly what she did Tuesday. Now, what was the purpose of your dropping her at a downtown corner? To avoid detection?”

“Well, I suppose you could—” He cleared his throat, frowning. “I suppose you could say that. I mean, it wouldn’t’ve been very smart to—”

“Did she call a cab once you’d dropped her?”

“Yes. She’d—usually she’d go into an out-of-the-way bar and call a cab. At least, so she said. Obviously, I wasn’t there.”

“Do you know what cab company she was in the habit of using?”

“No.”

“Yellow Cab?”

“I really couldn’t say, Lieutenant. We—we never had occasion to talk about it. I’m sorry.”

“All right.” I got out my notebook and took some time with the scribbling charade. Then: “What’s your wife’s name, Mr. Phillips?”

“Maureen.”

“Address?”

“1098 Green Street.”

“And you’re separated, not divorced. Is that right?”

Mutely Phillips nodded. During the past few questions his dark, sensitive poet’s eyes had changed to the wounded, shadowed eyes of the habitual loser. He was dissolving fast.

“Would your wife have a grudge against Mrs. Connoly, do you think?”

He considered it, then bleakly smiled. “I’d say just the opposite, Lieutenant. Carol provided Maureen with an excuse to divorce me, so to that extent my wife is in Carol’s debt. Maureen and I have been … less than ardent for some years; she’s simply been waiting for the most … propitious time. So when our son went away to boarding school, she decided to move out. My … friendship with Carol was just a happy accident, so far as Maureen was concerned. It merely made her lawyer’s work a little easier, and mine’s a little more difficult.”

“Can you tell me anyone, then, who’d’ve wanted to harm Mrs. Connoly?”

“Is that the police theory—that she was harmed?”

“The police don’t start out with theories, Mr. Phillips. We just get all the facts we can, then let the theories come naturally.”

“Oh. Well, in any case, I can’t think of any enemies that Carol might’ve had. She wasn’t—isn’t—the type to make enemies.”

“What about her husband? Was he a friend or an enemy?”

A hint of his original wry, suave smile touched his overbred, unhappy face. “If I had to choose between the two terms, I’d have to pick ‘enemy.’ But that doesn’t mean I think Vic would harm her. Because he wouldn’t.”

I thought about the answer, then said, “It’s my understanding that Mr. Connoly had a mistress in Los Angeles.”

The suave little smile suddenly wearied. “It’s that kind of a milieu, Lieutenant. Everyone wants to stay even with everyone else. The wife takes a lover because the husband’s taken a lover because he thinks his wife took a lover. Which originally she might not’ve. It’s all a little exhausting.”

“It all sounds a little competitive, too.”

The weary smile had sagged to a saddened mockery of itself. “Yes, it’s that, too. The games people play can be pretty devastating, especially for people who can afford to ruin their lives without letting it show.”

I decided not to comment on that either.

“Do you know anything about Carol Connoly’s early life, before she came to San Francisco, or before she met her husband?”

“A little.”

“Would you mind telling me what you know?”

He sighed, shifted in his chair and then languidly recrossed his legs. He frowned to himself for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “Actually, Carol was very reticent about her earlier life. Most of what I picked up was simply random references she dropped from time to time. My impression, though, was that she came from rather, ah, humble origins. She grew up in Tulare, for instance. And Tulare, as you know, is several cultural light-years away from San Francisco.”

“What did her parents do?”

His wry smile seemed pained. “Her father, she once said, was a ‘drunken auto mechanic who couldn’t hold a job.’ And her mother used to work as a saleslady.”

“Are her parents living?”

“I think her mother is living. Her father died, though—violently.”

“How do you mean, ‘violently’?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I gather that it was a rather … unsavory episode, as far as Carol was concerned. I never pressed her for details. She wasn’t the type you pressed … for anything.”

“Does she have any brothers and sisters?”

“A sister, I believe. Still in Tulare.”

“How did Carol meet Mr. Connoly? Did she come to San Francisco to work?”

“No. Carol spent some years in Los Angeles. She had something to do with the movies, I think. Not acting, though. She worked in a talent agency, if I’m not mistaken. That part of her life, of course—after she and Victor met—is more or less common knowledge. As a matter of fact, I happened to meet the man who introduced Victor and Carol. I met him in Los Angeles at a party. Quite by chance.”

“Who was this man, Mr. Phillips?”

“His name is Stanley Wygle. He’s a lawyer—a friend of Victor’s, as I said. Business acquaintances, I think.”

I nodded, jotting down the name. I glanced over my notes, then decided that I had no further questions. Suddenly I very much wanted to go home and phone in an order for a Tuesday night taxicab check of the Broadway-Columbus area. Then I wanted to sleep through the whole afternoon.

I wanted to get out of the jacket with the damp sleeve, too, and wash my hands. I knew that for the next several days I’d often be washing my hands.

10

I SLEPT FROM FOUR in the afternoon until almost six. Then, wryly celebrating Saturday night, I poured myself a tall Coke before calling in for a report on the cab and nightclub check.

Predictably, there’d been no results. A thorough check could take a full day, since I’d only assigned two men to each job. I put a TV dinner in the oven, then showered and changed into a sports coat and slacks while the dinner was cooking. As I ate, I studied the notes I’d made on the Connoly case, then made a list of all the names involved, directly or indirectly:

At Home:

Victor Connoly, Dulcie the Maid, James the Son.

The Dramatists:

Stanley Baldwin, Sue Bryan, Charles Keller and Angie Rayburn (girlfriend).

Friends in Society:

Arch Phillips, Maureen Phillips.

From the Past

Stanley Wygle.

It wasn’t much of a list. If Carol had been murdered, I had three very doubtful suspects: Victor Connoly, who might’ve wanted to save himself alimony; Angie Rayburn, who might have been jealous of Carol’s affair with Keller; and Maureen Phillips, who also might have been jealous.

I found Maureen Phillips’ address, on Green Street. The time was quarter to eight. With luck, I could interview the Phillips woman quickly, check again for results on the cabs and the night clubs, then report myself off duty and catch a late movie at the Metro, just a few blocks from the Green Street address.

As I pressed the bell button, I straightened my tie and cleared my throat. From inside I’d heard music. As I glanced around the grounds of the small townhouse, admiring the floodlit shrubbery and the old, gnarled trees, I was thinking that the house must be especially vulnerable to burglary—or worse. If Maureen Phillips lived there alone, she couldn’t be a nervous female.

I was about to press the button a second time when a peephole in the door opened.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice, accented with the unmistakably broad, bored tone of the privileged class.

I showed her the shield, gave her my name and asked to be let inside. As I waited for the door to open, I again straightened my tie.

Maureen Phillips was a dark, striking woman with a good figure, a taut, restless manner and quick, bold eyes. She was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe and white slippers. Her hair was damp and hung naturally to her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the narrow entryway, arms folded beneath full, provocative breasts. Obviously, she was waiting for me to state my business, then leave. Behind her, stretched out on the living-room rug, I saw a huge German shepherd, watching me.

“I was dressing, Lieutenant,” she said brusquely. “I hope it’s important.”

I debated offering to come back the next day, but something in her haughty manner stubbornly changed my mind.

“I’m inquiring into the disappearance of Carol Connoly, Mrs. Phillips. I understand that you knew her, and I thought you might be able to help me.”

She frowned, then shrugged, perfectly at her ease. Now a sardonic smile touched her wide, expressive mouth.

“How could I possibly help you, Lieutenant? I haven’t seen Carol for weeks. Months.”

Then, too late, I realized my mistake. Unless I was willing to reveal my knowledge of her husband’s affair with Mrs. Connoly, I had nothing to talk about, no logical pretense for the interview.

“Still, you knew her,” I answered, sparring. “And we’re calling on all her known associates, getting their opinions on whether or not she might’ve voluntarily left San Francisco.”

“Voluntarily? As opposed to what? Involuntarily?”

“Yes. In other words, we’re trying to establish whether she might’ve been the victim of foul play.”

Still with her arms folded, she leaned against the wall. Her dark, ironic eyes appraised me. Malice touched her slow smile as she said, “Carol isn’t the victim type, Lieutenant. Usually it’s vice versa. Almost invariably, in fact.”

“All right, start with that. I’m looking for information. Anything.”

For another sardonic moment her eyes lingered. Then, pushing herself loosely from the wall, she turned back toward the living room, trailed by the German shepherd. “We may as well sit down. Unless you mind interviewing women in bathrobes. I’m going out in an hour or so.”

As I silently followed her, I glanced at my watch. The time was eight-fifteen. I watched her walk to an inlaid walnut chest, serving as a bar.

“Drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“If it’s departmental regulations, I promise not to tell. I always drink while I dress. And I don’t enjoy drinking alone.”

“It’s not regulations, Mrs. Phillips. It’s preference.”

“Ah.” With her back to me she nodded deeply, mocking approval. “A man with convictions. It goes well with your stern, dark, all-American demeanor, Lieutenant. Not to mention your wide shoulders and tapering torso.”

Watching her as she refilled her glass, assessing her semislack movements and her slightly slurred speech, I wondered how many drinks she’d had, dressing. Then, choosing a small armchair, I looked around the small room, beautifully furnished in French Provincial. So far, I was thinking, the search for Carol Connoly had been an amiable succession of glib conversations in elegant rooms. Signifying, so far, nothing.

She sat on a damask sofa, facing me. She placed her drink on a small marble table, deliberately crossing her legs and arranging her robe at knee and neck. Then, still absently fingering the robe at her throat, she said, “The real reason you’re here, I suspect, is that you’ve discovered my husband and Carol were involved with each other. Is that right?” Her voice was flat; her eyes were opaque, unrevealing. Her loose, casual indifference was suddenly less convincing.

I took a moment to think about it, then decided to say, “That’s right, Mrs. Phillips. I understand, though, that they haven’t seen each other for several months now.”

She nodded, then elaborately shrugged, reaching for her glass and gulping down a third of the stiff drink. She took a cigarette from a silver box. Deliberately I didn’t offer her a light, and briefly, curiously, I wondered why. Then, in the next moment, I discovered the answer: Maureen Phillips resembled Carolyn, my ex-wife. Even their looks were the same, even their small, unconscious mannerisms and voice inflections. There was the same sense of restlessness, the same unyielding, predatory willfulness.

“How long did they … see each other, Mrs. Phillips. Over what period of time?”

“I don’t really know, Lieutenant. If you’re really curious, ask my lawyer. I pay him to keep track of these things.”

“Maybe I will, Mrs. Phillips. Later. Now I’m interested primarily in Mrs. Connoly’s movements on the night she disappeared. Tuesday night. Can you tell me anything that might help?”

She gulped at the drink, then smiled, burlesquing coyness. “At the moment,” she said sotto voce, “I can’t think what I was doing Tuesday night. Will I be able to dress before you take me downtown?”

Deciding not to answer, I returned her smile guardedly. I watched her finish the drink. For a long moment she stared into the depths of the empty glass. Her face was inscrutable, her mouth drawn tight. Then, recovering, she sighed raggedly. With a broad swing of her arm she held up the glass.

“Fix me another one, Lieutenant. I’ve never been questioned by a detective before. Maybe it’ll be more fun than tonight’s gay, glib little party. And please—please join me.”

I got to my feet and took the glass, saying, “I’ll have a Coke. I really don’t drink.” As I made the drinks, I watched Maureen Phillips as she seemed to relax by force of will, slowly leaning back against the white damask cushions of the sofa. But the hand still clutching her robe at the neck had gone knuckle-white.

I placed the drink before her, then returned to my chair.

“Have you talked to my husband?” she asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Where was he Tuesday night?”

“Why do you ask that?”

She thought about it, shrugged and then leaned forward to take up her drink. “I ask that,” she said slowly, “because I want to dis—distribute the suspicion. Pass it around. Share the grief, or whatever.” She slightly burped. Her robe, held only by a belt, had opened down the front. Looking away, I wondered whether she’d put anything on underneath.

“There’s no suspicion involved, Mrs. Phillips. In fact, there’s nothing to be suspicious of—no crime, nothing. All we have is a disappearance, which we’re investigating.”

“What’d Arch say?”

I hesitated, then answered, “He couldn’t account for Mrs. Connoly’s disappearance. I discovered that they’d been … friends, and I wanted to talk with him. Then I decided to talk to you.”

She drank again, then moodily set her glass aside, frowning. “My husband,” she said distinctly, “is a lifelong mouse. He has exactly two passions in life: his horse, which he never rides at more than a trot, and our box at the opera, which he now occupies alone. Beyond that, he goes through life with a foolish grin on his face. There are people like that, you know: as long as they smile, they think everything’ll be all right for them. They don’t realize that they’re—they’re—” She shook her head, fighting down some secret, suppressed fury. Then, in a tight voice: “Carol—and people like her—prey on people like Arch.”

“Why?”

“What’d you mean, ‘why’?”

Irritably she took another cigarette from the silver box. This time I got to my feet and lit her cigarette. As I did, our eyes met—and held.

“Why do people prey on people?” I asked quietly. “In my business, you spend a lot of time wondering.”

“I couldn’t tell you. But when people prey on each other, they at least acknowledge each others’ existence.” She drew on her cigarette, then absently flicked her ashes into a small crystal ashtray, moodily studying the gesture. “I used to wish that I could get Arch to fight with me. Just once. I even used to wish he’d hit me. I tried, many times, to make him hit me.” As she said it, she stared sightlessly down at the crystal ashtray, slowly rotating it with a carmine-tipped finger.

I heard myself ironically asking, “Did you ever try hitting him?”

I’d said it deliberately to pique her, as I might have tried to pique Carolyn years ago.

Mirthlessly she laughed, shaking her head. Then, appraisingly, she raised her eyes. “Are you married, Lieutenant?”

“Divorced.”

“How long have you been divorced?”

“A little less than eight years.”

She sipped her drink, staring at me over the rim of her glass. “That’s a long time—a lot of long, lonely nights.”

“Yes. I don’t recommend it.”

“I wouldn’t think,” she said, “that you’d—”

The phone rang. She frowned, banging down her glass on the marble table. Then, as the second ring began, she leaned back, smiling. “The hell with it. I’ve just decided that on Saturday nights I’m not going to answer the phone.”

I got to my feet. “Do you mind if I answer it? The call could be for me.”

She spread her hands, then gestured to the phone, mocking deference. “Be my guest. If it’s a man, tell him you’re my secret lover—the one I’ve been telling him about.”

I got to the phone on the fourth ring.

“Mrs. Phillips’ residence.”

“Frank?” It was Pete Friedman.

“Yes.”

“Are you busy?”

“So-so.”

“All right, I’ll be brief. I’m at home. I don’t know why Communications called me instead of you, except that Levinson is on, and he’s inexperienced. Plus he’s Jewish. Anyhow, I have two bits of late news for you.”

“What are they?”

“Well, first, it seems that at about four o’clock this afternoon a party named Alex Cowperthwaite, age eleven, was taking a hike down in Pacifica, which is, as you know, about fifteen miles south of here on the coast. Alex had his dog with him, whose name happens to be Ralph. And Ralph started to dig near some underbrush beside a small access road off the coast highway. The boy, who was apparently hunting with his BB gun—illegally—sat down for a while and watched his dog digging. After about ten minutes Ralph comes up with a human hand. And the hand, according to San Mateo’s tentative identification, belongs to Carol Connoly. What’d you think of that?”

I was looking at Maureen Phillips. As I’d been listening, she’d finished the drink and then stretched out on the damask sofa, eyes closed. Her slippers were off. Her toes were painted carmine, like her fingernails.

“What’s happening now?” I asked automatically, aware that I was still looking at Maureen Phillips, helplessly. My mouth had gone dry.

“You seem pretty cool, old buddy, considering this one’ll probably hit the front page and the society page.”

“Great. But what’s happening?”

“Well, I sent Carruthers down to the San Mateo coroner’s office, to protect our interests. I also alerted our coroner, the M.E., et cetera, et cetera. We’ll probably get the body tonight, and I’ll have Connoly make the identification first thing tomorrow. I’ll send someone out to notify him tonight. How does that sound?”

“Fine. What about securing the scene?”

“San Mateo is keeping a car there all night. They didn’t suggest we participate, so I didn’t offer. But—” He hesitated. “What do you think?”

“I think we should have someone there. Assuming the identification goes the way you expect it to go.” As I said it, Maureen Phillips stirred. Had she fallen asleep? Or was she—

“I think you’re right. I’ll take care of it. How about us meeting at the office at, say, ten o’clock?”

I was thinking of Captain Kreiger, weekending at Lake Tahoe. Very often he came back from a weekend trip in a sour mood, complaining of a long, tiring drive with noisy children and an enormous, panting English sheepdog who seemed to be constantly upsetting his water dish.

“Let’s make it nine.”

“You’re probably right,” he responded promptly. “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot my second piece of news. Canelli called in while I was talking to Levinson. He thinks he’s got Mrs. Connoly made Tuesday night at a small bar called the Interlude, a block from Columbus and Broadway. Not only that, but the bartender—who was apparently captivated by Mrs. Connoly’s blond good looks—thinks she left his place in a cab.”

“What kind?”

“Canelli didn’t say. But I’ll leave word for him to come down to the office tomorrow. Maybe we can get this thing pulled together.”

“Okay. See you at nine.”

“Right. How’s your end of things going?”

“Not as well as yours.”

“It pays to be Jewish. I’ll see you tomorrow. At nine o’clock. Reluctantly.”

“Right.”

I hung up the phone, then slowly turned toward Maureen Phillips. She hadn’t stirred. Her robe, deeply parted, revealed the full, exciting swell of her breasts. The German shepherd, stretched on the hearth rug, was watching me with blinking yellow eyes.

As I returned the dog’s sleepy stare, the phrase “rank has its privilege” flicked through my thoughts. A few years ago, I might now be on my way to the San Mateo coroner’s office, possibly even to the gravesite at Pacifica, dressed in warm clothing, carrying blankets and a thermos of hot soup.

Now rank had its privilege.

I walked to the couch and stood looking down at her. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, I lightly gripped her shoulder. She stirred, murmured and moved her cheek to touch my hand. As I sat on the edge of the couch, she subtly shifted, making room. In front of the hearth, the German shepherd’s eyes were closing.

11

SLOWLY I RAISED MY arm, looking at my watch. Quarter to eight. Just as slowly, I turned to look at her. In the morning light, with her make-up smeared and her face in slack repose, she seemed a stranger, as so many had seemed for so many years.

Quarter to eight—

My clothing lay on the floor surrounding the bed, tangled among the bedclothing, tumbled in a heap. Her white terry-cloth robe lay just inside the open doorway. From the hallway I heard a rhythmic clicking—the German shepherd, pacing. Had she forgotten to let him out?

I looked at her again, and only then remembered the moment, straining with her, when I’d soundlessly whispered, “Carolyn.” Had it ever happened before? I couldn’t remember.

I drew a deep, tired breath, then slid my legs out of the bed, twisting to sit up. When she didn’t stir, I reached for my underclothing. First I’d dress, then I’d wake her to say goodbye. Later in the day—reluctantly, perhaps—I’d call her.

As I reached under the bed, where I’d slipped my revolver, I glanced around the unfamiliar bedroom. I was a stranger in a strange room, guilty of fraud—perpetrating on myself and the woman still sleeping a made-in-America vision of love: a gaudy, oversold, outrageous hoax, urgent in the night, meaningless in the morning.

I wiped the last of the lather from my face, ran a comb through my hair and then walked down the corridor to my office. I’d left the door open, and Friedman was sitting in my visitor’s armchair. He was wearing a sport shirt with no tie. On Sunday duty, despite Kreiger’s grumbling, Friedman refused to wear a tie. He would break the vow, he’d once said, only if he were assigned as a Jewish undercover man, shadowing a suspect into mass.

“It’s ten after nine,” he said. “In ten minutes, I could’ve had a third cup of coffee.”

“Sorry. I’ll spring for the coffee.”

“It’s not the coffee I resent missing. It’s the sure knowledge that you’ve obviously come to work from a direction other than your bachelor apartment.”

“Sorry again. How’s your tooth, by the way?” I sat down heavily behind my desk, opening the Connoly file.

“You’re probably referring to my extraction, which was routine. However, a routine extraction produces as much trauma as a flesh wound from a .22, according to my dentist. So—”

“Your dentist is probably wrong.”

“It shows a sadistic streak,” he retorted, “when people knock other people’s doctors and dentists. By the way, my number two son wants you to teach him how to throw a football. So you can come to dinner a week from today, about three P.M. Bring your cleats.”

“The last time we went through this, I can distinctly remember running my ass off for two hours while you drank beer in the shade.”

“That was Clayton, my number one son. He’s now a jazz guitarist.”

“Three o’clock?”

“Correct.”

“All right. Thanks. What about the body?”

“Connoly’s over at the morgue right now, but it’s just a formality. It’s Mrs. Connoly all right. She had her purse—everything. Her money, too.”

“How’d she die?”

“Gunshot at close range, according to the preliminary report. Medium-velocity pistol, probably. Through the heart and out the other side. Very little bleeding, probably, and obviously no bullet for Ballistics. She’s been dead for several days. Obviously.”

“Anything from the cab companies?”

“No.”

“Who’s down at the gravesite?”

“Culligan. I sent a radio car down last night, for security. Culligan and Sobel went down this morning with the lab crew. I told Culligan to look things over, then leave Sobel and the crew there and get back here as soon as he can. I told Canelli to come in about nine-thirty with his report on the Interlude. Maybe before noon we can make a little sense out of this. I told Sigler to bring Connoly over, too, when they’ve finished at the morgue.”

“What else did the M.E. have to say?”

“Nothing. They’ll probably start the autopsy in an hour, though. However, San Mateo’s crime lab came up with something interesting.”

“What’d they find?”

“The body was wrapped in a blanket,” he replied, “and San Mateo’s preliminary lab report indicates that among other more prosaic items there were particles of horse manure embedded in the wool. How’s that grab you?”

“She did a lot of riding. It was probably her blanket.”

“But how’d she get together with it? I mean, she sure as hell didn’t go to play rehearsal carrying a blanket that smelled of horse shit. So the obvious conclusion is that she went home, was murdered there, wrapped in her own blanket and then hauled down to Pacifica.”

“What kind of a blanket was it?”

“A surplus Army blanket.” He pawed through some of the papers he’d strewn haphazardly across my desk. “It was manufactured by Coddington Mills, circa 1942.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “There’s something very odd about this, Pete.” My phone rang.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Lieutenant.” It was Cunningham, in Communications. “But we’re getting a lot of pressure from the press, on the Connoly woman.”

“I’ll meet them in the press room between eleven-thirty and noon. See that the word gets around, because I won’t hold another briefing until this evening, probably.”

“Right. Anything else?”

“No, thanks.” I hung up, then drew my notebook from my pocket. I should have dictated a preliminary report on the Connoly case yesterday. At the least, now, I had a full hour’s dictation ahead of me, plus the probability that fast-breaking developments would make my report obsolete before it was typed.

“I think,” I said, “that I’ll have Keller and his girlfriend picked up. Phillips, too. If we get the three of them down here, plus Connoly, maybe we’ll get a little action.”

Friedman agreed, and I gave the necessary orders. I sent out for coffee, and both of us relaxed in our chairs, discussing how many men would be required to identify ownership of the Army blanket and track down the cabdriver who might have picked up Mrs. Connoly at the Interlude.

“It seems to me,” Friedman was saying, “that we’ve got to operate on the theory that she went to the rehearsal, got picked up by Phillips, stayed at Phillips’ house for a while, went to the Interlude, had a drink, hailed a cab and then went home. Whereupon, possibly before entering her house, she was shot. Or maybe she was apprehended at her house and shot later somewhere else. Either way, the murderer took a blanket—possibly from the Connoly family car, possibly from the garage. He took the victim down the coast and buried her in a shallow grave.”

“That’s fine, but you’re making the assumption that the blanket was hers.”

He airily waved. “It’s all assumption at this point, anyhow. I’m just talking. Besides—”

A knock sounded, followed by Canelli. Wearing an incredibly wrinkled suit and a not-quite-clean shirt with a badly wilted collar, he sat down with a deep sigh, gratefully exhaling.

Friedman—Canelli’s sartorial counterpart—elaborately surveyed the younger inspector. “If I were you,” he said finally, “I’d buy myself a pair of pajamas. You’ll find they’re cut fuller in the crotch, so that you sleep better. As a result, your work will probably improve, and your brother officers will quit snickering behind your back.”

Canelli frowned, perplexed, then looked down at his suit. “That’s my brother’s fault. I live at home, see. And my brother, he came back late last night from hunting. It must’ve been two, three in the morning. So then, without turning on any lights or anything, he piles all his—”

“Never mind.” Friedman raised a weary hand. “Tell us instead about your adventures last night at the Interlude.”

“You know, Lieutenant, it was pretty lucky how that happened.”

“I’m sure of it, Canelli. You have the reputation, you know, of being the luckiest inspector in the history of the Bureau. Not the bravest, or the fleetest, or even the smartest. But certainly the luckiest. Did you know that?”

Canelli looked puzzled, then slightly pained. “No fooling?”

Friedman nodded deeply, eyes closed. “No fooling.”

“Well, anyhow,” Canelli said, “the whole thing was, I’d already covered the Interlude—and about fifty other bars, too, the way it seemed. I was pooped—really pooped. So I was having a carrot and papaya drink at one of those sidewalk health-food bars, and I happened to start talking to this fellow next to me, who’d just got back from some kind of a glider clinic, whatever that is. And damned if it didn’t turn out that he was bartender at the Interlude, and he remembered serving Mrs. Connoly Tuesday night. But then, first thing Wednesday, the guy leaves for this glider clinic, so—” Canelli paused to catch his breath. “So that’s why he didn’t know about her disappearing, or he’d’ve come forward. At least, he said he would’ve, and I think he probably would’ve, too. These health-food types, you know, they’re usually—”

“Spare us the analysis, Canelli,” Friedman interrupted. “I have a blender myself. I know all about health-food types.”

Canelli again looked slightly pained. “All I’m doing, Lieutenant, is qualifying the witness. I’ve heard you say a hundred times that a witness is only as good as—”

“Did he actually see her leave the Interlude?” I interrupted.

“Well,” Canelli answered, turning earnestly to me, “I’d have to say yes and no.”

Friedman rolled his eyes to the ceiling as Canelli said, “What happened was, the bartender saw her leave the bar, and he saw her standing on the sidewalk just outside, looking up and down, like she was looking for a cab. It was about twelve-thirty, and not a weekend, so—”

“Does he know whether she made a phone call before she left the bar?”

He shook his head. “Definitely. I mean, definitely not. He saw her come in and saw her leave. She didn’t even go to the ladies’ room.”

“All right, so now she’s out on the sidewalk. What now?”

“Well, that’s the last he saw of her. I mean, he said he was watching her through the window because she was good-looking, and alone, and all that. But then he had to wait on a customer, which took him, he figures, about three minutes. So when he gets back to the window, she’s gone.”

“No cabs in sight, leaving the scene?”

He shrugged.

“Had this bartender ever seen Carol Connoly before?”

“Nope.”

A moment of moody silence followed. Finally Friedman said, “I’ll put another two men out looking for the cabbie. That’ll make six altogether. It’s beginning to look, though, like she hailed a cab instead of phoning for one. And maybe the cabbie put the fare in his pocket. So he isn’t talking about it.”

“That’s assuming,” I said, “that she took a cab. She could’ve—” Another knock sounded. Culligan stuck his head in the office, then took a chair. He wore khaki slacks and a windbreaker. A dark stubble of beard made his pale, gaunt face seem even more morose than usual. He wore a Giants’ baseball cap. Culligan would never willingly uncover his balding head.

He mumbled something about morning fog driving back to town, then tossed three Polaroid pictures on my desk. The first was a shot of a shallow grave, deeper than most. The second showed the grave in the foreground, a small dirt road leading away and the bleak, deserted coastal hills beyond. The third picture was similar to the second, but showed the two-lane highway more clearly, perhaps three hundred yards distant.

I passed the pictures to Friedman, then asked Culligan, “How’s it look down there?”

Culligan shrugged, frowning sourly as he propped his chair back against the wall. “There’s not much, except for that blanket. The ground’s fine gravel, hard as a rock. There wouldn’t’ve been any chance of tire treads or footprints an hour afterward, let alone four days. The area’s deserted, especially at night. Bleak. There isn’t a house within a quarter of a mile. So assuming she was brought there dead, there wouldn’t’ve been much problem disposing of the body: just turn off Route One, drive down the dirt road and start digging. The only thing—” He pointed to the first picture. “The grave was pretty deep, about two and a half, three feet. And the soil was hard gravel, like I said—hard to dig. As a matter of fact, I tried digging in it, and it was tough going. So—” Culligan hesitated, as he always did before cautiously giving an opinion. “So I was thinking that maybe the murderer might’ve had the grave dug beforehand. Otherwise, it’d’ve taken him an hour, I bet, to dig a hole that big. Maybe more than an hour.”

Friedman nodded approval. “I bet you’ve got something there.”

“Of course, it’s just a guess,” Culligan said defensively.

“How about any possible witnesses,” I asked, “anyone that might’ve seen a new hole there? How about the kid, the one who found the body?”

“Nothing from him,” Culligan answered. “I talked to him myself. But it’s still early in the game. I left Sobel and Haskell down there, and San Mateo’s helping us with a canvass.”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that you should go back down there. Make sure you talk to all the kids you can. They’re the ones who’d be out in the hills, playing and hiking.”

Culligan frowned. “You know that I’ve got to appear in court tomorrow for the Allingham arraignment, don’t you? And I’ve still got some reports to type.”

I glanced at Friedman, who slightly shrugged, then moved his head toward Canelli. I nodded. “Okay. We’ll give Canelli a shot at it.” I smiled. “We’ve got to spread the Canelli luck around. You’ll have to stay here, though, Culligan. You can interrogate the tipsters and the confessors that’ll be coming in; you can write your reports between interviews.”

Culligan grunted his grudging thanks, got to his feet and left the office. Canelli followed him out, to get directions.

Watching them go, Friedman shook his head. “I get the impression,” he said, “that Culligan is uncomfortable in the company of his superiors.”

“I get the same feeling. I think he’s having trouble at home.”

“Have you ever met his wife?”

“No.”

Friedman sighed. “She’s exactly like Culligan: a tall, stringy type with no sense of humor, always complaining. She reminds me of one of those old crones you see in Greek movies, the movies where all the women dress in black, and just go to the village well and back, and spend the rest of the time shaking their heads and waiting for the news that their husbands’ve drowned or something.”

I was looking at Culligan’s picture of the shallow grave.

“You know,” I said slowly, “I’ll bet he’s right about that grave having been dug beforehand. No one with a corpse in his car is going to spend an hour digging a grave.”

He bobbed his head in thoughtful agreement. “I think you’re right. Also, I—”

My phone buzzed. It was Sigler, asking instructions concerning Connoly. After a moment’s thought, I ordered that Connoly be brought to my office.

12

IMMEDIATELY AFTER SIGLER’S CALL came the information that Arch Phillips had arrived for interrogation. I hastily gave Friedman a rundown on Phillips, and Friedman agreed to conduct the second interview in his office. Later, we’d compare notes. As Friedman was leaving, Sigler escorted Connoly into my office, then closed the door behind us.

I stood up, mumbled the required expressions of sympathy, then waited for Connoly to be seated. I watched him shakily take a cigarette from a crumpled pack; I saw his hand tremble as he held the match. He was unshaven; his eyes were bloodshot. As a grief-stricken husband, he looked convincing.

“I’ll try not to keep you long, Mr. Connoly,” I said quietly. “There’s some information I’ve got to have, as I’m sure you realize.”

He nodded jerkily, wearily—deeply inhaling his cigarette, raggedly exhaling. His lean, handsome face was corded with exhaustion and emotion; his blue eyes were dull, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Occasionally a frown flicked spasmodically across his face. He was repeatedly rubbing the knuckles of his left hand into the palm of his right hand, scrubbing his hands over and over.

“The first thing I have to ask you,” I began, “is whether or not you have any suspicions, any suspicions at all, concerning who might’ve killed your wife.”

For a moment he didn’t respond, as if he hadn’t heard. Then, clearing his throat, he vaguely shook his head.

“Answer me, Mr. Connoly. I know it’s a bad time for you. But I’ve got to have answers to these questions. Do you know anyone who might’ve wanted to harm your wife?”

“N—no. No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Now—” I hesitated, regretfully drawing a deep breath. “Now, did you know that your wife saw other men from time to time?”

Briefly he shifted his eyes to mine. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette, then resumed scrubbing his knuckles. “Yes,” he answered, now dropping his eyes, scowling. “Of course I knew. I—I intimated as much to you Friday night.”

“Do you know the identity of these men, Mr. Connoly?”

He shrugged, seemingly indifferent. “Arch Phillips, I suppose. According to the gossip.”

“Any others?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But you’d expect there to be others? Over the years of your marriage?”

“Yes.” His voice was soft, but his eyes were hard, remembering. “Yes, I’d expect there to be others.”

“Would you think any of these men, including Mr. Phillips, might harm her?”

“How the hell should I know?” he suddenly flared. “Christ, I’m no detective. I’m just—just—” Then, as suddenly, he subsided, shaking his head with a kind of sullen bafflement.

“You don’t feel, though, that Mr. Phillips would’ve harmed her,” I pressed.

“Hell, no.” He shifted in his chair. His eyes, at first dazed and dulled, were now alive with anger. “Arch is a—a mouse.”

“Hmm.” It was the same phrase Maureen had used. I studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “There’s just a couple of more things, then, that I’ll need from you. First, I’d like the names of your wife’s living relatives, excluding yourself and your son.”

He snorted, shifting irritably, as if the subject offended him. “Her only blood relative, as far as I know, is her sister Blanche. Blanche Touhy.”

“Is that her married name?”

“Yes.”

“Where does Blanche Touhy live?”

“Tulare.” He seemed to say it with some effort.

“Have you talked with Blanche since … last night?”

He sighed heavily. “No, Lieutenant, I haven’t. But I will. As soon as I get home.”

“Would you rather that I called her? I will if you like.”

He looked at me with narrowed, speculative eyes. Then, after a moment’s thought, he shrugged indifferently. “It’s all right with me if you want to call her. I’ve seen Blanche Touhy precisely once, when she and her husband came to visit us a week after our wedding.” From his tone, it was obvious that the visit hadn’t been pleasant.

“When are you planning the funeral, Mr. Connoly?”

“Tuesday.”

“I assume that Mrs. Connoly’s sister will want to come.”

Mirthlessly he snorted. “I couldn’t tell you. If you talk to her, invite her.”

Not replying, I studied him for a long, silent moment. Then, after taking more time to shuffle some papers, I decided to say, “Now comes the toughest part of the interview, Mr. Connoly.” I paused, waiting for him to look at me. Then quietly I said, “I have to ask you for a detailed statement of your movements from, say, Monday evening to Wednesday morning, when you were notified that your wife had disappeared.” I switched on the tape recorder and moved the microphone toward him. “To expedite matters, if it’s agreeable, I’ll record what you say. Or, if you’d rather, I’ll have a steno come in.”

As he returned my stare, a new expression crept into his eyes. The dull, stunned pain slowly changed to a cold, deliberate malevolence. “I believe,” he said, “you’re supposed to advise me that I’m entitled to a lawyer. Isn’t that so?”

“At this stage of an investigation, Mr. Connoly, that isn’t required. I’m asking for a statement as much for your protection as anything else. When there’s a burglary, for instance, the first thing we do is fingerprint the room. Then we eliminate the prints of the obviously innocent parties, which involves taking their fingerprints. Now—” I cleared my throat. “That’s what I’m trying to do: eliminate you as a suspect. You can take it any way you like, handle it any way you choose.”

As I talked, the malice in his eyes faded to a kind of hostile shrewdness. Finally he said sullenly, “All right. What is it you want to know?”

“In your own words,” I repeated patiently, “tell me everything you did, hour by hour, from Monday night to Wednesday noon.”

He took time to light another cigarette. Then, in a subdued monotone, eyes averted, he recited, “Monday night Carol and I went to a cocktail party at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. It was a benefit for the Mother’s Milk Fund. Afterward we had dinner at Chaney’s, in North Beach. We got home early, about ten-thirty, and—” He hesitated, glancing sidelong at me before saying, “And we went right to bed.”

“You were in bed, then, by eleven o’clock.”

He nodded.

“Isn’t that early,” I said slowly, “to get home from a night on the town?”

For a moment he didn’t reply, his eyes still avoiding mine. Finally he said, “The fact is, we … had a difference of opinion during dinner. Nothing especially serious, but—” He stopped talking.

“What did the difference of opinion concern, Mr. Connoly?”

Frowning, he sharply shook his head. “It—it was just one of those things. One thing just … led to another.”

“I see.” I let a half-minute of silence go by, looking at him steadily. He began to shift uneasily in his chair, unable to raise his eyes.

“Do you and your wife have separate bedrooms, Mr. Connoly?”

“Yes.”

“And do you usually sleep in your own bedrooms?”

Angrily he stubbed out his second cigarette. “Usually, yes.” His voice was low and thick, stifled by resentment, perhaps embarrassment.

“And you slept in separate bedrooms Monday night, then. All night. Is that right?”

He nodded.

I deliberately allowed another long, silent moment to pass, watching him. Then: “What about Tuesday, Mr. Connoly? Run down Tuesday for me, will you?”

“I’ve already told you most of it. I left for Los Angeles in the morning. About nine-thirty. I worked all day—until about six, I think it was. Then I went out for dinner, and for”—he licked at his lips—“for the evening.”

“Who’d you go out with, Mr. Connoly?”

“Well, her—her name is Estelle Curtiss. She’s a—a business associate.”

I decided not to press the point. I had a name. For the moment, that was all I needed. I didn’t want him completely on the defensive.

“And you spent the entire evening with her. Is that right? Until, say, midnight.”

“Yes, that’s right.” His eyes flicked up warily.

“Good,” I said, making my notes. “So then, as you said the other night, you didn’t get down to the office next morning until ten-thirty or so. It was a beautiful day, I think you said. And you just drove around Beverly Hills, enjoying the sunshine, and—”

Someone knocked softly. A patrolman entered, carrying a large clear-plastic evidence bag. Inside the bag was an olive-drab Army blanket.

“Ah.” I nodded, smiling. “Good.” I spread the blanket on the floor of my office, carefully examining it, deliberately ignoring Connoly. Whenever I glanced at him, covertly, he seemed to take no notice of me. He simply sat hunched in his chair, scowling, staring off across the room.

On quick examination, I found nothing identifiable about the blanket—no laundry marks, no burns, no rips. Near the center of the blanket was a medium-sized bloodstain. A portion of the stain was still damp, from the lab tests.

I turned to face Connoly, holding up the blanket but concealing the stain. I waited, watching him. Unwillingly, it seemed, he looked up. For a long moment he stared into my eyes, then slowly dropped his gaze to the blanket.

“Wh—what’s that?”

“I’m hoping,” I answered, “that you can tell me. Have you ever seen this blanket before?”

“How should I know?” he answered irritably. “It’s just a—an Army blanket, isn’t it?”

I nodded, watching him. “That’s right, Mr. Connoly. It’s a second-hand surplus Army blanket, made during the Second World War. To your knowledge, do you have such a blanket around the house?”

He bit at his lip, frowned and finally shook his head. “I—I don’t think so.”

“How about the garage, the trunk of your car?”

“No. Not my car, anyhow.”

“Did your wife have her own car?”

“Yes.”

“Is the car at your house now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Is it possible that your wife could have carried a blanket like this in her car—in the trunk, for instance?”

He shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“You said Friday night that your wife was fond of riding. Do you ride, Mr. Connoly?”

“No. I—” He hesitated, then admitted, “I was thrown from a horse when I was twelve. I was unconscious for a whole afternoon. And I—I’ve never since enjoyed riding.”

My phone buzzed. I excused myself and lifted the receiver.

“This is Pete, Frank.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve taken Phillips through his story. There don’t seem to be any inconsistencies. He’s shaken, but I don’t think he’s concealing anything. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Well—” I hesitated.

“The reason I ask, they just brought in Keller and his girlfriend, Angie Rayburn. What shall I do about them? Are you about finished there?”

“Yes.” I glanced at Connoly. He was staring fixedly at the blanket. Now he seemed to wince, as if reacting to a spasm of physical pain. I wondered whether he knew that his wife’s body had been wrapped in the blanket. I decided not to ask.

“Yes,” I said again. “Almost finished. Why don’t you take him, and I’ll take her?”

“Keller and Angie, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“And let Phillips go?”

“Well—” Again I hesitated.

“I think we may as well. You know the departmental motto: Don’t lean too hard on the rich folks.”

I smiled. “All right. Why don’t you send the girl to me in about ten minutes?”

“Good. What about Keller? Lean on him concerning Tuesday night?”

“Definitely.”

“Right. Anything with Connoly?”

“We might have a beginning. See you.” I hung up, thought about the conversation for a moment and then turned to Connoly. “I don’t think there’s anything more for now, Mr. Connoly. I want to thank you and tell you again that I’ll be glad to help, any way I can. We’ll have a lab team at your place for an hour or two, and they’ll probably want to bring your wife’s car downtown for a day or so. Meanwhile, I’ll call Blanche Touhy, probably in a half-hour or so.”

He nodded, rose and abruptly turned to the door, without speaking. As he went out, he struck the doorframe with his shoulder. The light blow seemed to stagger him unnaturally, almost as if he might have been in mild shock.

13

SHE SAT POISED IN the straight-backed chair, glaring at me, defiantly returning my silent stare. Friday night she’d worn a loose, blanketlike serape. Now slim, tight jeans and a light cotton shirt modeled her supple, exciting body. Topless, I was thinking, she must be superb. I tried to imagine Angie Rayburn in bed. Did her dark, intense eyes soften with passion? Did her taut, willful flesh ever really yield? Or did she keep it all for herself—everything?

I lifted the folded Army blanket from the table behind me.

“Have you ever seen this blanket, Angie?” I asked suddenly.

She hardly glanced at it. “How should I know? It’s an Army blanket, isn’t it? I’ve seen lots of Army blankets. I’ve slept on a few, in fact.”

“Have you ever owned one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How about Keller? Does he own an Army blanket?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re living with him, aren’t you?”

She shrugged indifferently, then nodded. “Can I smoke?” She’d already taken a cigarette from the pack.

I leaned across the desk to light her cigarette. Then, after watching her for another silent moment, I said, “How long have you and Keller been living together, Angie?”

“About a month.” Her voice was quiet—cool, confident, a little bored.

“You didn’t know Carol Connoly, then.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

She nodded grimly. “I’m sure.”

“Did you know that she and Keller went together, saw each other regularly, just before you arrived on the scene?”

She shrugged. “I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about things like that.”

“You’re one of these modern chicks, is that it?”

Not replying, she deliberately reached out a slender arm to flick her cigarette in the ashtray. Then, indifferently, she shrugged. “That’s a matter of interpretation, Lieutenant.”

“Ah.” I nodded deeply, derisively. “A matter of interpretation. Right. I’d forgotten: you’re a refugee from the privileged classes. Finishing school and all that.”

Again she shrugged, then calmly drew on her cigarette. The expression in her bold, knowing eyes was familiar: the hatred a tough, defiant street kid learns to feel for a cop.

But her voice was unfamiliar—and her disdainful, arrogant poise. In another place, at another time, I might have encountered Angie Rayburn at an after-the-game fraternity party, or on the glib, glittering cocktail circuit. In another place, at another time, we might be having an affair. Perhaps neither of us belonged here, staring at each other—one watchful and wary, the other probing, prying, accusing.

“How long have you been a topless entertainer, Angie?”

“I’m a waitress, not an entertainer.”

“Excuse me. Same question, then. Different job classification.”

“About a month.”

“What’d you do before that?”

“Nothing. I was at home, deciding which college I’d try next.”

“Where’s home?”

“Wilmington, Delaware.”

“Do your parents live there?”

“Yes.”

“What does your father do?”

“He’s a real estate broker.”

I nodded thoughtfully. I was thinking that my father, too, had been a real estate broker, a small, unsuccessful real estate broker who’d died of a premature heart attack while spending an illicit weekend with one of his two saleswomen. He’d died during my sophomore year of high school. After the funeral, my mother had never spoken of him.

“Do you know that Carol Connoly is dead?” I asked suddenly.

“D—dead?” She blinked, swallowed, then quickly recovered. “No, I didn’t know. I told you: I didn’t know her.” But I saw something subtly change deep behind her dark, bold eyes. She was frightened. In that instant, learning of Carol’s death, she’d been frightened. Stubbing out her cigarette, frowning over the gesture, she was fighting to conceal the quick, unexpected stab of fear she’d revealed.

“The news of her death was on the radio late last night, Angie,” I said quietly. “It was in the paper this morning. Don’t you read the papers?”

Still frowning, still with eyes averted, she didn’t reply. I let the silence continue, watching her squirm.

“Do your parents know you’re living in San Francisco?” I asked finally.

“Yes.” She gave the dead cigarette a final, decisive twist and raised her eyes, composed now.

“Do they know you’re a topless waitress?”

She drew a deep, contemptuous breath. “No, Lieutenant, they don’t. Are you going to tell them?”

Ignoring the question, I suddenly asked, “What were you doing last Tuesday night, Angie?”

“Tuesday?” She frowned. “What time Tuesday?”

“Let’s start at about nine o’clock.”

“I was home.”

“With Keller?”

“Yes.”

“All night?”

She shrugged with a loose, careless gesture. “Yes.”

“Both of you, then—you and Keller—were home Tuesday night. All night. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“How about Monday night?”

“Monday night I was working.”

“Do you have a car, Angie?”

“Of my own, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t. I use Charlie’s.”

“What was Keller doing Monday night?”

“He was home, as far as I know. Painting.”

“Was he home when you got there?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. I felt that I was losing ground. I’d had her off balance when she’d learned of Carol Connoly’s death. But I hadn’t been able to follow up.

Abruptly I rose. “You stay here. I’ll be back in about ten minutes. Smoke if you like. But don’t leave the office.” And without waiting for a reply, I walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. I signaled a patrolman to keep an eye on her from the hallway, and signaled another man to come with me to Friedman’s office, where I knocked. Friedman answered, nodded to the patrolman and left the door wide open. Keller, lounging at his ease, was looking me straight in the eye. His mouth was twisted in an unpleasant, mocking grin.

We walked in silence to the coffee machine.

“You’re springing for this, remember,” Friedman said.

“I know. Take a double cream.”

We carried the coffee to a small lounge provided for brown-bag lunchers. The room was deserted. “That Keller,” Friedman said, “is a real tough type. Also, he’s smarter than I am. Which means that he’s scoring most of the points instead of vice versa.”

I sipped the coffee. Invariably, the machine provided either too little sugar or too much.

“What about Tuesday night?” I asked. “Anything?”

“Keller claims they were home together. All night. Is that what the girl says?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Friedman said slowly, “I’ve got some news for you.” He looked at me sidelong, smiling with smug self-satisfaction. Friedman enjoyed building the suspense.

“All right,” I said, pretending indifference, “I’m ready.”

“I discovered,” he replied, “that they’re lying about Tuesday night. I was just going to come down to your office, as a matter of fact, to give you the word.”

Although I felt a quick lift of excitement, I still pretended indifference. Perhaps I was a little irked that Friedman and Canelli were scoring all the points. “How do you know they’re lying?”

“About thirty seconds before you knocked, Haskell called. I had him checking out Keller’s neighbors, and he’s got a witness—the proverbial neighborhood busybody—who says she saw the girl, Angie Rayburn, leave in Keller’s car at about nine P.M. Tuesday. Maybe a little before.”

“What time did she get back?”

“Haskell doesn’t know. After eleven, for sure. So Keller’s got a blown alibi. So does Angie, for that matter.”

“We’re mostly interested in what happened about twelve-thirty, though.”

“Well, let’s see what Haskell comes up with.” He drained his cup. “What shall I do about Keller—spring it on him now?”

“Did this busybody see him Tuesday night?”

“No. But there’s a back entrance to his place, apparently. Haskell said Keller could’ve gone out the back way and met Angie around the corner, out of sight.”

I finished my own coffee. “You know what I think we should do, Pete?”

“No. What?”

“I think we should release Keller. Right now.”

“Beautiful. We can pick him up in Mexico City and have a paid vacation.”

“He’s not going to run, even assuming he killed her. He’s too smart. Plus he doesn’t know what we’ve got. And until he does know—as long as we’ve got his girlfriend—he’s going to sweat.”

“Frank, old son. You’re—”

“We can put him under surveillance and wait for him to jump. I think it’s worth a try. Meanwhile, after I’ve finished, you can take a shot at Angie. We can hold her overnight, if we’re lucky.”

“Well, it’s your case. But I just don’t—”

“Keller’s the kind that loves to be questioned, Pete. It gives him a chance to show off his IQ. I’ll bet, though, that he’s not so good at sweating, trying to figure what we’ve got. And if we’re holding Angie, he’s really going to sweat.”

“Hmm.” He thoughtfully tucked a pudgy forefinger between his second and third chins. “You could be right. And, of course, I’m at my best grilling topless entertainers.” He sighed, then heaved himself to his feet. “All right, let’s try it. Like I say, I’m tired of hearing Keller outtalk me.”

I pitched my coffee cup in the basket, then held the door for him.

I took particular care closing the office door, soberly, softly. Then, walking gravely to my desk, I deliberately lit a cigarette before turning to face Angie Rayburn.

“Tell me again about Tuesday night, Angie,” I said quietly. “Let’s start at, say, eight o’clock. I want to make sure I’ve got it all straight. After all—” I paused, drawing on my cigarette. “After all, Tuesday night is the night Mrs. Connoly disappeared, you know. Then last night she was found murdered, buried in a shallow grave. By the time the coroner gets through with her body, sometime this afternoon, we should have the time of her death pretty well established. For now, though—” Again I drew on the cigarette, leisurely exhaling. “For now, we’re going on the assumption that she was killed late Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning. According to our witnesses, that is. So naturally we—”

“Witnesses?” The single word came involuntarily.

I pretended surprise. “Yes, witnesses. There’s always a witness, you know. It’s a crowded planet, Angie. Someone’s always watching.”

She began to speak, then bit her lip. Her eyes began circling the room, as if seeking escape.

“Speaking of witnesses,” I said softly, “we’ve got one that saw you—eyeballed you—Tuesday night, not at home like you said. So maybe you’d like to change your story, Angie. It’s only fair to tell you that Keller’s changed his. So I thought—” I let the sentence go unfinished.

“He didn’t change his story.” Her voice was suddenly harsh. Her sullen gaze rose to challenge me. “There’s nothing to change.”

“What’d you do, Angie—drive around the block and pick him up?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Pretending regret, I shook my head. Then, sighing resignedly, I picked up the phone. Cunningham answered.

“This is Lieutenant Hastings,” I said. “It looks like we’ll have to book her. I’ll give her her rights, and you can—”

“Wait.” She said it very quietly.

“Just a minute,” I said into the phone. Then, looking at her mildly, I said, “I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished, Angie. We have certain procedures, you know, that’re actually for your protection. So—”

“You’re going to book me? For what—murder?” Her hooded, street-wise eyes widened. “You must be insane. I—I’ll get my father on the phone. He—he’ll sue you for false arrest.”

“I’ve got no choice, Angie. We’ve got a murder, and we’ve got a witness who contradicts your story. We’ve also got Keller, contradicting your story. So there’s nothing I can—”

“What’d he say? Tell me what he said.”

“Wait a minute,” I said to her, pretending slight annoyance. Then, into the phone: “I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” I replaced the phone in its cradle, then leaned back in my chair, spreading my hands. “I’m sorry, Angie. Once these things become a matter of evidence, of departmental record, there’s not much we can—”

“I demand to see Charlie.”

“You can’t do that. You can see your lawyer or the bail bondsman. And you can make that phone call to your father. But you can’t see—”

“Bail bondsman?” Her voice rose to a sudden, outraged falsetto. “What’re you trying to—” She gulped, then began slowly shaking her head, rapidly blinking. “It—it’s like a—a nightmare or something. 1984. You—you just can’t—” Again she gulped, then began biting at her lip, avoiding my eyes. Her lean, taut body sagged back in the chair, as if something inside, drawn too tight for too long, had suddenly let go. Now, in seconds, she seemed smaller, softer, younger: a slim girl with a good figure, too far from home.

A little more pressure, and I’d have her.

Sighing regretfully, I reached for the phone. “I’m sorry, Angie, but—”

“It was his idea,” she mumbled. “All his idea.”

Still with my hand on the phone I said quietly, “Keller’s idea, you mean.”

She nodded.

“He went with you, then, Tuesday night?”

Frowning, puzzled, she raised her eyes. Now she began shaking her head. “No,” she said softly. “I went alone. She would’ve recognized him, you see. And it—” She shook her head again. “It wouldn’t’ve worked.” Her voice had sunk into a monotone; her eyes were dulled, confused. She licked at her lips.

In a slow, tentative gesture I moved my hand away from the phone.

“You’d better take it from the beginning, Angie.” I looked at her, considered and then decided to lead off with my only sure trick. “You left Fredericks Alley a little before nine, in Keller’s car. Where’d you go then?”

“I—I went to The Dramatists.”

I paused a moment, to make sure my voice would be completely matter-of-fact as I said, “All right, Angie. What happened then?”

She spread her hands. “Nothing happened. I mean, I just waited until she came out.”

“And you followed her.”

“Yes.”

“Where’d she go next?”

“She went to a small house on Telegraph Hill.”

I nodded, watching her thoughtfully. Incredibly, during the past moments, her manner had become almost contrite. Something in the mention of a bail bondsman had shocked her into sudden submission.

Even more incredibly, she was telling the absolute truth.

“When did she leave Telegraph Hill?” I asked.

“About midnight.”

“Then you followed her to the Interlude. Right?”

She swallowed, then nodded.

“Were you alone in your car at that time?”

She looked puzzled. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean what I said: were you alone?”

“Yes, of course I was alone.” Her voice was edged with its previous sarcasm.

“All right. What happened then, Angie?”

The girl shrugged. “She stayed inside for about fifteen minutes. Then she came out and got a cab. So—” She shrugged. “So I decided to split. I mean, I knew she was going home. Besides, I thought it was a stupid idea—the whole thing. So I just went home. That was about one o’clock, I guess.”

To mask my disappointed surprise, I looked at the desk, frowning down at some papers as I tried to decide on the next question. Finally I asked her, “What kind of a cab was it, Angie?”

“A Yellow.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Did she hail it, did you notice? Or was it specifically calling for her at the Interlude?”

“She hailed it. Definitely. I saw her do it.”

“Where were you, in relation to the cab?”

“Right across the street—directly across.”

Again I frowned down at the papers. So far, as nearly as I could cross-check it, she’d told a completely straight story. Thanks to a fictitious bail bondsman—and to a basically decent family, probably, in Wilmington—she seemed to have turned herself completely around.

“Okay, Angie,” I said quietly. “For the moment, I’m going to let you go home while we check your story. As far as I know, you’ve told me the truth. Until I find out differently, I’ve got no beef with you. There’re just a few more questions. First—most important—why were you following her?”

She snorted contemptuously. “Blackmail,” she said shortly. “Charlie’s annuity plan. His art scholarship, he called it. But he did it all, made all the contacts. I didn’t do a thing except follow her. And if he says—” She stopped, then shook her head. She didn’t go on.

“Don’t worry, Angie. Just keep telling the truth, and you won’t have a thing to worry about. That’s a cliché, I know. But it works. Now, for the present, I’ve just got two more questions. First, did you get a good look at the cabdriver?”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “No. It was dark, and he didn’t get out. All I could see was a silhouette.”

“All right. Second, was Keller at home when you got back?”

She nodded. But something flickered behind her eyes—a hint of her earlier fear.

“You’re sure, Angie?”

She swallowed. “I’m sure, Lieutenant. He—we stayed in all night after I got home.”

I looked at her for a long, silent moment. Then I rose to my feet. I thanked her, warned her not to leave San Francisco and then showed her to the door.

14

“I STILL THINK,” FRIEDMAN said, “that one of us should be over at Yellow Cab, getting things organized. Until we find that cabbie, we don’t have any place to go. Assuming, of course, that you were really successful in transforming Little Miss Switchblade into Little Miss Muffet. Which I’m still inclined to doubt. Once a topless waitress, I say, always a topless waitress.”

“And I say she’s just another teenager rebelling against silk sheets. One real good scare and she regresses, all the way back to finishing school. Maybe farther.”

“Or maybe she’s just smart. Maybe she had the lead in the class play at that finishing school.” He shook his head. “I’ll never forgive you for releasing her. We had already agreed, you know, that I was going to interview her. All morning I was looking forward to it.”

“Sorry. If you’re looking for kicks, why don’t you transfer to the vice squad?”

He glanced at his watch. “Four-thirty. Why don’t we go around the corner for a snack?”

“Because I don’t want a snack. I’ve already told you: Tulare’s trying to locate Blanche Touhy for me.”

“Why don’t you take off, then? We seem to be in a slump developmentwise, and I’m stuck here anyhow. I’ll take care of Blanche Touhy.”

As I glanced at my watch, I was remembering Maureen Phillips. All day I’d meant to call her. Now, with evening approaching, the memory of last night’s love was even more urgent.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on it. I’ll have dinner and then maybe check in on Maureen Phillips.”

Friedman raised an elaborately suspicious eyebrow. “That’ll be two nights in a row that you—”

My intercom buzzed. With relief, I flicked the switch.

“Lieutenant?” It was Culligan.

“What is it?”

“I’m on my fifteenth or sixteenth so-called informant, and I’ve got a guy over at my desk who claims he knew Carol Connoly real well, in L.A. He hinted, in fact, that he used to go around with her, which I doubt. Anyhow, he wants to talk to the officer in charge, so I figure I should check with you.”

I hesitated, then said, “All right, send him in.”

“Roger. His name is Farwell. Peter Farwell.”

Friedman rose, announcing that he was going to initiate an investigation into Connoly’s movements in Los Angeles on the night of the murder. I asked him to take the Blanche Touhy call, too, if it should come in during my conversation with Farwell. Friedman agreed and left the office.

A moment later a knock sounded.

“Come in.”

I rose from behind my desk as a small, stocky, misshapen man entered the office, banging the door behind him. He looked in his middle fifties. His face was dominated by heavy brow ridges and bunched muscles along the jaw, chin and neck. His nose was a swollen, belligerent beak; his small, intent eyes were sunk deep beneath the bulging brows. His thick, graying hair badly needed cutting.

“Lieutenant Hastings?” He advanced to my desk and stood with his thick legs apart, looking me up and down. He had heavy, powerful shoulders, with hands to match. He looked like a miniaturized N.F.L. lineman.

“Yes,” I answered. “Mr. Farwell?”

He nodded, then sat down to face me. He was wearing wrinkled corduroy trousers and a tweed sports jacket, also wrinkled. He wore no tie; his plaid shirt was open at the throat.

I pointed to the tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record what we say, Mr. Farwell? It’ll save us a lot of time.”

He waved his arm in a short, jerky arc. “Not at all. Go right ahead.”

“I understand,” I began, “that you knew Mrs. Connoly before she was married, while she was still living in Los Angeles. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live now, Mr. Farwell?”

“In Bolinas, just up the coast. When I heard this morning that Carol had been found, I decided to drive into town.”

“Do you think you can help us?”

He spread his thick-knuckled hands. “I don’t know. If I can, I will.” He said it abruptly, frowning as he spoke.

“Good.” I nodded, feeling a little at a loss. Finally I asked, “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Connoly?”

“About thirteen years ago.”

“You mean—” I cleared my throat. “You mean you haven’t had any contact with her since then?”

“I just told you, Lieutenant: I haven’t seen her for thirteen years.”

“Inspector Culligan,” I said slowly, “thought you had some information that might help us, information that you’d give only to the officer in charge. Was he wrong, Mr. Farwell?”

“No, he wasn’t wrong. I know a little about police work. I know you need background information. And knowing Carol, I don’t imagine she revealed much about her past. However—” He got to his feet with a single, powerful thrust of his bandy legs. “I’m not here to waste your time. Mine either.”

“Wait a minute.” I motioned him back into his chair. “Take it easy.”

“I’m not in the habit of taking it easy, Lieutenant. It’s not my nature.”

“How is it that you know something about police work, Mr. Farwell?”

“I’m a writer.”

“What do you write?”

“At the moment, I’m writing comic books—horror comic books, in fact.” His thick lips parted in a kind of leering smile, as if he’d just told an obscene joke. “However, it was not always so. There was a time, in fact—fifteen or twenty years ago—when I had something of a vogue in Hollywood. I won’t bore you with a list of my screen credits, Lieutenant. Besides, you might not have been addicted to B and C horror movies. But within my specialty I enjoyed modest fame. Until, that is, my vogue ran out. And in Hollywood you leave town when your vogue runs out. There’s no such thing as accepting a reduction in rank, because an ex-success reminds the current successes that they’re fallible—very, very fallible.” He said it with a kind of clinical indifference, as if he were talking about another man’s failure. Yet his deep, brow-buried eyes clearly reflected the embittered resentment of the loser.

“You were a screen writer, then, when you knew Mrs. Connoly.”

“Yes. Her name was Brady then. Carol Brady.”

“How’d you happen to meet her, Mr. Farwell?”

“At a party. I very seldom went to parties because I was fully aware that I was expected to assume the role of a grotesque. But my producer—he was actually my patron, too—gave a party to celebrate finishing a picture that I happened to write. So the party was obligatory. At the time, Carol was working as a receptionist for a talent agency. Her role at the party was meat.”

“Meat?”

Again his misshapen mouth parted in a leering smile. “Yes, Lieutenant, meat. Hollywood is filled with beautiful young girls who’ll do anything—assume any position—to please a man who can help them. So, whenever one gives a party, it’s essential to have caterers, a small orchestra and a dozen or so of these girls. They’re called meat. If they don’t give satisfaction, they don’t get invited back. And unless a girl’s seen at these functions, she may as well buy a bus ticket home. Unless, of course, she has actual acting talent.”

“In other words, they’re prostitutes.”

He shrugged. “Technically you’re wrong. Morally I suppose you’re right. Perhaps ‘semipro’ would be more accurate. However, I happen to believe that most love affairs are conducted on the barter system, which makes the question of morality sociologically academic.”

“Was Mrs. Connoly trying to get into the movies?”

“No. She was too smart for that. She realized the odds were too long, even for someone with her looks. She was simply looking around for the best bargain she could make, bartering her charms. And she was obviously learning fast, perfecting her techniques. She was a natural predator.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Farwell?”

“I mean,” he answered, “that in the battle of the sexes she had a cool, dispassionate instinct for the jugular. Most combatants dissipate their energies in histrionics—pointless accusations, extravagant anger, chest thumping, screaming—most of it designed actually to avoid the moment of combat. Carol, though, had no such hangups. She was an instinctive man-killer. If she hadn’t made one tactical error, she could’ve gone all the way to the top. Which is to say, she could’ve married a top star. Maybe even a producer or director.”

“What was this ‘tactical error’?”

“She looked back,” Farwell answered promptly. “You can’t look back, Lieutenant. Because when you do, you get that first fatal glimpse of yourself. That’s what happened to Carol. That’s why she didn’t get to the top.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because she took that first backward glance at almost precisely the moment I met her. I’d been watching her operate. She’d been skillfully playing a big-shot publicist, getting ready to slip the gaff into him. To me, she stood out from all the other meat like a—a—” He stopped speaking, then shook his head as a spasm of pain twitched at his thick features. “Anyhow, the place was very crowded. I was standing behind her when some drunk put a hand on her. She thought it was me, and she turned to look at me with a kind of cold, pitying look. Something about that look, coming from her, infuriated me. I gave her a quiet, concise thumbnail sketch of herself, then went to get my coat. I was drunk, and suddenly I’d had enough of the party. But, incredibly, she followed me. She was drunk, too, as it turned out; I didn’t know it, but she was. And she was feeling maudlin, for probably the first and last time in her life. She asked me to take her home. I said I was going in the other direction; I lived way out in an unfashionable part of the San Fernando Valley, as far as I could get from Hollywood. She said she’d go home with me. She did. She stayed the next day, then the next week. Finally she stayed a year.” For a moment he stared off across the office, his eyes suddenly blank—and vulnerable. Then he repeated in a softer voice, “A year—almost exactly a year.”

He’d been in love with her, was probably still in love with her. So he wanted to help find her murderer. I thoughtfully studied him. I was thinking of the four mismatched men who’d been involved with her: Connoly and Phillips, both so bland; Keller and Farwell, so twisted and tortured.

“As I understand it,” I said, “you don’t have any information that could help us directly. I mean, we’re looking for a suspect that we can place with Carol Connoly on Tuesday night, someone with the motive and the opportunity and the desire to kill her. Do you have that kind of information, Mr. Farwell?”

“No, Lieutenant, I don’t.”

“Do you know anyone who might’ve had a motive, someone from her past life in Hollywood?”

He hesitated, then said, “I can’t give you a name. But—” Again he hesitated. Then: “But I was aware that there was some … strange shadow over Carol’s life, if you’ll pardon the purple prose. She wouldn’t talk about it, and she wasn’t the kind of person that you could press for information—at least, not directly. But I remember one time, about six months after she came to live with me, that I arrived home to find her frightened. She didn’t admit it, of course. That would’ve been out of character. But I knew something had happened to her that day, something serious. So the next day I began asking around.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “And nothing. I lived on what was actually a ranch. The closest neighbor was almost a mile away. However—” He paused. “I finally located a neighboring ranch hand who saw a ‘tall, dark-haired man’ hanging around my place. I asked Carol about it—obliquely, of course—but she professed not to have seen a dark-haired man. Maybe she hadn’t. Anyhow, within a day or so, she was perfectly normal.”

“You didn’t see this stranger yourself, then?”

“Well—I saw the ranch hand at the local store a day or two afterward, and he pointed out a young, tall hobo who’d been in the area for a week, more or less. It was the same man, according to the ranch hand.”

“Did you question the hobo?”

“No.”

“Did you double check with Carol concerning him?”

“No. She’d already denied his presence once. And Carol wasn’t someone you kept picking at. If you’d known her, you’d understand.”

As I nodded, I was thinking of an old law-enforcement bromide: the successful homicide detective must get to know the murder victim intimately. Was I getting to know Carol Connoly? Or was she still a stranger to me, as she must have been to so many others?

“There’s only one part of your story that I don’t understand, Mr. Farwell,” I said finally.

“What part is that?” He said it almost pugnaciously. Suddenly he seemed restless, anxious to leave.

“I don’t understand,” I began, “why she went to live with you. I mean, she seems to’ve been a very”—I hesitated, groping—“a very cagey, deliberate kind of a person, a girl who apparently played hard to get. Yet you tell me that in a few minutes’ time, during a drunken party, she decides to come home with you. Then, the next day or so, she decides to live with you. I mean—” I smiled, spreading my hands. “I mean, it all seems a little … sudden. And it seems unlike her, completely out of character.”

For a long, silent moment he remained perfectly motionless, staring at me with his deep-set eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. But it was a smile that reflected pain, not pleasure.

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “whether her … aberration … would seem so strange to you if I happened to be one of the so-called beautiful people?”

With an obvious malicious amusement he watched me squirm. Then, still very deliberately, he said, “Carol came to live with me for the same reasons that some people go to sanitariums. She was sick—sick of the men she manipulated, sick of the life she was living. She wanted—needed—a change and a rest. To pursue the sanitarium simile, she needed skilled, diversified treatment—rest, relaxation and counsel. And maybe she needed a shock treatment.” To himself, he smiled, caught in some secret reverie. “Maybe that was my role: the personification of shock treatment. She suspected all along that men were evil, and ugly. Maybe she needed the suspicion confirmed. Maybe—” He broke off, snorting to himself bitterly. Then, in a brisker voice: “Anyhow, whatever the treatment was, it worked. After the year, she re-emerged into the world, ready to do what had to be done.”

“And what was that?”

“Find a rich man and marry him. Which she did. Less than a year later.”

“Were you still in touch with her at the time of her marriage, Mr. Farwell?”

“No, Lieutenant. As a matter of fact, I left town shortly after she moved out. My vogue, as they say, had passed. Regrettably.”

“Did you come directly to the San Francisco area from Hollywood?”

“No. I made the circuit first: San Miguel, Taos, Martha’s Vineyard. Even the Haight Ashbury, a few years ago. I was writing novels then—very bad, very unsuccessful novels. I used up my capital about the time I arrived here. Which was about the time, coincidentally, that Mephistopheles caught up with me, in the earthly guise of a comic-book czar. He’d been stalking me, I suspect, for some time. Who knows,” he said softly, “maybe my friend Mephistopheles escorted Carol to that party.”

I answered his smile, then slowly rose to stand behind my desk. Immediately he also rose, anxious to go.

As we shook hands I asked, “Do you think if you were to see that dark-haired young hobo now that you could recognize him?”

He shrugged. “I could try. He had a rapacious look about him, as I remember. Call me. It’s only an hour’s drive into San Francisco from Bolinas.”

“Good. Thanks again for your help, Mr. Farwell. You might be hearing from me. Soon.”

He nodded curtly, turned and briskly left the office. I glanced at my watch, then reached for the phone book. Just as I’d found Maureen Phillips’ number, Friedman stuck his head in the door.

“They located Blanche Touhy,” he said. “She and her husband will be in town about noon Monday—tomorrow. They’re going to check with us as soon as they get in.”

“Good. Are you going home?”

“No. They just found a dead hippie down in the Haight Ashbury, so I’m stuck. Therefore, I’m going out for a snack. Enjoy your interview with the dangerous Mrs. Phillips.” He closed the door.

15

SHADOWS MOVED ACROSS THE ceiling and down the wall as a car slowly passed outside. From the hallway, the German shepherd’s toenails clicked on the hardwood floor as he paced from living room to kitchen, then back again.

“When do you feed your dog?”

The glow of the cigarette illuminated her face as she lay on her back smoking, staring up at the ceiling. She took the cigarette from her mouth, deeply inhaled, then placed the cigarette in a bedside ashtray. Now she momentarily closed her eyes, sighing with faint exasperation.

“I’m afraid,” she said, “that Caesar and I aren’t really chums. He’s a necessary item of protection in the household. Therefore, he eats according to my whim, like the refrigerator waits to be defrosted.”

“Maybe you’d be happier with a burglar alarm.”

She turned her head to look at me, then decided to smile. “You turn a neat phrase, Lieutenant. When the spirit moves you.”

When I didn’t reply, she said, “I did some research on you today—some accidental research, I guess you’d say. I was drinking gin fizzes in Sausalito with some of the girls, and it seems that one of them knew you. Or knew about you, anyhow. She knew your ex-wife. Didn’t you used to live in Detroit?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t you used to play football—professional football?”

“For a while.”

“And then your marriage broke up, according to my friend, and you moved out here to begin a new life. Your wife, meanwhile, is married to a ‘prominent Detroit executive,’ as the saying goes.”

“Your friend is very well informed. Who is she?”

“Her name is Sally MacLean. Her husband’s Dan MacLean. He’s in advertising, and they spent some time in Detroit. He was doing advertising for Chevrolet, I think.”

“I never heard of them.”

“I suppose that happens when you’re a celebrity: you never hear about the people who hear about you.”

“I was never a celebrity. Not while I was in Detroit, anyhow.”

“Yes,” she answered, “that’s what Sally said.” In the darkness, a hint of practiced mockery was plain in her voice. I sighed and raised my wrist to check the time. It was a little after midnight—time to go home.

She grasped my wrist, turning the watch toward her. She kept her grip as I let my arm relax. I could feel a quick rippling of desire as she moved her long, bold fingers on my arm, now resting against my thigh.

“How’d you happen to become a policeman?” she asked softly.

“I needed a job.”

“But—” She hesitated. “But you must’ve had connections. I mean, athletes are constantly in demand, I’ve always thought. You always hear of them doing wonderfully as salesmen or stockbrokers. It’s quite chichi, actually, to have an athlete for a broker.”

“I spent a little time in P.R. It didn’t take.”

“Why not?”

“Point one, I was working for my father-in-law, who didn’t really like me very much. And, point two, you can’t be a P.R. man unless you’re a good drinker. And I discovered that I couldn’t drink.”

“Couldn’t? Or shouldn’t?”

I shrugged, then turned toward her, responding to the slowly tightening coil of my body’s gathering desire. With my free hand I began slowly stroking her throat. I felt her breathing quicken and her fingers tighten on my arm.

“Did you try to call me earlier?” she whispered.

“No. I was too busy, frankly. I didn’t have a minute.”

“Have you found out who killed her yet?”

“No. You didn’t do it, did you?”

With my hand on the first full swelling of her breasts, I felt her stiffen. But her low, bitter chuckle sounded authentic as she said, “Not unless looks can kill—and dark, evil thoughts.”

“You never did tell me where you were Tuesday night.”

“I know.” She moved her wide-spread fingers slowly from my forearm to my thigh, expertly. “I’ve got it figured out that I’ll just keep you coming back, asking about my alibi. You feel very good to me, Lieutenant. Very muscular, very exciting.” Her voice had dropped to a low, husky murmur. I felt her body urgently stirring.

“If you did the job,” I said, twisting toward her, “we’ll both need lawyers.”

“I’m not your man, Lieutenant,” she whispered. “In spite of the fact that they’re wonderfully phallic, I’m afraid of guns.”

16

“THE LAST TIME I went to the Starview Motel,” Canelli was saying, “was when that sailor off the Enterprise got knifed about six months ago. I never saw so much blood in my life, honest to God. There was even blood on the ceiling. No fooling.”

“What kind of a place is it?”

He shrugged. “Cheap. The word is that it’s a hot-sheet operation: ten bucks for a couple of hours, no questions asked. Why? Is this Blanche Touhy mixed up in something?”

“Not that I know of. She probably just picked a cheap motel.” I glanced at my watch as we waited for the Army Street traffic light. It was just past noon. Los Angeles had promised preliminary reports on Connoly’s movements by one o’clock. When I’d left the office, minutes ago, Culligan and Haskell were leaving to interrogate Keller and Angie, keeping up the pressure. Sobel and his partner were canvassing the Connoly neighborhood, checking out tipsters, cranks, kids and kooks. The lab was due to report on Carol’s car by two P.M. And—still—three men were laboring at Yellow Cab headquarters, fruitlessly. The ownership of the Army blanket was still in doubt, providing Friedman with endless material for countless horseshit jokes.

“How many men are still down in Pacifica?” I asked.

“Two. But I wouldn’t hold my breath, Lieutenant. The way that gravesite’s situated, the murderer could’ve driven an M-l tank in and out during the night. There’s just nothing out there. It’s like the moon, only with trees.”

“What about witnesses to someone digging in the area just before the murder?”

He shrugged. “If you saw the place, like I say, you’d know what I’m talking about. There’s even a screen of trees hiding the site. The only thing I can say, the murderer must’ve spent a lot of time picking his spot.”

“Still, I’ll give it another day or two. It’s a small planet, you know.”

“You mean that I got to go back down there, Lieutenant?”

I glanced at him, smiling. “I think I’m going to give you a break, Canelli. After we finish talking to Blanche Touhy, I’m going to drop you off at the Yellow Cab lot. We need a little Canelli luck out there.”

“Aw—” He shifted in the seat, his pudgy face furrowed in an unaccustomed frown.

“What’s the matter, Canelli? It’s a nice indoor assignment. Think of it as a promotion out of Pacifica.”

He glanced at me speculatively, obviously framing a delicate question. “I hear,” he said tentatively, “that a coupla men might be sent down to L.A.”

Again I smiled. “If you find that cabdriver for me, Canelli, I’ll see what I can do.”

“No fooling, Lieutenant?”

“No fooling.”

“Okay, it’s a deal.” He pointed ahead. “There it is, Lieutenant: the Starview Motel. Such as it is.”

As I pressed the buzzer, I glanced at the dusty, dented Ford pickup parked in the unit’s sagging carport. I could imagine Victor Connoly’s distaste, surveying that bedraggled car.

The plywood door opened, revealing a blowsy, broad-faced, fortyish blonde. She was wearing tight magenta stretch slacks, a bedraggled, fluffy-knit pink sweater and run-over gold slippers.

“Mrs. Touhy?”

She nodded. “Right. You’re—”

“Lieutenant Hastings.” I showed her the shield. “This is Inspector Canelli.”

As she stepped back from the door, beckoning for us to enter, she arranged her face in a pained, pouty expression that she probably considered appropriate to the unhappy occasion. “Come on in, please. Bill, he’s still in the shower. He’s my husband. We didn’t think you’d be out so soon. We just got in about an hour ago, see, and—” She seemed to lose the thought. Sighing and frowning, pursing her lips, she looked around the cramped room. “There isn’t much of a place to sit, I guess.”

“That’s all right, Mrs. Touhy. This’ll be fine.” I sat on the edge of the bed, motioning Canelli to an unsteady desk chair, badly scarred. Blanche Touhy sat in the room’s only remaining chair. She crossed her heavy legs, deeply sighing as she drew her penciled brows together.

“It’s terrible,” she said. “Just simply terrible. When’s the funeral?”

“Two o’clock tomorrow.”

“Yeah—” She nodded. “I guess I knew that. She’s at Chapin’s Funeral Home. Right?”

“Yes.”

She glanced at a gaudy wrist watch. “I still got to get a black dress downtown. A black crepe, I guess. What’s a good store, anyhow?”

“Well, the Emporium’s very good. Or Macy’s. I think I’d go downtown, if I were you, and just look around. You’re bound to find something.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She sighed again, then began fretfully pushing at the strands of her faded blond hair. I remembered Carol’s picture, and her thick, shoulder-length hair.

I took out my notebook and ball-point pen. “I won’t take much of your time, Mrs. Touhy. I just wanted to get your account of Carol’s life before she came to San Francisco. Plus, of course, anything else you can tell us that might be helpful in finding her murderer.”

Slowly she shook her head. “Honest to God, I been thinking about it all night, and I—I still can’t get it. I mean—” She waved a slack hand in a limp, baffled gesture. “I mean, when I think—really think—how it must’ve happened: that someone shot her and then hauled her out and buried her like some—some dog or something, it just—” Again she flapped the hand, still shaking her head in a dull, despondent arc. “It just stops me, that’s all. It just really stops me.”

Slightly shrugging, I glanced at Canelli. He raised his thick eyebrows, rolling his eyes briefly upward. I pitched my voice to a more purposeful note as I said, “I know you’ve got lots to do, Mrs. Touhy, and so do we. So if you’ll just tell me everything you can about your sister, from the beginning, we’ll be on our way.”

“What’d you mean, ‘everything’?”

“I mean exactly what I say, Mrs. Touhy: I’d like to know everything you can tell me about Carol, whether or not you think it’s relevant. Her childhood, high school days—everything. Why don’t you start with your parents? Who were they, what’d they do for a living? How did they get along with Carol?”

She looked at me for a long, puzzled moment. Then her gaze wandered off as she made a blank-eyed, lip-chewing effort to collect her thoughts. Watching, I imagined her as a small girl, earnestly trying to cope with classroom questions she could never understand. As a child, I was thinking, she’d probably been very attractive. As a teenager, she could have been a quick-ripening beauty, a gum-snapping small-town swinger, making the scene at the roller rink, the drive-in and the malt shop.

“Well,” she said finally, “Carol was always pretty—just as pretty as a picture, even when she was just a little kid. Even when she was in the sixth or seventh grade, I remember that the boys used to hang around the front porch, waiting for her to come out. That was in the summer, just when it was getting dark usually. I was older, of course—nine years older, so we was never close, Carol and me. But I still remember how the boys used to hang around, waiting for her to come out.” She paused, blinked, then tentatively looked at me. “Is—is that the kind of things you mean—things like that?”

“Yes, perfect. Go ahead. Tell it from the beginning to the end.”

“Yeah. Well—” She shrugged. “Well, there isn’t much to tell about when she was a little girl, except that she was pretty. I mean, she just did the ordinary things that little girls did, I guess. Of course, Carol was always smart. She didn’t always get good marks, because she didn’t care much about school. At least, she didn’t care much about high school. In grade school she did pretty well. But in high school, after—” She caught herself, furtively glanced at me, then cleared her throat. “She—she kind of lost interest in high school after a while. But her teachers used to say how smart she was if she’d only work. I mean, I was nine years older, like I said. So about half the time I’d be the one who talked to her teachers if Carol got out of line or something.”

“Why was that?”

“Why was what?”

“Why did you deal with her teachers? Was your mother alive?”

“Oh, sure. But—” She frowned, thinking about it. “But I guess I’d have to say that Mom was just plain worn out by the time Carol got to be school age. I mean, she had Carol late, in the first place. Then she always had to work, at Sears Roebuck. So—” Her voice trailed off as she paused to catch her breath.

“Your father, I understand, had a drinking problem. Is that right?”

She snorted derisively, then loosely nodded. “If ‘having a drinking problem’ means drunk all the time, then—” She broke off, looking at me closely. “Say, how’d you know?”

I didn’t reply.

The spasm of curiosity passed, and her broad face again sagged into a kind of dull, perplexed sadness. “Yeah,” she said heavily, “my old man drank. He was a good mechanic when he was sober, which was only about half the time. Whenever he got paid, he’d blow most of it across the bar before he ever got home. So like I say, my Mom had to work whether she wanted to or not.”

“Are your parents alive now?”

“Mom is. But she’s seventy-seven, and for about five years now she hasn’t recognized anyone. She’s out at the county rest home.”

“What about your father?”

Briefly she hesitated, her eyes faltering. “He got killed,” she mumbled. “In an accident.”

“What kind of an accident, Mrs. Touhy?”

She shrugged, shifting uneasily in her chair. Something was obviously bothering her, just as something had also bothered her moments before, recounting Carol’s high school days. Canelli and I exchanged a cop’s guarded glance as I repeated, “What kind of an accident?”

“Well, he—he just got drunk and wandered out in the middle of 99 one night, and he—he got killed. A truck hit him—a big semi—and it threw him two hundred feet, they figured.”

“How long ago was that?” Canelli asked.

She shifted her attention to Canelli, frowning uneasily as she levered her heavy body to face him. She hesitated, then said, “Well, Carol was fifteen when he got killed, and she’s—she was—thirty-four. So—” She counted, moving her lips. “So that’d be nineteen years ago that it happened.”

Again Canelli and I exchanged a glance, realizing that we were close to something we’d narrowly missed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her watching us, lips pursed, frowning—transparently apprehensive.

“Had he ever wandered out onto the highway before?” Canelli asked.

“How should I know?”

“Guess,” I said.

She turned her attention to me. “Well,” she said slowly, “maybe he never did. That night, the night he was killed—” She bit at her lip, sucked at her teeth and then said, “He was pretty upset that night, I guess. Pretty … sick of everything, maybe.”

“Why was that, Mrs. Touhy?”

“Well, he’d … been in … jail, and he just got out the day before. And the night he got killed, he found some money around the house and went out and got drunk. Me and Bill, we were just about to get married, I remember, and—” She didn’t finish it.

“Are you saying that you think your father might’ve committed suicide, Mrs. Touhy?”

Eyes lowered, she half nodded, then half shrugged, twisting her hands in her lap, frowning as she studied the gesture.

“What was your father in jail for?” I asked. “What was the charge?”

She pretended not to hear. For a long moment she absorbed herself twisting a button on the fluffy pink sweater. I let the silence stretch uncomfortably, then repeated the question more firmly.

“He was arrested for”—she swallowed, still twisting at the button—“for child molesting.”

For a third time, Canelli and I looked at each other. Then, sighing, Canelli slowly asked, “Who was the victim, Mrs. Touhy?”

“Well, it—it—” She sucked at her teeth, squirmed in the uncomfortable chair and peevishly looked over her shoulder toward the bathroom door, where the drumming of a shower had ceased. “It was Carol,” she said suddenly. Then she drew a deep breath and sat up straighter in the chair, glad to have finally gotten it out.

A long, regretful moment of silence passed. “How did it happen, Mrs. Touhy?” I asked quietly.

“Well,” she answered stolidly, “it was just about three weeks after Sears started staying open Friday nights. That was the night that Dad got his pay check, see, and he’d always get loaded before he came home. So—” She spread her hands. “So he got home about seven, and the only one that was home was Carol. I guess it all started when they got in some kind of an argument, and Dad hit Carol. Anyhow, Bill and me, we just happened to stop by the house about eight-thirty so that I could pick up a jacket, because we were going out riding in someone’s convertible and it was getting cold. So we went into the house, and—” She stopped speaking. Her eyes were sad and distant as she shook her head, remembering. “And there they were, in my folks’ bedroom. He’d hit her across the face and kind of dazed her, I guess. And when I got there, he was—” She swallowed, then went on doggedly: “He was ripping at her clothes, and she was moaning and kind of halfway squirming, to get out from under him. And he—” She closed her eyes. “He was right there, all ready to—”

The bathroom door opened. A short, muscular man stood in tee shirt and wrinkled slacks, his feet bare. He had the weather-seamed, big-knuckled appearance of an outdoor laborer. His thick brown hair was short and curly; his face was squared off, bullyboy handsome. He was tattooed on both forearms, and his nose had been broken.

Dully, Blanche introduced us. I was ready for Bill Touhy’s grip, and I watched his shoulder muscles ripple as I tightened my hand against his. Canelli wasn’t so lucky.

I turned to Blanche. “What happened to your sister after … that, Mrs. Touhy? I mean, was there any … real offense?”

“No. Not the way you mean, anyhow. Carol was examined, and they sent Dad off to—”

“Hey,” Bill said, standing spread-legged against the wall. “Hey, you talking about the time your old man—” He blinked. “That time he—” Again he blinked. As his wife nodded, Bill Touhy’s knotted fists tapped together. “That miserable old bastard,” he said. “That crummy bum. Honest to God, I never slammed anyone so hard in my life. I mean, I bounced him all over that goddamn house until the cops came. And then, for God’s sake, they locked me up for the night, the same as him.” He snorted balefully, swinging his head from Canelli to myself accusingly.

Ignoring him, I turned to Blanche. “What happened to Carol then, Mrs. Touhy?”

“Well, there wasn’t much that happened. I mean, Carol always kept pretty much to herself, even when she was a little kid. You never really knew what she was thinking, most of the time.”

“An experience like that must’ve upset her, though.”

“Well—” She considered the question. “It didn’t seem to upset her. Not that you could see, anyhow. I mean, she was kind of quiet for a week or so, but that was all. I remember that she stayed in her room a lot. But pretty soon she was out on the front porch, watching the boys mooning over her and kind of smiling to herself, just like always. It wasn’t until later—a year or two—that she started to change. But that happens to a lot of girls, you know, when they get to be sixteen or—”

Her husband snorted derisively. “I’ve never seen a woman yet that don’t cover up for another woman, sister or not.”

I turned to face Bill Touhy squarely. “What’d you mean by that, Mr. Touhy?”

He shrugged his thick shoulders, at the same time bulging his biceps. “Ask her—” He jerked his chin toward his wife.

“I’m asking you, Mr. Touhy.”

His eyes flattened for a surly moment as we stared at each other. Then he said, “She got herself in trouble—big trouble. She had to leave town.”

I nodded thoughtfully, allowed a few moments to pass and then turned to Blanche. “What kind of trouble was that, Mrs. Touhy?”

She was glaring angrily at her husband, her lips pressed back against her teeth, her breath coming fast. Then, slowly turning to me, her voice a monotone and her eyes averted, she said, “When Carol was seventeen, there was a boy named Kirby, Charles Kirby. He was a—a no-good. His father—stepfather, he was really—had a big farm-machinery agency in town, and there just wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for that no-good Charles, who wasn’t even his son. The father’s name wasn’t even Kirby; it was Brown. And a nicer, more generous man you’d never want to meet. I mean, Mr. Brown was a past president of the Rotary and the Chamber of Commerce—both of them. He was a deacon of the church, too, and lots more. And when his wife died—they didn’t have any kids—he married this Kirby woman, and took her and her son in, and treated them better’n most men treat their natural family. And the two of them, that woman and her no-good kid, they just took Mr. Brown for everything they—”

“What about Carol, Mrs. Touhy,” Canelli interrupted gently. “Tell us what happened to her.”

I looked at him, slightly frowning. I’d learned long ago to let witnesses ramble. It took longer going in, but usually saved time in the long run. Canelli again raised his eyes, apologetically nodding.

“What happened to Carol,” Blanche said peevishly, “was that she got pregnant. I mean, Dad was dead, and Mom was working, and I’d got married by that time. And Carol, she started to run wild. She did it in a quiet way, but that’s what happened. I mean, she didn’t get drunk or loud or anything, but—” She paused, fretfully sighing. Then, in a lower voice, avoiding my eyes, she said, “But, anyhow, she started taking boys home in the afternoons after school, and especially she’d take this Kirby kid home. I mean, he was one of those mean, good-looking, smooth kind of kids that the high school girls go for because they think he’s dangerous or something. And Mr. Brown had just bought him a car and everything. It was a convertible, I remember—a big red convertible. So Carol, she decided she wanted this Kirby kid, I guess—maybe because all the other girls wanted him. And she got him. And then she got pregnant.”

“What happened then?”

Bill Touhy snorted. “What happened then was that little Miss Carol got busy. That one was born smart. I wouldn’t’ve touched that one with a—”

“You wouldn’t’ve got the chance,” his wife flared. “Carol wasn’t looking for sweaty ’dozer drivers with dirty fingernails.”

He returned her flat, furious stare. Then, ripping a plaid sports shirt from a doorknob, he jerked open the door. “You tell it your way. I got to get the pickup washed. For her goddamn funeral.” He slammed the door. Canelli, on his feet, glanced at me. I shook my head.

“What happened,” I asked quietly, “after she got pregnant?”

“Well, the first thing that happened, she got herself a lawyer. She didn’t go to Mom, and she didn’t go to me—at least, not right away. I found out later that she knew a girl, nineteen or so, who’d got pregnant six months before, and this girl told Carol about the lawyer her folks had got. So Carol went to this same lawyer, on her own. That’s the way she was—cool. His name was Stanley Wygle. He was one of these sharpie-type lawyers. He hadn’t been out of law school so long, and he’d married a Tulare girl. So he decided to practice in Tulare a little while so he could get a little handout from his in-laws or something.”

I opened my notebook, scanning the pages. “Stanley Wygle?” I repeated. “You’re sure of the name?”

She nodded vehemently.

“All right. What happened then?”

“Well, Carol was only seventeen, like I said. So Stanley Wygle went to Mr. Brown and threatened to sue him for everything he owned, because he’d adopted the boy, and the boy was guilty of—of—” She hesitated, searching for the phrase.

“Statutory rape?”

“Right, statutory rape. Of course, Stanley Wygle never did really sue. He just wanted to scare them. What he wanted was a big wad of money for Carol—and him.”

“Did he get it?”

Again she nodded vehemently. “You bet. Carol got thousands. Then she got payments over the next year or two. Big payments.”

“What about the baby?” Canelli asked.

“Carol went to Mexico City and had it … taken care of.”

“What’d she do then?” Canelli asked.

“Then she went to Los Angeles. She stayed there for five years or so. Then she married this Victor Connoly.”

“Did you see your sister during those five years?” I asked.

Her lip curled slightly, remembering. “I saw her a couple of times when I went to L.A. But it was pretty plain Carol wasn’t too hot to see me. I guess I embarrassed her or something, because she was running with a pretty smooth-looking crowd. Not that I blamed her. And like I said before, Carol was always different from the other kids. I mean—” She hesitated, frowning. “I mean, she had class. She really did.”

“What was Stanley Wygle doing all this time?” I asked.

She glanced at me with a sidelong look of transparent conspiracy. “You knew about that, too, did you?”

“I’d rather have you tell me, Mrs. Touhy.”

“Yeah. Well, Carol stayed in Mexico for about a month, maybe a little longer. Then she went to L.A., like I said. And about that time, Mr. Fancy Pants Wygle started to find a lot of work he had to do down in L.A. Then, about a year later, he decides to divorce his wife. And—surprise—he moves to L.A.”

I thoughtfully nodded as I looked over my notes. I’d gotten to know the victim better …

“Is Mr. Brown still living in Tulare?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He hasn’t lived there for years. That floozy of a wife left him and took her no-good son with her. But—”

“Where’d they go, do you know?”

“How should I know, Lieutenant? I mean, it wasn’t like I really knew her or anything. I just—you know—I just heard about it.”

“How long was it after Carol left Tulare that the woman and her son moved out?”

“Less than a year. Six months, maybe. But that’s all the time it took for the two of them to ruin Mr. Brown. It was just—just unbelievable what happened to that man after those two got through with him. I mean, he went downhill so fast you wouldn’t believe it. One minute he was a prosperous, big-shot businessman, and the next minute he was letting his business slide and getting in arguments with everyone, and I don’t know what all.” As she shook her head, heavily sighing, she seemed more distressed by Mr. Brown’s misfortune than by the death of her sister.

“So then,” I said, “you’d estimate that Mrs. Brown and her son—later the ex-Mrs. Brown—left Tulare within, say, nine months of the time Carol left.”

“Right.”

“And how soon after that did Mr. Brown leave?”

She thought about it. Finally she shook her head. “I honestly can’t tell you. Except that I know for certain, within a year, he was a ruined man. His business was busted, his so-called wife was gone, and he just—just started looking like a bum. I mean, I never seen anyone change so much. They say he married that floozy out of grief for his first wife dying—on the rebound, sort of. And then, when all that happened with”—she paused, swallowing—“with Charles and Carol and all, and then with his wife, well—” She flapped her hand.

“Have you any idea where Mr. Brown went after he left Tulare?”

“Nope. Not an idea in the world.”

“How would you describe Mr. Brown?”

She looked at me blankly.

“Was he medium height, would you say?”

“Y—yes.”

“Thin or fat?”

“Thin, sort of.”

“Bald?”

“No. He had lots of hair. He was in his early fifties, but he still had—”

“Any scars that you can recall?”

Exasperated, she shifted herself in the rickety chair. “I didn’t talk to him but once or twice in my whole life, Lieutenant. Most of what I’m telling you is just—just—”

“How about the son, Charles? You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sure.”

“How would you describe him?”

“He was tall and kind of stoop-shouldered. I mean, he walked with a kind of a slouch like. His face was thin and seemed more lined that it should, considering he was so young. I mean—” She bit her lip, thinking. “I mean, he seemed—looked—like he was a lot older than he really was. Some kids are like that, you know. Born old.”

“Do you think,” I said slowly, “that you could recognize Charles Kell—Charles Kirby if you were to see him now? Did you know him that well, would you say?”

“Well, I dunno, Lieutenant. I—”

“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do, Mrs. Touhy. I’d like to send a detective by for you in, say, fifteen minutes. He’ll take you shopping. He’ll drive you downtown, so you won’t have to worry about parking. Then he’ll bring you by our office for a half-hour or so afterward. There’s something I want you to do for me—something important.”

“But—”

I rose, snapping my notebook shut. “Fifteen minutes, Mrs. Touhy. And thanks very much. I’ll be waiting for you in our office.”

I closed the paint-peeling door on her mumbling protests. Canelli had the car already started as I slid into the passenger’s seat.

“She didn’t seem overly bright,” he said, pulling away. “Where to?”

“The Hall.”

“I’ll bet I know who you’re going to have her identify. Charles Keller. Right?”

“Right,” I said quietly. “How’d you like to take a drive up to Bolinas?”

“Sounds fine. Why?”

“I want you to find a man called Peter Farwell. You’d better phone first. He might still be in San Francisco, as a matter of fact. Anyhow, I want you to get him for a showup. If he asks any questions, tell him it concerns the hobo we were talking about this morning. Understand?”

Nodding, he repeated the instructions. As he swung the cruiser into the stream of traffic on Alemeny Boulevard, I settled back in the seat, closing my eyes.

17

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT makes you think,” Friedman was saying, “that you’ll ever get Keller into a lineup without an act of the state legislature. I distinctly told you this morning that he was getting a lawyer. So, unless you’re ready to book him, you’d better—”

“All right, let’s plant the sister and Far well outside his house. It won’t be evidence, but it’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“The last sidewalk showup I conducted, it took precisely eighteen hours for the subject to leave his house. And then my ace witness was snoozing. And by the time he—”

“Come on, Pete, set it up for me. I’ve just been in with the captain. He’s not too pleased with the way things’re going.”

“Okay, I’ll give it to Culligan. He’s a good stakeout man. He’s one of these—Hey, where’re you going?”

“I’m going to make the circuit: Yellow Cab, Connoly, Phillips—the whole works. Then I’ll end up at Keller’s, just as soon as you tell me Farwell and Blanche Touhy are staked out. One way or the other, I’ll get Keller out of that house so they can take a look.” I clipped on my gun, tugging impatiently at the cuffs. “What about Tulare? Anything?”

He stood up, walking with me to the office door. “Things move slowly in Tulare. And don’t worry about the captain. The reason he looks unhappy, his generator quit on the way back from Lake Tahoe, and it cost him sixty bucks. And, of course, the dog kept upsetting his water dish.” He clapped me lightly on the shoulder. “Take it easy, old son. I know what’s bugging you: you’ve got the idea that you’re close to cracking the case, and you’re getting impatient. However, you could be farther away than you think. By the way, what did this Stanley Wygle have to say?”

“Nothing much new. But he confirmed everything that everyone else said. Which is something, I guess.”

“What about his alleged Los Angeles affair with the victim?”

I snorted. “Did you ever try getting a lawyer to incriminate himself—by long-distance phone?”

“You were talking for almost an hour. Which made me think that Wygle isn’t much in demand as a lawyer.”

“He had a court cancellation, he said. Anyhow, except for refusing to admit he used to sleep with Carol, he was very helpful.”

“Did he give you a candidate for murderer?”

“No.”

“Did he admit taking kindly old Mr. Brown for his shirt and socks?”

“He said that his client was ‘properly recompensed.’”

“What’d he say about Charles Kirby-Keller?”

“His description roughly matched Farwell’s and Blanche’s.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” Friedman walked with me to the door. “Incidentally, after Canelli delivers Farwell to Culligan and company, shall I tell him to go over to Yellow Cab?”

“I suppose so. It’s beginning to look, though, like we’re going to have to cross-question twelve hundred cabbies before we find our man. It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s a ridiculous business.” He clapped me lightly on the shoulder again. “Have you considered the possibility of applying for a spot as Little League backfield coach?”

“The Little League is baseball, Lieutenant.” I opened the office door. “Don’t forget: let me know when that stakeout’s set up.”

“Right.”

18

I PARKED AROUND THE corner from Fredericks Alley. I slipped a small flashlight into my pocket, shifting my revolver to a more comfortable position. As I slowly walked to the corner in the gathering dusk, I was thinking of the report we’d just received from Tulare. An aging sergeant had known Mr. Clarence Brown personally and had confirmed Blanche Touhy’s story in almost every detail. During the past several years, the sergeant said, Clarence Brown had wandered from town to town and job to job—a burnt-out case. By coincidence, just a year ago, the sergeant had seen Brown’s name on a routine vagrancy bulletin out of Bakersfield.

The sergeant hadn’t been so helpful concerning Brown’s ex-wife and her son. However, he agreed to contact Tulare High School, trying for a picture of the boy. If the sergeant succeeded, he promised to have a man drive the two hundred miles to San Francisco with the picture, possibly tonight yet. I could send the picture by wire to Cleveland, hoping for a juvenile make on Charles Kirby.

Culligan was slumped in the driver’s seat, morosely smoking. I paused at the corner, clearing my throat. After he’d seen me, I stepped back around the corner. He joined me promptly.

“Well?” I asked. “What happened? Anything?”

Culligan was frowning, yet also nodding, irked at the necessity for admitting easy success. “It worked,” he said briefly. “He came out about an hour ago—him and the girl. I had Farwell with me, and Carruthers had the Touhys. Keller and the girl got into that old heap and drove right by the both of us.”

“And?”

“Well, the Touhys were pretty sure Keller was Kirby.”

“What about Farwell?”

“He thought so. He was on the wrong side when they drove by us, so he had to look across the girl to see Keller. But, like I say, he thought so.”

“Did you tail Keller and the girl?”

“Well, certainly,” he answered, offended. “I tailed them myself. They went grocery shopping, then came back.” He jerked his head toward the alley. “They’re in there now. Got back about ten minutes ago.”

“Good. How many men have you got here?”

“Two. Besides me.”

“All right, let’s us go talk to Keller and the girl.”

Not replying, he followed behind as I strode into the alley, now almost completely darkened.

Allowing the silence to lengthen, I looked deliberately from Keller to Angie, then back again, waiting for them to begin squirming. They sat side by side on the lumpy sofa. Keller was hunched forward. His long, wolfish face was defiant; his quick, malevolent eyes were unnaturally bright—strangely eager. Beside him, Angie Rayburn sat in sullen silence, avoiding my eyes. When we’d first entered the apartment, I’d caught her briefly staring at me, uncertainly, as if she’d wanted to tell me something but couldn’t.

I turned to Keller. “It’s only fair to warn you,” I said slowly, “that we’re finally gathering together some loose ends in the Connoly case. And a lot of those loose ends seem to be pointing to you.”

“That’s not really a very good figure of speech, Lieutenant. But I think I get your meaning.”

“I’m not here to amuse you, Keller. I’m here to ask you questions. Which I expect you to answer.”

“My lawyer probably wouldn’t go along with that, Lieutenant.”

“You’re probably right. Lawyers like to see us book suspects first. It’s better for business—their business.”

He laughed. “A neat point. Besides, I’m curious about all these ‘loose ends.’ Tell me about them, Lieutenant. I promise not to interrupt you with raucous laughter.”

“Don’t worry about it, Keller. Somehow I don’t think you’ll be laughing long. And, in any case, all you really have to do is listen.”

He leaned elaborately back, folding his arms and propping his feet against the coffee table. “I’m listening, Lieutenant. Avidly.”

“Ever since I first talked to you, Keller,” I began, “I’ve felt there was a lot that you hadn’t told me about your relationship with Carol Connoly.” As I said it, I sensed that Angie Rayburn had stiffened. Carefully not looking at her, I deliberately continued: “But I couldn’t get at anything concrete. That is”—I paused—“not until I talked to Carol’s sister, Blanche. You remember Blanche, don’t you?”

His guileless smile perfectly complemented the innocent puzzlement of his frown. He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it.

“Right now,” I said slowly, “we’re in the process of getting you made, as we say—identified. It’s a complicated process sometimes, but I think we’re making progress.”

“I’m sure you are, Lieutenant.” His voice was derisively patronizing. Beside him, Angie seemed sunk in thought, her eyes far away.

“We think,” I said, “that your real name is Kirby. Charles Kirby. We think your mother moved from Cleveland to Tulare, where she married a man named Clarence Brown. We think that while you were going to high school in Tulare you had an affair with Carol Connoly, then known as Carol Brady. We also think that during the time you lived in Los Angeles you saw something of Carol, or at least kept track of her. We’re not very clear about that part, actually. But we’re checking. Then, finally, we think that you followed Carol here, to San Francisco. We suspect that over the past several years you probably had a lot more than a casual affair going with your old high school girlfriend.”

“And then what happened, Lieutenant?” His voice was very soft, his dark eyes unrevealing. “How’s the next chapter of your little scenario read?”

“I haven’t started the next chapter yet, Keller. In this business, we take it one chapter at a time.” I paused, then decided to smile at him, matching his cool, sardonic detachment. “How’s it sound so far, though? For authenticity?”

He sat perfectly still, impassively studying me with a quizzical stare that seemed a little forced. Then, half smiling, he said, “You seem to be rather miscast as a policeman, Lieutenant. You’re actually quite subtle—quite perceptive, too. I can see, listening to you, that you’re at least half educated. Which is to say that you’re considerably more civilized than most, policeman or not. You even exhibit certain traces of genuine understanding, probably resulting from some early wound of the psyche that you chose to internalize rather than surrender to the standard all-American pattern of aggressive—”

“Never mind me, Keller. We were talking about you—and about my scenario, as you call it. You still haven’t told me how you like it.”

Deliberately he shrugged. “For authenticity, it’s not bad—at least, not as far as you’ve gone,” he answered readily. “It’s the conclusion, though, that interests me.”

I nodded. “That’s what interests us, too, Keller. Would you like to help us out?”

He pretended to consider it, then finally shook his head, mockingly capricious. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Not until I talk to my lawyer, anyhow.”

Again I nodded, then got to my feet. “By all means, Keller, talk to your lawyer. But I don’t want you to leave town. I don’t want you even to leave this house tonight. Do you understand? If you do, I’ll book you.”

“And I’ll sue you for false arrest.”

I smiled. “Talk to your lawyer first. You’re assuming that I’ll book you for murder. But there’re other charges that’ll do just as well, Keller. So don’t forget it.” I turned to the girl. Speaking harshly, so as to give Keller the impression she was under equal suspicion, I said, “The same applies to you, Miss Rayburn. Don’t leave town. Don’t leave the house.”

She raised her eyes, stared at me inscrutably and then said in a low, tight voice, “I’m supposed to work tonight. I’m supposed to be there at ten o’clock.”

I hesitated, then said, “What club do you work for?”

“The Vortex.”

“All right, go to work, then come right back. Understood?”

“Understood,” she repeated, looking away.

19

I TOSSED THE HIGH SCHOOL picture across the desk. Friedman picked it up, studied it and then nodded.

“That’s him, sure as hell. He was a good-looking teenager, too. Just like Blanche told you.” He pursed his lips. “It seems to me,” he said slowly, “that first thing tomorrow you should talk to the D.A. about booking both Keller and Angie Rayburn as material witnesses. We’re going to look pretty silly if they take off.”

“I don’t know whether we should book Angie, though. She seems to be cooperating. It’d be a dirty trick.”

“My first week on the beat, some eighteen years ago, I figured out that this was a dirty business. And I’ve never seen anything to change my mind.” He aimed a thick forefinger at me. “If you think Kreiger was distressed over his fuel-pump difficulties, consider how he’d feel if you let your finer feelings screw us out of evidence.”

“Speaking of evidence, though, I’m not sure we’ve got a case that the D.A. would—”

Friedman’s phone rang. He listened briefly, snorted in puzzled surprise and finally said, “All right. Tell Sigler that Lieutenant Hastings will be there shortly.” He nodded into the phone, listened for a moment and then hung up without further comment. “Well,” he said dryly, swiveling to face me across the desk, “I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” Automatically, I glanced at my watch. It was 10:20 P.M. At 10:30, I’d planned to go off duty.

“One of your material witnesses has just been shot.”

I was aware of a hollow, sinking feeling as I said, “Angie, you mean?”

He nodded.

“Where?”

“Columbus and Pacific, in an alleyway leading from Pacific to the back entrance of the Vortex.”

“Is she alive?”

“Yes. But Sigler isn’t giving her much time.”

I opened the door. “You’d better see what Culligan says about Keller’s whereabouts. And get cars already rolling to check on Connoly, Phillips and Maureen Phillips. I’ll phone you from the Vortex as soon as I can.”

“Right. Good luck.”

As I watched them draw the blanket up over her face, I felt suddenly drained—tired, discouraged and vaguely sad. I leaned against the fender of the cruiser, folded my arms and took a long, lonely moment to survey the scene.

The dark, narrow alleyway served the back entrance of two restaurants, one cheap hotel and the Vortex. The alley was less than sixty feet long, blind at the far end. I raised my head to scan the windows commanding the murder scene. With the exception of the hotel’s ten dingy, curtain-billowing windows, the remaining three were darkened, barred storeroom windows. In a few minutes, with a dozen men canvassing the vicinity, I’d know whether anyone in the hotel had heard or seen anything. From experience, though, I’d learned that single witnesses, concealed from view, seldom volunteered information.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the furtive, furry scurrying of a rat, darting behind a row of overflowing garbage cans. To myself, I ruefully smiled. I was back where a homicide cop earns his pay: in a dark alley, picking through refuse, searching with infinite care for a weapon or a trail of blood or a bit of abandoned booty. The Connoly case might have started in ornate drawing rooms, exchanging polite conversation. But it was ending where most murderers and their victims finally find each other: in a dark, smelly, dangerous alleyway, where rats dart across broken, rivulet-streaked pavement and scabrous brick rises mute and unrevealing, like the dripping walls of a medieval crypt.

I watched them lift the stretcher carelessly. Now they were carrying her toward me. One of the ambulance stewards casually nodded as he passed. The coroner’s wagon was just behind me, and as they loaded the body I caught the excremental odor of death mingled with the background smell of dampness and garbage. Again I ruefully smiled. On my way home, I’d intended to stop at the Vortex, officially to try and discover the reason for Angie’s curiously significant glance as we’d questioned Keller three hours earlier. But there’d been another, more private reason. I’d been looking forward to seeing Angie Rayburn topless. Instead, though, she was just another reeking corpse. By tomorrow at this time, her family would have—

“Lieutenant.”

I turned to face Sigler, who’d come around my car, surprising me.

“How’s it going at the hotel?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing, so far. But—” He glanced over his shoulder. Following the movement, I saw a scrawny, gray-haired Chinese man, dressed in tattered, cast-off clothing. I’d never seen him before, but I recognized the type. Chinatown was just a few blocks away. And in Chinatown there were countless scavengers—old, bent, ravaged little men, most of them tubercular, many of them a little mad. They passed their days shuffling from refuse heap to garbage can, from alleyway to alleyway, usually with a limp burlap bag clutched close to their emaciated bodies.

“That one might have something for us,” Sigler said. “I’ve had dealings with him before. His name is Lieu Eng. He’s balmy as hell, but he usually gets his facts straight.”

“What’s he say?”

“He says that he was going through some trash behind the hotel, right there.” Sigler pointed to a rear service entrance, midway back from the mouth of the alley. “I get the impression he was sitting on the doorstep, so that he was concealed by the cans. Maybe he was asleep—I can’t get that part of it straight. Anyhow, he saw the victim walking toward the Vortex, there. She was maybe ten or fifteen feet from the Vortex door when, according to Lieu, a man entered the alley. Now—” Sigler raised a cautioning hand. He’d been an inspector less than a year. He was young, but he was steady and careful. “Now, there’s no way of telling what really happened. Even if Lieu could speak English halfway, which he can’t, he’s still nutty. So I—”

“Never mind, Sigler. I know what you’re saying. What is it that you think he meant? I’m not holding you to anything.”

“Well—” He frowned, clearing his throat. “Well, as near as I can piece it out, the suspect was dressed in a jacket and slacks, and he was wearing a hat. That’s about all I can get. Maybe later we can get more. But—”

“Tall or short?”

He spread his hands. “I’m telling you, Lieutenant, that’s all there is, at least for now. When you talk to Lieu, you’ll see what I—”

“All right. Sorry. What else?”

“Well, Lieu said that at first he didn’t even think the suspect was following the girl especially. Then, just as the girl got to the door, the suspect went up to within five feet of her. At least, that’s my impression. Anyhow, according to Lieu, the guy was cool—looking up and down the alley, even looking up at some of the windows.”

“Was the girl facing him?”

“I don’t know. If I had to guess, I’d say no. I get the feeling he was just following her, slow and easy. And, of course, she was shot in the back. So—”

“All right. What happened then?”

Sigler shrugged. “He shot her. Then he took off—walking fast, according to Lieu. Not running.”

“And?”

“And that’s all Lieu saw. I mean, he stayed put, scared. Except—” Again Sigler hesitated. “Except, this is the interesting part.” He pointed to the hotel service entrance. “Lieu was there, see, leaning against the door, peeking out between the garbage cans. And he stayed put, like I said, so that once the suspect got to the sidewalk and turned to the left, he was out of Lieu’s sight. Now, of course, I’ve got three men right now, trying to turn up someone who saw the suspect after he got to the sidewalk. But, so far, we haven’t—”

“Listen, what’s the interesting part?”

He looked startled, then a little hurt. Again clearing his throat, he said, “The interesting part is that, according to Lieu, he heard a door slam—a car door. And then, almost immediately, he saw this Yellow Cab pulling out, as if it might’ve been parked immediately to the left of the alley entrance, just out of his sight. And—”

“Has anyone else corroborated that Yellow Cab?”

Sigler nodded. “I’ve got one tentative identification, only he’s a little gassed—drunk.” He suppressed a sheepish smile. “I know all this might not add up to much, Lieutenant. I mean, a wacko Chinese rag picker and a swacked junior executive, or whatever he is. But—”

“Don’t worry about it, Sigler. You’re doing fine. Now listen—” I gripped his arm. “I want you to hold onto those two witnesses. Threaten the drunk with a D and D pinch unless he cooperates. Give the rag picker a couple of bucks to stay put and promise him a couple of bucks every hour, or something. But hold onto them.” I opened the door of my cruiser. “I’ll give Lieutenant Friedman the word. This might be important, and I want it done right. Understand?”

“Yes, but—” He frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’ve only got about three bucks on me, Lieutenant. See, I wasn’t expecting to—”

“Here.” I put a ten-dollar bill in his hand. “If you don’t have to use it all, don’t. If you want me, I’ll be over at the Yellow Cab lot, probably. I’ll probably be there as long as you’re here. And remember, keep digging.” Impatiently, I blew my horn, beckoning for someone to move a squad car blocking my exit. Then, turning to Sigler, I said, “Next time, make sure you’re carrying some money. In this business, money means more than a gun. You should’ve learned that by now.” I nodded to him, then pulled sharply away, ducking the reporters.

20

THE GIRL WAS A thin-faced, unattractive brunette. As she looked at the shield, she was frowning, pettishly shaking her head. “We’ve got the eleven o’clock check-out coming up,” she said, “and I’m sure Mr. Harrington won’t be able to talk with you until after that. Inspectors Canelli and Haskell have been here all day, you know. And Mr. Harrington goes off at midnight. So he just simply can’t—”

“Where’s Inspector Canelli now?”

She pointed her yellow pencil primly over her shoulder indicating a short corridor. “He’s back there. Room three. But I don’t think—”

“You tell Mr. Harrington I’m investigating a homicide that may involve one of your cabs. Tell him I expect to talk to him just as soon as he finishes his check-out, whatever that is. And, either way, I want to see him within fifteen minutes.” I turned away and walked down the hallway, opening the door of room three.

Canelli, sitting across the table from a bald-headed taxi driver, looked up in surprise. Then he hesitantly smiled. “Hi, Lieutenant. What’s—”

I turned to the cabbie. “That’ll be all for now. You can go home, or wherever you’re supposed to go.” As the driver hurriedly left, I turned back to Canelli. “Where’s Haskell?”

He moved his chin to the left. “Next door. What’s up?”

Briefly I explained, then said, “I want you and Haskell to get together with the radio dispatchers here. Put it out on their radio that we’re looking for the Yellow Cab parked at Wren Alley and Pacific Avenue sometime between ten-oh-five and ten-fifteen tonight. Tell them we’re going to require that every single cabbie on this shift account for his precise movements during that time. Make it an A.P.B., or whatever they’d call it. Make damn sure everyone knows about it, and knows it’s police business—serious police business. Tell them we’ve got our own cars rolling, and we’ll be checking them on the street. But don’t mention the homicide. Pull out all the other stops, though. These cabbies are licensed by the police, and I’m ready to start making it stick. Got it?”

“Yessir.” He was halfway to the door.

“How many drivers on this shift?” I asked.

“About two hundred forty.”

“Christ.” I rapped my knuckles painfully on the table, then jerked my head toward him. “All right, get going. I’ll get some more men down here.”

He opened the door, hesitated and then turned back. “If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d get together with Harrington. He’s—”

“Don’t worry about Harrington.” I walked back down the corridor. Every detective is familiar with the taxicab routine. I knew that Yellow Cab operated a fleet of four hundred cabs, twenty-four hours a day, three shifts. Now—on a late Monday night—they were at their lowest operating level. Harrington, the second-shift manager, would be leisurely checking his drivers in and out. He’d been on the job less than a year and cooperated with the police only grudgingly.

I knocked on Harrington’s door and immediately entered. He was just emerging from the glass check-out booth adjoining his office. He was a bald, beefy, red-faced man of about fifty, a retired naval officer.

“What’s all this?” he asked, pointing angrily to the loudspeaker, sputtering out my instructions. “This is a private company we’re running, you know. And it seems to me that you could at least do me the courtesy of—”

“A little more than thirty minutes ago,” I said quietly, “we had a homicide at Columbus and Pacific. A Yellow Cab was eyeballed leaving the scene. Last Tuesday night, when Mrs. Carol Connoly was murdered, a Yellow Cab was seen at the scene. And I want—”

“That’s coincidence. It doesn’t give you the right to—” Outside the glass booth, a horn discreetly sounded. “There, you see? I’m going to have twenty cabs lined up out there by the time you finish this. I’ve got a driver coming in and a driver going out every ninety seconds.”

I stepped closer. Still in a very quiet voice—pointing past his shoulder to the glass booth—I said, “You get back there and attend to your business, Harrington. And I’ll attend to mine. But I want you to understand this: don’t get in my way, and don’t take up my time. If you’ve got any complaints, take them up with your boss. If he wants to, he’s welcome to take them up with my boss. Now, how many drivers are you expecting in here between now and midnight?”

He’d gone pale with anger, but after drawing a long, deep breath, he said, “About eighty.”

“All right. In a few minutes, I’ll have four more inspectors here. Each of those eighty drivers is to check with an inspector before he leaves. Otherwise, he’ll get his license yanked. Permanently. Is that clear?”

He looked at me with pale, furious eyes. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“All right, then.” Again I pointed to the booth. “Get back to work. And if those drivers don’t check with us, I’m going after your ass first.”

Glancing at the large electric clock, I was surprised to see that the time was almost 2 A.M. During the past hour, the check-ins had considerably slowed. And still we hadn’t come up with our man. I’d last talked with Sigler, at the Vortex, about 12:30. He had nothing new to report. Friedman had called at 1:15 A.M. to say that Maureen Phillips and Vincent Connoly had both been home when inspectors had arrived at approximately 10:35. Arch Phillips, at 1:15 A.M., was still out. Keller had apparently been asleep when Culligan knocked on his door at approximately 10:25 P.M. The M.E. had phoned about midnight to say that he couldn’t do anything about an autopsy until the next morning, unless I wanted to make a big thing of it. He did say, though, that the bullet was still inside Angie Rayburn. It was the only promising development of the long night.

I saw Canelli finishing with a tall, good-looking black driver who smiled at me and waved. Realizing that I should know him, I waved back. Then I gestured for Canelli to come over to me.

“When’d you come on duty?” I asked.

“About eleven this morning,” he said, yawning.

“How many drivers have we interviewed since I came?”

“About a hundred fifty. Maybe more.”

“All right, now listen, Canelli. I’m going to leave you in charge of this whole thing. According to what Harrington says, the last man who could’ve been driving at ten-oh-five would’ve checked out of here on the ten P.M. shift, so he’d finish at six A.M. this morning. Right?”

“Right, Lieutenant.”

“Okay. So take tomorrow—today—off. Report Wednesday morning. Got it?”

Faintly he smiled. “I got Wednesday and Thursday off, too, Lieutenant. They’re my regular days off.”

I returned the smile, tapping him on the shoulder. “There you are, Canelli: a three-day weekend. It all works out for the best. And don’t forget to set up a four-man shift before you leave here. If you can, get either Sobel or Carruthers to take charge. And make damn sure you give your report to your replacement. Got it?”

He nodded. Then, hesitantly, he said, “What about that Los Angeles trip, Lieutenant?”

I spread my hands. “You still haven’t found me that cabbie yet, Canelli. Fair’s fair.”

He snorted. “If I ever find that cabbie, Lieutenant, it’s beginning to look like I’m going to find your murderer, too.”

I yawned. “With your luck, Canelli, I wouldn’t doubt it. Goodnight. I’ll be downtown about nine A.M.”

21

STUBBORNLY CULLIGAN SHOOK HIS head. “There was no way, no way at all, that Keller could’ve got out last night without my boys seeing him. Besides, why would he kill his own girlfriend?”

“To keep her from talking,” Friedman said quietly, looking at Culligan with a chilly superior’s stare. “She already told us about Keller’s blackmail plans. Maybe she had more to tell.”

“But—” Culligan shifted impatiently in his chair. “I’m telling you that—”

“I think,” Friedman said, “that Keller could’ve slipped out through the back alleyway. Your boys started dogging it, I think, when they saw Angie leave with the car. It happens all the time: cops start thinking that without a car no one goes anywhere. But people can still walk—and still hop fences, too, which Keller could’ve done. You already told me that it was pitch-black behind Keller’s place. And if he got out, killed the girl and got back inside without being seen, he’d have the world’s best alibi: a police stakeout.”

Watching Culligan’s face angrily flushing, I decided to interrupt. Pointing to the small stack of reports lying on the desk, I said to Friedman, “What about the other possibles?”

He yawned, reaching heavily for his paper cupful of coffee. Watching him, I realized that he was tired. Neither of us had gotten more than four hours’ sleep, and it was showing.

Finally, sighing, he leaned back in his chair, half closed his eyes and recited, “Sobel got to Victor Connoly’s house at approximately ten-twenty-seven P.M. last night. Connoly’s house is about a seven-minute drive from Pacific and Columbus. Connoly came to the door in his pajamas, with his hair messed up. He said he’d been upstairs in bed, sleeping. His son was also sleeping, he said, and the maid was spending the night with relatives. Sobel didn’t feel like he could exactly roust Connoly, which was true. However, Sobel thought fast. He pretended to be concerned for Connoly’s safety, and on that pretext went through the first floor of the house. He found the back door unlocked, and the lights on in the kitchen, the bathroom and the hall. He asked Connoly whether he—Connoly—was in the habit of retiring with the downstairs lights burning and the back door unlocked. Connoly said that he’d had three stiff drinks before going to bed, because of his bereavement. Sobel didn’t see that he could do anything but accept Connoly’s story. And he was right, I guess.”

“What about Arch Phillips?”

Friedman smiled wryly. “Phillips arrived home at approximately one-forty-five A.M. Carruthers met him on the doorstep, which seemed to distress Phillips. At first, he wouldn’t talk. Finally, though, the whole story came out: Phillips had been to a dirty movie, which he sat through twice. He went to the movie at about nine P.M. and got out about one-fifteen.”

“Neither Connoly nor Phillips is completely off the hook, then.”

“Correct.”

“What about Maureen?”

Friedman looked at me sharply. “You seem to be on a first-name basis with one of our prime suspects, Lieutenant.”

Not replying, I tried to appear impatient, waiting for him to continue.

Finally he said, “Mrs. Phillips was supposedly home, watching TV. When our man arrived at ten-thirty, she was wearing a bathrobe. She said she returned from a cocktail party at about nine P.M. Naturally, the boys are checking this, not to mention Phillips’ dirty movie and Connoly’s—”

Friedman’s phone rang. “That,” he said, “is probably trouble. I told them to hold the routine calls.” With a deep, noisy sigh he lifted the phone. After a puzzled moment he frowned, shrugged and then passed the phone to me, without comment.

“Who’s this?” It was Canelli’s voice.

“This is Hastings, Canelli. What’s up?”

“Well, like I was telling Lieutenant Friedman, a very strange thing happened. I’m down at Yellow Cab. I decided that I might as well come back down here this morning. I mean, I couldn’t get anyone that—” He hesitated, then said, “I mean, I decided that as long as I started with this and everything, I might just as well finish it. So I figured that—”

“Listen, Canelli, get to the point, will you?”

“Well, the point is that something very strange happened down here.”

“You already said that, Canelli. What happened that’s so strange?”

“Well, you know the setup down here: how they keep most of their cabs in their parking lot, but sometimes they park them on the street, especially during the slow shifts, when there’s lots of cabs not being used. It’s against the codes, parking the cabs outside the fence. And, as a matter of fact, I was going to mention it to Mr. Gross, the manager. But then I figured that greater minds than mine must have—”

“You’re off the subject again, Canelli.”

“Yeah. Well, anyhow, I got down here about an hour ago, and I parked my car outside the lot, on the street. And I just happened to notice that the cab I parked behind was number 327. The reason I happened to notice, we used to live at 327 Claire Street when I was a kid, so the number 327 always stuck with me. See, I’d just turned fourteen, and there was this girl down the block who really—”

“Canelli. Please. Get to the point.”

“Well, the point is that about a half-hour later I heard Mr. Gross checking out a guy in number 327. So when I heard the number, I glanced up and I just happened to notice a dent in the fender of the cab going out, which I hadn’t noticed before. So, just for the hell of it, I went outside and looked for my car. And I’ll be damned if the same cab wasn’t still parked in front of it. Without the dent.”

“Number 327, you mean?”

“Right, number 327. So I told Mr. Gross, who obviously thought I was screwy or something. But then I showed him. So then he thought maybe he made a mistake on the check-out number. So we argued back and forth for a while until finally they took a count. And you know what?”

“I give up, Canelli. What?”

“They got an extra cab down here, Lieutenant. I swear to God. Somehow, somewhere, they got an extra cab: two number 327’s. So I thought I better—”

“Is anybody there with you, Canelli? Any other cops?”

“No. You didn’t say anyone else should come down. And, see, I’m not really supposed to be on duty. You told me so yourself, Lieutenant, last night. But I just got to thinking this morning that—” He broke off, listening to someone who’d interrupted on the other end of the line. Then: “Hey, can you hold on for a second, Lieutenant? Mr. Gross just came in, and there’s something else, now, that’s screwy. Can you hold on?”

I took a deep breath. “All right, Canelli. But let’s not make a scenario out of it, all right?”

“Sure, Lieutenant. Just a second.”

“What’s happening?” Friedman asked.

“I’m not sure, but Canelli thinks he’s discovered a ringer cab outside the Yellow Cab lot.”

“What’d you mean, ‘a ringer cab’?”

I shook my head, then held the phone toward him. “Would you like to quiz Canelli?”

He raised both hands. “I’m the senior homicide lieutenant, don’t forget. My time is far too valuable to—”

“Hey, Lieutenant.” Canelli’s voice was excited. “Guess what now?”

“I still give up, Canelli. What?”

“Well, Mr. Gross says that about six months ago a Yellow Cab was boosted. They found it abandoned two days later down in Menlo Park somewhere. Remember?”

“No.”

“Well, the interesting thing was that the cab had been stripped—on the inside. Except for the illuminated dome, which was on the outside. The boosters took the radio and the meter and the certificate and the dome. So now Mr. Gross just went out to check, and it turns out that he can identify the meter and the radio, which had serial numbers. And they’re there, in that number 327 cab.”

“You mean that—”

“Mr. Gross figures,” he interrupted, “that someone boosted that cab, and stripped it on the inside, and abandoned it, and then made himself a whole new cab. He started with an ordinary Ford sedan, and painted it himself, and even did the lettering, which gives the whole thing away, according to Mr. Gross. Then the thief put in the meter and everything that he stole.”

“Is Mr. Gross sure about all this?”

“Well, sure he’s sure. And he’s pretty puzzled, I can tell you. He says that—”

“Is he there now, in the office?”

“No, he went outside to take another look at—Hey, here he is, Lieutenant. He’s—Wait a second, Lieutenant.”

“You wait a second,” I said into the telephone. Then, turning to Friedman: “Get Communications to call two cruisers over to the Yellow Cab lot, code two. Get my car around. And you’d better—”

“Lieutenant.” Canelli’s voice was high, excited. “Someone just took off in that cab. And he’s not a cabbie, either, Lieutenant. He didn’t check in or anything. He just got in the cab and took off like a bat out of—”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“No. But Mr. Gross got a glimpse—just a glimpse.”

“And?”

“Well, the suspect’s short, and he’s wearing a Yellow Cab hat, just like the rest of the drivers. And that’s all Mr. Gross can—”

“Tell it to Lieutenant Friedman, Canelli. Then wait for me outside the Yellow Cab office. There’s two cruisers on the way, and I’m coming myself, right now.” I handed the phone to Friedman, saying, “I’m going down there. Get this from Canelli, and get it on the air. I’ll check in with you as soon as I’m rolling.”

22

I PULLED SHARPLY TO the curb, jerked on the brake and motioned for Canelli to take the wheel. I glanced at my watch. Exactly six minutes had elapsed since I’d left the Hall and heard the bulletin on the 327 cab go out on the air. Six minutes, with no results. In six minutes, the suspect could have crossed half the city.

“Which way, Lieutenant?”

“Which way did the cab go?”

He pointed.

“All right, let’s go that direction. Take it easy, though. Unfortunately, there’s no place to go.”

“Nobody’s spotted him, eh?” He clashed the gears shifting into second.

“Right. Did you get anything else from Gross?”

“No. But I told him to put out the squeal on his own radio. Was that all right?”

I looked at him. “Yes, Canelli, that was all right. That was using your head, in fact—assuming that the suspect doesn’t have the radio in the cab turned on, which isn’t likely, assuming he’s running.”

Canelli gave me his shy, pleased smile. I turned up the radio. I’d gotten a special auxiliary net assigned to the search for cab 327, but the reception was poor.

Then, suddenly, “This is Inspectors Fifty-three. We have a Yellow Cab, number 327, in view. It’s proceeding west on McAllister, at about Laguna. Driver is alone. He’s a Caucasian male. That’s all we can see. He’s proceeding west at moderate speed. We’re following at a little less than a block.”

I switched the mike to “transmit,” then preempted Communications control of the auxiliary net to say, “All right, let’s get all available unmarked units—repeat, unmarked units—into that sector. Let’s get a rolling tail set up, using this net. I’m proceeding to the area. All radio cars are to avoid contacting the suspect, unless he spooks. We don’t want him to—”

“He’s turning left at Divisadero, Lieutenant, still at moderate—”

“Inspectors Fourteen,” came Culligan’s voice. “We’re turning into Divisadero at Haight Street and should—Wait. We see him now, Lieutenant. We’re approaching him head-on, in good shape. Now we’re making a U-turn, proceeding south on Divisadero, a block ahead of suspect, also going south. He’s—Hey, get that radio car out of here,” Culligan said sharply. Then, inaudibly swearing, he said, “Suspect is turning left on Fifteenth, might be spooked. We’re—”

“Inspectors Thirty-eight, on Fifteenth, proceeding west. Suspect is coming toward us, traveling at—He’s pulling to the curb, Lieutenant. Stopping. He—”

We were coming up on Market Street, with six blocks yet to go. Ahead was a red light and heavy intersection traffic.

“Hit the siren, just for this intersection,” I told Canelli, at the same time listening to the radio as Culligan said, “We’re on Duboce and should—Oh, oh.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“We have the suspect in view now, Lieutenant. Inspectors Thirty-eight, too. And the suspect is picking up a woman who hailed him.”

“What the—what’d you mean, Culligan?”

“I mean that she must’ve thought he was a regular cab, and she hailed him.” His voice was deliberate. In the crunch, Culligan was always cool. “And he stopped for her,” he said. “He’s under way again, proceeding east on Fifteenth, heading toward Market. He’s—Now he’s pulling over again. Looks like he’s going to let her out.”

“Stay back. Don’t let him see you. What’s your cross street, Culligan?”

“Noe. Fifteenth and Noe.”

I pulled down the scan map. “All right, I want Inspectors Fifty-three to cover the Fifteenth and Castro intersection, and Inspectors Thirty-eight to take Market and Fifteenth. Communications, I’ll take two more unmarked units, and release the rest. That’s eight units altogether.”

“Roger,” came the metallic dispatcher’s voice, followed by a muffled exclamation from Culligan.

“What is it, Culligan?”

His voice was tight as he said, “I’m about a half block away, Lieutenant. I’m stopped, so I haven’t got a real good view. But it looks like he’s got a—Yeah,” he said sharply. “He’s got a gun. He’s still parked, for the second time, and now he’s getting the woman into the front seat, beside him. I think you should—”

“Block him in front, Culligan,” I said, motioning Canelli to accelerate. “All other units, let’s bottle him up while he’s stopped. He’s going to use the woman for a hostage, sure as hell. Let’s move it.” I braced myself as we swung around the last corner. Ahead, Culligan’s cruiser was angling across Fifteenth Street. The Yellow Cab, at the curb, was under way. Culligan was closing on him, crossing in front of the cab, braking. The cab struck Culligan’s car.

“In back,” I shouted to Canelli. “Cut in back of him. He’ll—” Traveling fast, a black cruiser was suddenly in front of us. Canelli braked, jerking our car hard to the left. The black cruiser stopped; its doors were swinging open. The cab, tires screaming, lurched backward, crashing into the black cruiser’s rear fender, hard.

“That’s it,” I shouted to Canelli, wrenching my door open. “He’s bottled up. I’ll go for the woman. You cover me.” Drawing my gun, crouching low, I rounded the rear of the black cruiser. Other figures sprinted, tumbling, shouting. I was beside the cab, still crouching. I gripped—

“Gas,” a voice screamed. “Fire. For Christ’s sake, fire. Get clear.”

The woman was Negro. I saw her frantic hands through the window, clawing. I—

A single shot crashed close beside me, inside the cab. On my knees, I gripped the door handle, pulling. I could smell smoke, feel the heat, hear the roaring flames. The door came open. She was tumbling out, sprawling on top of me. Fighting clear, heaving, I saw Canelli grasp her.

“—away, Lieutenant,” he was screaming. “Get away. It’ll explode, for God’s sake.” He was half carrying the black woman, whose nose streamed blood.

I rolled to my knees, crouched, pushed myself to my feet. Orange flame and greasy smoke surrounded the car like a blazing cocoon, spilling into the cab’s interior through open windows. Shielding my face, I moved a single step closer to see inside.

“Lieutenant.” It was Canelli’s voice, screaming in my ear. “They’ve got him. Get away, for God’s sake.” Above the sucking roar of the flames I heard a fire siren.

“Where is he, Canelli?”

“Here.” He gripped my arm, pulling me away. “Over here.” A cluster of detectives stood in the front garden of an old restored Victorian house. A low privet hedge surrounded the small, elegant yard. Some of the cops stood inside the hedge, some stood outside. They were all looking down at the ground. Something about their strangely silent circle seemed ritualistic—private, solemn. Behind me, I could still hear the roaring fire.

I holstered my gun, wiped sweat from my eyes and stepped over the low hedge. Culligan and Sigler made room for me. Looking down, I saw Peter Farwell, handcuffed, stretched full length on the ground, legs straight, ankles together, as if he were laid out for burial. Beside him was a visored yellow cap. He was staring directly into my eyes, his misshapen mouth twisting in a grotesque smile.

“I don’t have a title yet,” he said, “but the scene plays, Lieutenant. Maybe we can sell the movie rights.”

As I looked at him, I was aware of the smell of burned cloth. My right fingers were fretfully picking at the left sleeve of my jacket. Looking down, I realized that the jacket was scorched. It was the same jacket I’d soaked with Darrell Allingham’s blood only three days before.

“—make a deal with you, Lieutenant,” Farwell was saying.

I drew a deep, trembling breath, and smelled again the burning gas.

“What kind of a deal, Farwell?” I asked finally.

“Her funeral is at two this afternoon. If you take me, I’ll tell you how and why. Just you and your partner and me. While we’re watching, I’ll tell you all about it. Everything.”

“All right,” I said slowly. “You’ve made a deal. Let’s go.”

23

“HOW’S THIS, LIEUTENANT?” CANELLI pulled in behind a green Cadillac. “We can see everything without getting out of the car.”

“Fine.”

Canelli pulled up and stopped. We were atop a small knoll overlooking the gravesite. Canelli had placed the car so that Farwell had a good view, and so that I could see the ceremony without taking my eyes from Farwell, seated beside me. Canelli set the brake, pocketed the keys and half turned in the driver’s seat, also keeping Farwell in view.

But the small man, staring intently toward the grave, was oblivious to us. Covertly I glanced over my shoulder. I wondered whether Farwell had noticed the two cruisers trailing us.

“They’re just starting,” Farwell said softly. “The minister’s just beginning.”

Not replying, I reached across him to roll down the window. The gravesite was a little more than a hundred yards down the slope; we could hear the minister’s voice but not his words. A group of perhaps thirty stood surrounding the grave, heads bowed. For someone who’d so often had her picture in the society pages, I was thinking, this last gathering for Carol Connoly seemed very small. Near the head of the grave, stylishly dressed in a dark blue suit, Victor Connoly stood with his gleaming blond head elegantly bowed. At the foot of the grave stood Blanche Touhy, sobbing.

“Carol was destined for this,” Farwell said. “Everyone has a very narrow, very specific destiny. And this was Carol’s destiny—this, and Victor Connoly.” His voice was a hushed, disembodied monotone, as if he were speaking from the depths of a hypnotist’s trance. “If she’d been born in another time, at another place,” he said, “she could’ve been anything she liked—anything at all.”

“If,” Canelli said. His voice, too, was hushed.

Farwell’s back was turned to me; I couldn’t see his face. But I saw his miniaturized lineman’s shoulders lift in a wry shrug.

“‘If’ is the one universal word, Inspector. Not ‘God,’ not ‘love,’ but ‘if.’ Because life is a series of random encounters, an animated succession of unrelated accidents. When I was eight years old, I had polio—an accident. My grade school had steps, an incredibly long flight of eighteen steps, which was also an accident. Every day, I pulled myself up those steps as if I were some maimed insect, dragging its dead thorax. I remember that I used to twitch my head from side to side, trying to discover who was giggling. And that movement must’ve seemed very comical, too—very insectlike, in fact. Which, in turn, must’ve made the little girls giggle all the more.” His voice trailed off as he watched the ceremony for a moment. Then, still in the same hushed voice, he said, “It was always the little girls who laughed. I still hear them sometimes in my sleep. Sometimes I hear them when I’m awake, too. But then it’s only an echo, a lost, lonely echo, mocking love like some minor chord in a long, loud symphony of avarice and hate and lust and longing.”

“How come you can walk,” Canelli said, “if you had polio? I thought—”

“Actually,” Farwell said, still in a dreamy voice, “the disease was more subtle than polio—a rare form of meningitis, in fact. When I was twelve, I was sent to Warm Springs. I was a charity case, and I fought the place like a captured animal rages against his cage. But a year later I could walk. And my father, whom I’ve always hated, demanded that I build myself up so that I could learn the manly art of self-defense and begin getting back at everyone who’d ever laughed at me, or pushed me off my crutches.” He smiled briefly and bitterly. “It turned out to be a life’s work,” he said softly, “employing a variety of instruments. Everything from fists to typewriters to firearms.”

“What about Carol, Farwell?” I asked. “How’d it happen about Carol?”

“It began to happen, I suppose, the moment she said she was leaving me, moving out. Abstractly I’d known the moment would come, like you know you’re going to die. She could never bring herself to let me make love to her, you see, although she tortured us both by trying. So our time together was limited. But when the moment finally came, I felt myself curl up inside and begin to die. I remember feeling like an insect curling up in a tormented ball. I knew she’d taken everything from me, both love and hate, leaving only a self-pitying sorrow. And sorrow, Lieutenant, isn’t a salable creative impulse—at least, not in Hollywood. Unless, of course, one happens to possess genuine talent. So I watched her cab pull away, and I waved. And then I went inside and closed the door. And I knew, truly and surely, that I was beginning the long, dreary trek down the other side. And so for all practical creative purposes, I died. Standing just inside the door, watching her go, I died. I could look at her objectively and realize that she was intellectually and emotionally my inferior. I realized that she, like myself, had been maimed at an early age. But the libido couldn’t hear what the brain knew so well. And so I died. And in due time my associates ratified my demise, with elaborate regret, with much talk of lapsed options and escape clauses and the public’s fickle fancy. So I—” His voice trailed off. Looking beyond him, I saw the casket sinking slowly into the ground. Victor Connoly took the traditional handful of dirt and made the traditional gesture. The minister was praying.

“How’d it happen, Farwell?” I asked. “You promised to tell me how it actually happened.”

He nodded, still staring down toward her grave. Then, drawing a long, deep breath, he said, “It all began by chance—accidentally, as everything begins. I didn’t even know she was in San Francisco. I’d made a particular effort to sever the present from the past, you see. And for a while, living in Bolinas, I was reasonably contented. I began grinding out my horror comic books and receiving checks from the publisher. I even wrote a little anonymous pornography to supplement my income. And then a year ago I happened to see a newspaper picture of Carol. Ironically, the newspaper was actually a few years old; I’d found it among some trash in the basement of a house I’d rented. You see, I never read newspapers. I avoid newspapers, mirrors and people. I—” His disembodied voice trailed off. He was staring straight ahead now, sightlessly.

“And that’s when it started,” I said. “When you saw her picture in the paper.”

He nodded. “That’s when it started. At first I found myself drawn to that part of the basement so that I could glance at the paper. Finally I took the newspaper upstairs and put it on my desk. I had a stack of other research material there, and I tucked the newspaper underneath. But a week or so later, the newspaper emerged on top. I’d find myself staring at it while I was writing grisly little comic books for grisly minded little children. And then—only then, mind you—did I finally allow myself to actually read the caption of the picture and the ridiculous little society squib concerning a Halloween costume party. I next noted the date: almost three years previous. Possibly, then, she’d moved. Possibly she’d even died, I remember thinking.” He paused. Then, half smiling, he said, “That, I suppose, was the essential embryo, the one single significant germ of the idea. I remember feeling vaguely cheated, imagining that she was already dead. I remember feeling that in some strange way her death was my affair, just as my nominal death had been her affair.”

Again he paused, obviously caught in reverie. Then, in a strangely indifferent voice, he said, “The newspaper picture, of course, remained on top of my research material, the material from which I actually wrote. So one day, on a whim, I began writing a scenario—the story of a murder. And the victim, of course, was Carol. The murderer was myself, and the motive was revenge. It took weeks to complete the story. Then, when it was done—when I’d planned the so-called perfect crime—I began implementing the plan. I studied Carol’s movements minutely. Once I even sat behind her in a movie. In a way, that sensation—being so close to her, unrecognized—was even more compelling than the actual murder.”

“How long did you track her, Farwell? Over what period of time?”

His eyes on the graveside ceremony, he ignored me. I repeated the question. Finally, blinking, he said, “The whole process took almost a year. First, you see, it was just an idea; it developed exactly as a story develops in a writer’s mind. In this case, it began with the fictitious moment of her death. I spent days imagining that moment. I would fantasize myself to sleep, just as a lover does. In fact—” His thick lips moved in a sad, pensive smile, strangely gentle. “In fact, I first considered a murder and suicide. I would steal into her bedroom, I decided, and kill her. Then I would kill myself. I remember imagining in detail how I would stand leaning over her body and shoot myself in the head so that I would fall across her and our blood would flow together. But then—” He sighed, shaking his head. “Then more violent fantasies began to intrude, until finally the plot was fixed on murder. Then, having accepted that, I began to work out the story so that I would escape detection. That was when I hit on the idea of the cab. I observed her leaving the house once or twice a week regularly, by cab.” He shrugged. “The rest was simple. First I bought a new Ford. Then I stripped a Yellow Cab of its meter and radio, et cetera, and then proceeded to manufacture myself a taxicab.” He smiled. “I even made a few dollars picking up fares. It gave my role as cabdriver a feeling of verisimilitude. That’s very important, you know, in the arts. And her murder—the story of her murder—was a work of art. I’ve often thought, these last few days, that it’s impossible to say when fiction left off and fact began. It seems somehow as if everything was a blank between that first rough scenario and the actual murder. One moment I was imagining her dead, and the next moment I was watching her bleed.” He glanced at me with vague, puzzled eyes. Then, recovering himself, he said, “You’ll find the manuscript in my files, Lieutenant. I titled it The Disappearance.” Now his smile twisted into a wry grimace. “The discovery of her body, you see, wasn’t in the script. I spent five hours digging her grave. And another two hours concealing it. Elaborately.”

“Why did you come into headquarters when you heard she’d been found?” I asked.

“It’s all in the script, Lieutenant. Or rather, in the epilogue. I wrote two epilogues, as you’ll see: one upbeat, the other downbeat.” He paused, his attention now fixed on the burial ceremony. Looking past him, I saw the minister making the final sign of benediction. Connoly was turning away from the grave, walking down the gentle slope to the waiting cars. One by one, the mourners followed. Quickly the gravesite was deserted.

“Tell me why you came down to headquarters, Farwell,” I repeated.

Rousing himself, he sighed deeply. Then, as if he were impatiently explaining a simple problem to a backward student, he said, “Naturally, I made elaborate contingency plans based on the procedures I knew you’d follow in the event her body was discovered. I knew, of course, that you’d eventually run across my name. And since I had a possible motive and also the opportunity, I knew I’d at least be questioned. So I simply employed a basic preemptive gambit, which I imagine was successful. I imagine you took me for exactly what I seemed: an odd, misshapen little man who’d loved Carol hopelessly and wanted to help you find her killer.”

I heard Canelli chuckle ruefully. “That’s right, by God.”

Seemingly pleased, Farwell nodded, faintly smiling as he said, “If you’d come looking for me, you’d’ve been more suspicious, more alert. It’s basic psychology.”

Again Canelli chuckled. This time I frowned, silencing him.

“Did you always keep your cab with the other Yellow Cabs?” I asked.

Farwell seemed almost primly shocked. “Of course not, Lieutenant. I’d rented a garage, where I spent months converting the car into the cab. When I’d—” He paused, then blinked, as if wracked by a sudden spasm. “When I’d … finished … Tuesday night, I took the cab back to my garage. But last night I’m afraid I panicked. I was upset, anyhow, because of the necessity for killing the Rayburn girl. But I knew she’d recognized me. So—” His voice trailed off as he shook his head with slow regret. Then, recovering, he said, “Just as I was turning into the last block before my garage last night, I saw a police car coming toward me. I thought—probably mistakenly—that my garage was staked out. So I implemented my emergency plan, which called for parking my cab outside the Yellow Cab lot, then picking it up the following day.” He smiled wryly. “Little realizing, of course, that somehow you’d second-guessed me and already had my cab staked out.”

In the front seat, Canelli was leering. I frowned at him. The funeral procession was pulling away; the hearse had already cleared the gates. Now two men were approaching the deserted grave, each carrying a shovel.

“I suppose,” Farwell said, turning to stare at me with his wounded, deep-set eyes, “I suppose it’d be against regulations if you were to allow me to go down there alone and see the casket before it’s buried.”

I started to nod, agreeing that, yes, it was against regulations. If he should escape or kill himself, or even harm himself, I’d be in serious trouble.

“I’d have to go with you,” I said finally.

He nodded regretfully. “You’d have to. Certainly.” He looked at me for a long moment of mute entreaty, then settled back silently in the seat, closing his eyes.

For a moment I watched the approaching gravediggers. Then I reached across to open the door.

“All right, Farwell. But you’d better not make a fool of me.”

Without speaking, he climbed out of the car, moving awkwardly with his handcuffed hands. Then outside he turned briefly back to me. “We’re all fools, Lieutenant—born fools, eventually dead fools. That’s what makes it all so foolish: death.”

He smiled with a kind of wan, gentle regret, then began walking briskly down the slope, racing the gravediggers.

24

FROWNING, KREIGER UNCOVERED HIS hamburger, removing a limp slice of dill pickle. He salted the hamburger, then reassembled the sandwich. He bit once, tentatively, then grimaced. “The next time there’s a staff meeting, so help me God, I’m going to make a motion that they get a new fry cook.”

“He’s an ex-hero, though.”

Kreiger snorted. “He’s brain damaged. He was chasing a speeder and ran his bike into a delivery truck. He’ll get his pension whether he’s cooking or not. In fact, he’d make more money if he didn’t cook. I took the trouble to check.”

“The tuna fish isn’t bad. For a police department cafeteria, that is.”

Glumly chewing, he asked, “Is Farwell still cooperating?”

“Beautifully. Exhaustively.”

“What about the horseshit blanket that Friedman kept talking about? Was it a bona-fide clue or not?”

“It turned out to be one of those clues that creates more problems than it solves. Everyone thought that because Carol rode there was a connection. The way it worked out, though, Farwell just picked up an old blanket that he happened to have around the house. And it just so happened that, the Sunday before, he’d taken the blanket out to some pasture near Bolinas. He apparently dragged the blanket through some horse manure.”

“That’s the trouble with lab findings,” Kreiger said. “There’s no qualitative index. They found traces of manure—plus traces of oil, and dirt, and dried soda pop, and iodine crystals, and God knows what else. But because manure rang some kind of a bell, everyone charged off in the wrong direction.” He shook his head, took a last dissatisfied bite of the hamburger and reached for his coffee. “It may be old-fashioned, but I still say that most of the time most cops can nail down their suspects simply by taking the time to ask a few questions, and then taking the trouble to watch the suspect while he answers.”

Finishing my tuna sandwich, I didn’t reply. I watched Canelli and Friedman come into the cafeteria. They seemed to be arguing amiably as they studied the menu board. Kreiger was watching them, too. Hearing him exhale vigorously, I knew that something was bothering him. Kreiger never allowed himself to become really disturbed over anything of major importance. Instead, he vented his feelings on trivia, like overdone hamburgers, or automobile repair bills, or misbehaving English sheepdogs.

“When I see those two together,” Kreiger said, nodding toward the cafeteria line, “I swear to God that I’m going to get every man in my detail out jogging. It—it’s a departmental disgrace.”

I smiled to myself, sipping my coffee. “The fact is, though, that almost everyone else in the detail is pretty trim.”

“That may be,” he answered. “But the sight of those two standing together is just—” He shook his head, again exhaling loudly.

I finished my coffee, then glanced at the clock. “I’d better go. I’ve got to be at the D.A.’s in ten minutes.”

He nodded, saying good-bye. I walked across the cafeteria, then paused at the door, looking back. Friedman and

Canelli were sitting at the captain’s table. I took a moment to study Kreiger’s inscrutable face as he watched the two men unloading their trays. Then, smiling to myself as I imagined Friedman in a sweat suit, I allowed the heavy door to swing closed.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

1

FRIEDMAN SLUMPED INTO MY visitor’s chair, sighing deeply and shaking his head sadly as he sailed a departmental memo across my desk.

“At age forty-six,” he said heavily, “I’ve finally gotten used to the idea of being Jewish. When I was a kid, I used to get into fights about being Jewish—most of which I lost. When I was a struggling patrolman who never wanted to be a cop anyhow, I was edgy about being a Jew. When I didn’t advance in the department, I decided it was discrimination. I finally figured out, though, that the problem was really two kids, both in diapers at the same time, plus a wife who was too pooped to do much at night but sleep. So eventually I made detective, then detective sergeant. Then, lo, I made lieutenant. The kids, meanwhile, are growing up, and Clara is pinching me nights to keep me awake. I have money in the bank for the first time in my life. Whereupon I discover that all that time I wasn’t discriminated against like I thought. I was just broke, and up to my elbows in unpaid bills and kids screaming and nylons and diapers hanging in the bathroom. So now”—he flapped a hand—“so now, at age forty-six—a detective lieutenant with a locked-in pension—I discover that, by God, I’m being discriminated against. For being overweight.” He pointed to the memo, looked at me reproachfully, and then uttered the single word “jogging” as if it were an obscenity.

I moved the memo aside, searching for a particular lab report analyzing the contents of a suspect’s ashtray, large amber glass, File H-1843-B, Exhibit 7. My eyes burned and my arms felt heavy. There’d been two homicides in San Francisco the previous night. A hooker had been found knifed and robbed at about nine P.M.; a housewife had been found bludgeoned and robbed approximately four hours later. I’d just gotten the first investigation organized when the second call had come over the air. I’d gotten home at four A.M. I was up at eight A.M.; by nine A.M. I was dozing in a courtroom antechamber, waiting to testify in a fatal child-beating case. Now, at three P.M., I intended to empty my In basket, then go home.

“My informants tell me,” Friedman was saying, “that you and the captain are in collusion on this—this jogging thing.”

“Not true. He asked me what I thought about the idea. I said that it sounded fine.”

“There is nothing,” he said with solemn emphasis, “in either the California Civil Service Code or the San Francisco Police Department Manual that can get me jogging twice a week. Nothing at all.”

I shrugged, paper-clipping a sheaf of onionskin interrogation transcripts, still searching for the missing lab report. Finally I dropped the transcripts into my top desk drawer, along with the contents of my In basket. I slid the drawer shut and got my gun from another drawer, locking the desk. Then, yawning and leaning back in my chair, I smiled faintly as I clipped on the gun. Friedman’s bullfrog eyes were regarding me with an expression of betrayed accusation.

“You want the truth?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Well, the truth is, a couple of weeks ago I was having lunch with the captain. In the cafeteria. And it just so happened that both you and Canelli came in at the same time, and started loading up your trays. Now, you’ll have to admit that the sight of you and Canelli together, in profile, loading up on calories, was a lot for the captain to take. He’s supposed to be commanding a division of hard-bitten detectives. So when he looks up, halfway through his soup, and sees—”

“All right.” He held up a beefy hand. “I’ve heard enough. I’ll handle it myself.”

“How?”

“Never mind. Are you going off duty?”

“Yes.”

He leaned laboriously forward in his chair, retrieved the memo, then sank back with a sigh. “When the captain hand-delivered this to me,” Friedman said, “he told me to take over the Moresco case from you, on the theory that two cases in one night is too much for one man, even if he does have a thirty-four-inch waist. I suppose,” he added heavily, “that Moresco is the hooker. Right?”

“Right.”

“Who’s got the file?”

With difficulty, I kept my face straight. “Canelli had it this morning, as a matter of fact. He’s out in the field, so the file is probably back in Records.”

He studied me for a long, sardonic moment before saying, “What you’re telling me, then, is that Canelli is on the case.”

“Count your blessings. Canelli is the luckiest man in the history of the Inspectors’ Bureau. You’ve said so yourself. Not the smartest. Not the most ambitious, or the slimmest. But the luckiest.”

“Well, next time you see Captain Kreiger, reporting on the progress of your devious little jogging scheme, no doubt, you can say that Canelli and I will—”

My phone rang.

“Lieutenant Hastings,” I answered, watching Friedman extract a cigar from an inside pocket, then heave himself laboriously from side to side, grunting and frowning as he rummaged for a match.

“Anything look promising on those two new ones, Frank?” It was Kreiger’s voice: crisp, neutral, controlled. As always.

“Not much, I’m afraid.”

“I promised the reporters I’d meet with them in a couple of hours—five o’clock. If you get anything new, be sure and give it to me.”

“Right.”

“Have you given Pete the Moresco case?”

“Yes.”

“Is he there with you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell him what I told you, then. About the news conference.”

“Yessir.” I hung up, eying Friedman as he lolled belly-up in my visitor’s chair, puffing on the cigar and absently brushing at his ash-spotted vest.

“I’d offer you a cigar,” he said, “but it’d be bad for your wind.”

I glanced at the clock, then took ten minutes to outline the Moresco case, finishing with the admonition that the captain wanted something newsworthy by five P.M.

Friedman grunted. “The captain has one failing. He expects us to write his press-conference material for him.”

I thought about it, then slowly nodded.

“He’s also been saying too much to the reporters lately. One of these days he’s going to get himself socked with a libel suit. Whereupon he’ll lose his clear shot at the deputy chiefs job.” Friedman aimed the soggy end of his cigar at me, his shrewd, narrowed eyes suddenly serious. “You should tell him, Frank. You’re old football buddies—army buddies. You should buy him a drink and pick the right time and tell him to let the reporters work a little harder. Christ, Kreiger’s usually about as talkative as a cowboy sucking on a straw, and until just recently he was the same way with the press. Now, though—the past few weeks—when those reporters start working on him, he sings like a stoolie raising muscatel money.”

“He’d agree with you,” I said shortly. “I’ve already mentioned it.”

“What’s he say?”

“He says that the chief wants it this way. Public relations. Part of the new departmental image.”

He grimaced. “And the chief, no doubt, has been talking to our brand-new mayor-elect. Mr. Public Relations himself.”

I shrugged, abruptly dropping a paperweight on a stack of miscellaneous unclassified documents and letters.

“You’re not going off duty after all,” Friedman said, examining his cigar’s precarious ash. “You’re going to tough it out—dig up a news item. With three hours’ sleep.”

“I’m going to tough it out until five o’clock. Just like you are.”

“How’s your case look?”

“Not as good as yours. All you’ve got to do is find the Moresco girl’s pimp, and you’ll come up a hero.”

“You don’t have any leads on that housewife thing, eh?”

“Not yet.”

“What was her name, anyhow?”

“Draper. Susan Draper.” I got to my feet. “Which is where I’m going: the Draper house. Are you going to sit there and smoke, or do you want to walk down to the elevator?”

Not bothering to reply, Friedman heaved himself to his feet and followed me out of the office, trailing cigar ashes.

2

I PULLED TO A stop, set the brake, then checked my watch. The time was 3:50 P.M. I had exactly an hour in which to concoct a news item for the captain’s news conference.

I sat behind the wheel for a moment, surveying the scene of the Draper murder: a narrow one-story stucco row house, one of thousands built during the late thirties and early forties. I’d lived my first seventeen years in San Francisco. I could remember watching those row houses slowly, inexorably propagating themselves like long, segmented worms, finally covering the wide, rolling sand dunes, my own private wonderland. As a small child, I’d chased howling, war-painted Indians across those dunes. As a teenager, parked on a freshly paved, sand-dusted street, surrounded by the bare nighttime skeletons of half-finished houses, I’d first touched the warm, secret flesh of Jacqueline Grant. We’d been fifteen. Earlier in the day—a Sunday—I’d first seen my name in print. As a sophomore fullback, I’d made the varsity squad, second string. Derek Rawlings had come by for me in his wheezing, chugging Model A. Both wearing our letter sweaters—mine two days old—we’d picked up Derek’s girl friend, then Jacqueline. The four of us had spent the long, sunny Sunday together, riding in the Model A, sprawling on the beach, chasing each other, prancing through the surf. Later, as we awkwardly, ardently strained together in the anonymous darkness of the car’s rear seat, I’d been conscious of the smell of salt water and sweat and the urgent musk of love—Jacqueline’s and mine, mingled.

I sighed, blinking my eyes against the burning of last night’s fatigue—and against the unexpected sharpness of sensations remembered almost thirty years later.

She’d be forty-three now. My age.

I got out of the cruiser, locking the door. I’d parked across the street from the Draper house, and I stood for a moment surveying the scene. Daylight made a difference. Daylight, and the muted shouts of playing children, and the endless row of look-alike houses, each of them built on a twenty-five-foot lot, a hundred feet deep, each with precisely three inches of air space separating it from its neighbor, according to the city code. Most of the houses were fussily well kept, with elaborate drapery at the front windows. The Draper house, though, didn’t quite match up. The small front lawn was pale green, splotched with brown. The border plantings were only half tended. A small pane of glass in the garage door was broken.

A patrol car was parked directly in front of the house, a patrolman slumped behind the wheel. When he recognized me, he sat up abruptly. He was a young, lean, serious-looking cop, and I saw him swallowing as he half saluted, tentatively smiling.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

“Hi. Anything doing?”

“Nothing, Lieutenant. They haven’t left the house, either the husband or the little girl. Haven’t peeped out, either. Not since I came on, anyhow.”

“When was that?”

“One P.M.”

“Anyone try to get inside?”

“A couple of reporters and one neighbor. A few kids, too, and a paperboy. None of them gave me any trouble, though.”

“Did the neighbor look all right?”

“As far as I could see—just a woman. I mean—” He cleared his throat, glancing sideways at me, then shrugging uncertainly. “I mean, she was a little fat, wearing a housedress and run-over shoes. And she went back to her house, three doors down, there. So—” Again he shrugged, raising his hand from the steering wheel, gesturing down the block.

I nodded. “Okay. Good. Where’s Inspector Markham?”

He pointed across the street, indicating a pink stucco house trimmed in gleaming white. “Inspector Markham’s been over there for about forty-five minutes or so. Inspector Sigler went down to the Welfare Department, where the victim works. Worked, I mean.”

I nodded again. “Tell Inspector Markham I’m going to talk to Mr. Draper. Do you happen to know the little girl’s name—the victim’s daughter?”

“Gee, I don’t, Lieutenant. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. Is the back covered?”

“Yessir. My partner’s back there. I mean, he’s actually in the basement, where he can see the back door.”

“Okay. See you in a few minutes.”

I walked around the car, heading for the Drapers’ front door. As I walked, I was recalling the details of last night’s preliminary investigation: She’d apparently been an ordinary, average housewife, age thirty-two, comfortably married, a working mother. Name, Susan Draper. Medium build, medium features. Brunette. She’d gone out about eight-thirty P.M., heading for a Sunday night movie, leaving-her husband home to mind the only child, a daughter. The husband put the daughter to bed at about nine, then watched TV until approximately midnight, when he retired. He read for a few minutes, then slipped off to sleep, still with the bedroom light on. He awoke at approximately 1:15 A.M. He didn’t know whether anything had awakened him, or whether he’d just opened his eyes. His wife wasn’t there. He decided to check on her, and went to the garage, using an inside stairway to the ground-level basement-garage, which extended the full width and length of the house. He discovered that he’d neglected to unbolt the inside access door to the garage, so that his wife had to enter the house by the front door, passing through the narrow, thickly planted tunnel entrance, then climbing the outside stairs to the front door.

Entering the garage, Mr. Draper found the car parked, the overhead garage door closed and locked. He’d slid the door up and left it open, intending to reenter the house as he’d left it, locking up behind. He’d walked to his right a few paces, then turned into the tunnel entrance leading up to the front door. The entrance was planted with large, broad-leafed plants, growing thickly. Mr. Draper had immediately seen his wife’s feet protruding from the shrubbery. She’d been lying on her back, eyes open, staring straight up. Her purse had been torn from her arm, its strap broken. The wallet from the purse had been taken; the purse had been discarded at the scene. Mrs. Draper had been hit repeatedly on the head, probably with an iron pipe. Her husband had phoned Taraval Station a little after one-thirty.

Now, standing in the tunnel entrance, I saw the six-inch bloodstain on the sidewalk and the brown spatterings on the nearby foliage. According to the coroner, she’d probably been hit first on the right side of the skull as she was preparing to ascend the first step leading up to the front door. Her assailant, then, had been hiding in the shrubbery, waiting—the familiar mugger’s M.O.

Except that muggings, statistically, seldom end in murder.

Perhaps she’d struggled, or cried out. Perhaps he’d hit her first to quiet her down—then lost control of himself. Either way, considering the close quarters of the entryway, the murderer must have spattered himself with blood.

I knelt down to examine the planting area’s soft earth, now completely reproduced in interlocking plaster casts. Markham’s preliminary report indicated that Mr. Draper’s footprints had probably obliterated any meaningful evidence.

As I climbed the stairs my legs were heavy, my feet lagged. With three hours’ sleep, I owed myself an evening in pajamas, watching an hour of TV, then going to bed for ten hours.

Mr. Draper answered the door on my second ring. He was a stocky man of medium height, dressed in slippers, casual slacks and a pullover fisherman’s sweater. He was probably in his middle thirties, with blond hair thinning in front, worn long over his ears and thick at the back of his neck. He was a handsome, restless-looking man. His eyes were brown and wide-set. His mouth was wide and firm, but somehow too perfect: an actor’s mouth. His manner, I’d decided last night, was petty and self-indulgent. He probably had a quick, unpredictable temper and an inflated idea of his own importance—a vain, hollow man, essentially weak. Last night he’d done little more than stare down at his toes, slowly shaking his head, constantly mumbling that he must be dreaming.

Now he was frowning at me, as if he was trying to focus his eyes. He seemed puzzled, vague—in delayed shock. He didn’t recognize me.

I took off my hat, then introduced myself, apologizing for the intrusion. Still, I said, there were questions that must be asked, the sooner the better.

Sighing deeply, raggedly, he abruptly turned away, walking into the living room, leaving me to close the front door. He slumped down on a sofa, gesturing me to a facing chair. Shakily he took a cigarette from a crumpled pack lying on the cluttered, glass-ringed coffee table.

“I’ll be as brief as I can, Mr. Draper,” I began. “Last night—this morning, really—you weren’t up to answering any questions for us. And for that matter, we weren’t really sure what we needed to ask. Now, though, if you’re willing, I’d like to ask you a few things.”

As I’d been talking, he’d stared fixedly into my eyes, but I had the impression that he wasn’t really listening. Now, as soon as I stopped speaking, his head dropped, as if it had been held erect by my words alone.

“Have you found him yet?” he mumbled, sucking on the cigarette. “Have you found out who did it?”

“Not yet, Mr. Draper.”

“Do you think you will?”

“I can’t really answer that, except to say that it may depend on how much you can help us.”

He raised his head slowly, meeting my eyes. The process seemed to require great effort.

“How can I help?” As he said it, his handsome face seemed to be shrinking on itself. The eyes were suddenly more prominent; the actor’s mouth distended. For a moment I thought of Dorian Grey: instant, incredible aging.

“Inspector Markham showed you her purse, didn’t he?” I asked quietly.

He nodded.

“Was anything missing—anything but the wallet?”

“Not—” He cleared his throat. “Not that I could see. Is—is that important?”

“It could be important. A lot of these crimes, you see, are committed by narcotics addicts—people desperate for money. They steal whatever they can find, and turn it into money, usually by pawning whatever they steal. So if your wife had a valuable ring, for instance, that had been stolen, it might’ve been a lead for us, because it could turn up in a pawnshop.”

“Yes. I—I see.”

“But you can’t recall anything that was missing,” I pressed.

“No. Nothing.”

“Have you given Inspector Markham a complete list of her credit cards and charge-a-plate accounts?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” I allowed a moment to pass, then said, “Her wrist-watch, I noticed, was still on her wrist.”

Not replying, he abruptly stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, then sat staring sightlessly down at the floor. His hands, resting on his knees, were clenched knuckle-white.

“The way she was lying,” I said slowly, “the wristwatch was in plain view. I especially noticed it last night, because the angle of light from the street lamp in front of your house made the watch very obvious.”

His only reaction was to catch his breath sharply, then slowly exhale in a long, ragged sigh.

“Did your wife have any enemies, Mr. Draper?”

He slowly, doggedly shook his head. His hands were still tightly clenched.

“Answer me, please,” I said quietly. “I know it’s a tough time for you. But we need answers. And time may be important.”

Still shaking his head, he said indistinctly, “No. No enemies.”

“Your wife worked at the Welfare Department, I understand.”

“Y—yes.”

“Was she a social worker?”

He nodded.

“And where do you work, Mr. Draper?”

“I’m a photographer.”

“Are you employed by anyone?”

“No. I—I’m self-employed.”

“Do you work out of your home?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of photography do you do?”

He unclenched one fist, vaguely waving a soft, pale hand. “Anything I can get. Portraits, advertising shots. Anything.”

“Are you reasonably successful, would you say?”

As if puzzled, he frowned petulantly. “Wh—what’s that got to do with it—whether I’m successful or not?”

“It’s what we call background information, Mr. Draper. We try to find out everything about a victim—everything about his life, his family situation, his work. Sometimes, when we add it all up, we get a picture that means something.”

“But—” His puckered, perplexed face now seemed to reflect an almost childlike disappointment. “But you should be out trying to—to find the man. The one who killed her.”

Ignoring the remark, I sat looking at him steadily, until he finally dropped his eyes. Then, deliberately, I asked, “Were you and your wife on good terms, Mr. Draper?”

Slowly, wonderingly, he raised his eyes, frowning and blinking, as if he couldn’t comprehend. Then the muscles of his face began to bunch together in a twitching imitation of righteous, outraged anger.

“Of course we were on good terms.” He hesitated, then: “We—we were married. For ten years.”

I suppressed a smile. As a motive for murder, marriage topped the list. I said, “You were on good terms with your wife, then. You never fought.”

“Well—” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But we—”

“What about yesterday, Mr. Draper? Was it a usual day? A normal Sunday?”

For a moment he simply looked at me as if he hadn’t heard. Then, allowing his head to sink, he mumbled, “Perfectly normal.”

“Did you stay home all day? The family, I mean.”

“Yes. It—it was raining. Besides, we were wrapping Christmas presents. Susan—my wife—wanted to get some presents off today. To her folks, in St. Louis.”

“So nothing unusual happened yesterday? Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And nobody left the house until about eight-thirty, when your wife went to the movies.”

He nodded.

“I was wondering,” I said slowly, “why your wife went to the movies alone.”

“To save on baby-sitting,” he said dully. “We took turns.”

I nodded, studying him silently—until he again dropped his eyes, fumbling for another cigarette. Then I reached for my hat, perched on a corner of the coffee table.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll be on my way. If we discover anything, we’ll be sure and let you know. I suppose you’re going to be here in the house.”

“Yes, I—I guess so. I—I really can’t—” He didn’t finish it, shakily lighting the cigarette.

I fingered the crease in my hat, watching him as he sucked ravenously at the cigarette, drawing a glowing quarter-inch, deeply exhaling. Then, taking the cigarette from his mouth, he studied the burning end intently, oblivious to me. I saw him begin to swallow rapidly, at the same time blinking and frowning, his face and forehead glistening with sweat.

“If I hadn’t bolted that door when she left,” he said indistinctly, still staring at the cigarette, “she’d be alive right now. It was my fault—all my fault.”

I looked at him a moment, then rose to my feet. “Everyone makes mistakes, Mr. Draper. Everyone in the world. I’ll be going now. We’ll be in touch with you whenever we find out anything.”

He nodded loosely, then shook his head, and slowly, mechanically, raised the cigarette up to his mouth, as if the process required all his concentration and most of his strength.

I let myself out, closing the door softly behind me. As I was descending the front steps, I remembered that I’d forgotten to ask about the little girl, whose name I still didn’t know.

3

MARKHAM WAS SITTING IN the back seat of my car, listening to the radio. I slid into the front seat, twisting to face him.

“Anything?” I asked, nodding to the radio as I turned down the volume.

“No.”

I glanced at my watch: 4:25 P.M. Twenty minutes, and I’d have to find a phone, report to Kreiger. I put my hat on the seat beside me, then slowly massaged my closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. Markham, I knew, hadn’t had any more sleep than I’d had. But at twenty-eight he looked alert and clear-eyed, on top of the job. Which was another reason, I thought wryly, for not liking Markham. That, and his cold, vicious temper. He’d been on report twice during the past three years for using unnecessary force subduing suspects in custody. Both the suspects had been black. One had gone to the hospital with a ruptured spleen. The other eventually died.

I’d only once seen Markham hit a man, but I’d never forgotten it. He’d coolly watched for an opening, then stepped in close, dropped one shoulder, and hit the suspect just below the heart. The blow traveled only a few inches, but the suspect had dropped in his tracks. I’d been standing so that I could see Markham’s eyes: killer’s eyes, expressionless, except for an almost imperceptible glint of pleasure.

Still, Markham was an intelligent, hard-working, conscientious cop. He could think on his feet, and he wasn’t afraid. He was cautious, but willing to gamble in the crunch. His sadistic temper had never distorted his judgment. And he was ambitious; he’d already passed his sergeant’s exam, and was rising on the list. When Kreiger made Chief of Detectives, and Friedman made Captain, Markham would probably be my co-lieutenant. I didn’t like the idea, but I couldn’t think of a more qualified man.

“How’s it look?” I asked, gesturing toward the Draper house.

Markham took a moment to adjust his tie, then said, “According to the background information, the Drapers didn’t get along. He’s too lazy to make much of a living, and she didn’t let him forget it. About half the time he’s minding the kid while she works—worked. One neighbor, apparently the local gossip, said that Mrs. Draper’s father sends them checks all the time—even made a big down payment on their house. All of which bugs Draper, especially when he’s drinking, which seems to be a lot of the time. Anyhow, the basement is filled with empty bottles. According to my informant, Mrs. Draper refused to throw out their empty liquor bottles because she didn’t want to make a bad impression on the garbage man.”

“What did Draper tell you about his movements yesterday?”

Markham eyed me for a moment, thoughtfully scrubbing his heavy five-o’clock stubble. “I thought you were just talking to him.”

“I was.” I said it quietly.

“Well,” he answered reluctantly, “Draper says it was just an ordinary day. But their next-door neighbor—the gossip—says that she heard them arguing from about seven o’clock until Mrs. Draper went to the movies. No one else seems to’ve heard it, though.”

“Did you talk to the little girl?”

His glance slid aside. “No. Not yet,” he answered shortly. “I was going to do that next.”

“Does it look like a regular mugging to you?”

He eyed me cautiously, alert for a trap. “It looks more like a mugging than a husband-and-wife thing. Draper might not be any prize, but he’s no Yo-Yo, either. He’s smart. And murdering your wife in the front entryway with an iron pipe isn’t very smart. Not compared to pushing her down a flight of inside stairs, for instance, then finishing her off.”

“Where was he when the uniformed men arrived?”

“In his daughter’s room, checking on her.”

“How long did it take the uniformed men to answer the call?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered reluctantly. Then, defensively: “We haven’t checked everything out yet. I haven’t even been able to make a decent search for the weapon. There’s just Sigler and me, you know.”

I nodded, deciding not to make the elapsed time of the radio car’s response an issue. Markham would find out before I saw him tomorrow. If I didn’t press him, he’d volunteer the information, offhandedly. Markham resented direct orders.

I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes, and I’d have to leave, still without anything new for Kreiger. Irrelevantly, I was remembering the moment when I’d waited for my cue during the high school senior play. It was a moment that could still come back in uneasy dreams.

“How about witnesses?” I asked.

He moved his head toward the pink-and-white house directly across from the Draper place. “The only thing I’ve been able to turn up is over there: a sixteen-year-old girl named Cindy Wallace. Last night she and her boyfriend were parked about where we’re parked now, from approximately eleven-thirty till one. I couldn’t get her away from her mother, but I get the impression that Cindy and her boyfriend were necking. I also figured out, from the way the car was parked, that the boyfriend would’ve been facing the Draper house, assuming they really were necking. Which, as a matter of fact, they might not’ve been really doing. At least, not all the time.”

“How do you mean?”

“I got the impression that they might’ve had an argument. Anyhow, she let it slip that she went into the house by herself. Then she let it slip that her boyfriend stayed parked in front of the house for ten or fifteen minutes after she went inside. I figured he might’ve been sitting in the car steaming at her.”

“Who’s her boyfriend?”

He’d anticipated the question, sliding his notebook smoothly from his pocket. Everything Markham did seemed smooth, effortless, self-contained. “Here it is,” he said. “Dan Haywood. He lives at seventeen sixty-one Greenwich.”

“That’s just a couple of blocks from my place,” I said, surprised. “Just around the corner, I think.”

Not commenting, he slid the notebook back into his pocket.

“Do you think he might have something for us?” I glanced at my watch.

Markham shrugged. “Maybe. I thought I’d go over there later.”

“I’ve got to phone the captain,” I said. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll talk to this Dan Haywood on my way home. If I get anything important, I’ll get back to you through Communications. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning. In the meantime,” I said, “maybe you should question Draper again. I can’t tell whether he’s in shock or worried stiff. But the book says the husband is suspect number one. And the book is usually right. So if you think you want to get a search warrant, go ahead.”

He nodded in grudging agreement, leaving the car without looking back. As I watched him move smoothly, self-confidently across the street, I was thinking that he moved like a stereotyped Western badman, stalking his prey down a dusty, deserted street.

I was also thinking that because I’d suggested it, he would delay getting the search warrant, hopeful of breaking the case on his own terms.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

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Preview: Dead Aim

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