Hire a Hangman (11 page)

Hastings registered quick, avid interest. San Francisco’s biggest, smartest, slipperiest pawnshop operator, Palmer had finally been busted only two months ago.

“I see,” Friedman observed, “that I’ve succeeded in arousing your interest.”

“What’s Palmer’s status?”

“He’s out on bail, awaiting trial. He’s been enjoined from pawnshopping, though.”

“And? Have you talked to him?”

“I have indeed.” Friedman smiled, a small, subtle, cat-and-mouse smile. Friedman was building the suspense. Again. Still.

“Come on, Pete.” Impatiently, Hastings returned to his desk. “We’re on the same side. Remember?”

Cheerfully acknowledging the point, all part of his favorite game, Friedman nodded affably. Now the words came more quickly, more crisply. “With Palmer, you know, it’s all smoke and mirrors. He’s a cockney, but he’s got the soul of a Turkish rug merchant. Let him find out he’s got something you need, and he’ll add a zero or two to the price. Always. And, to be honest, I think I might’ve played my cards wrong, let him see I wanted something I’d pay for.”

“He had to give you a name, though—whoever pawned the guns.”

“Oh, sure. But, naturally, it was a fake name. So the question is, does Palmer know the true identity of the guy who brought the two guns in? I think he does know. And he knows I think he knows. And he intimates that he’ll turn the guy for a price. Like immunity from prosecution for fencing. Except that, naturally, if he turns the guy, he cops to receiving stolen property. Fencing, in other words. Which makes it a very delicate transaction.”

“So get the DA to make the deal. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that the DA’s office are acting like real assholes on this one. Why, I’m not sure. I think I must’ve ruffled someone’s feathers over there. Again.”

“So twelve of the fourteen guns are accounted for,” Hastings mused. “Leaving only the Llama and the other one.”

Friedman nodded. “Right. If you wanted to be dramatic, you could say that the Llama is the thirteenth gun.”

“What’s the fourteenth gun?”

“It’s a Colt forty-five automatic—a presentation model, so-called. That means it’s a special issue. The action is hand-lapped, as they say. It’s embossed, with mother-of-pearl grips. Nickel-plated, too. Very upscale. Like the Llama—and, in fact, like all fourteen guns. They’re all collector’s items.”

“Big bucks,” Hastings said thoughtfully.

“Big bucks indeed, at least originally. Whether your neighborhood dope dealer’ll pay more for mother-of-pearl grips is something else, I guess.”

“So what happens now? What’s the plan?”

“I’m approaching the matter obliquely.” Once more, cat-and-mouse, Friedman broke off. This time, though, he blew a plume of cigar smoke away from Hastings. They were getting down to cases.

Hastings sighed, looked at his watch. “Are you going to tell me?

“There’s a lady named Florence Ettinger, who works—worked—for Palmer. My plan is to bring her downtown, make a big deal of it, keep her overnight, make sure Palmer knows I’m interrogating her. I’ve already talked to the DA, and he’s willing to give up Ettinger if she’ll help with Palmer. That much, at least, he’s willing to do.”

“Does Ettinger know who brought the guns in?”

“I’m not sure. But if she does know, and if Palmer thinks she’s telling us, then I figure we’ve got a chance with Palmer.” Reflectively, Friedman paused. “What we’ve got going for us is homicide. If I can convince either one of them—or preferably both of them—that they’re willfully concealing evidence in a homicide, and could take a heavy fall, then we’ve got a shot. Receiving stolen goods, that’s one thing. Murder, that’s something else.”

“So when’re you going to talk to Florence Ettinger?”

“Pretty quick. Parker and Sawyer are bringing her in right now. I hope.”

“So what else have we got on Hanchett?” Hastings asked.

Friedman shrugged. “By me, nothing. The updated lab reports aren’t much different from the prelims.”

“What about the Llama? Fingerprints?”

“A few that’re usable, on the gun itself. However, the prints on the gun, such as they are, don’t match either the prints on the two ejected shell casings or the prints on the unused cartridges still in the gun, which are the same. Which might indicate that the gun was loaded by one person and fired by another person. Or the murderer used gloves when he killed Hanchett, but not when he loaded the gun. Except that the gun doesn’t show smudges usually associated with gloves. So I’m tentatively figuring that maybe one person loaded the gun and someone else shot it. Which happens, of course, all the time.”

“Hmm …”

“But,” Friedman added, “the bullet found inside the body was intact, and it definitely came from the Llama. So, forensically, we’re in good shape.”

“What I want,” Hastings said, “is to get samples of Teresa Bell’s fingerprints.”

Having allowed his cigar to go out, Friedman tossed the stub in Hastings’s wastebasket. “You still think she did it, eh?”

“I think she’s our best shot. Anyhow, I want to know more about her. I want to know
all
about her.”

“What about a warrant?”

“I’d rather wait until you’ve talked to her. Or at least until we get some real evidence. All I’ve got now is a feeling. A very strong feeling.”

“So when should we talk to her?”

“How about eight-thirty tonight? Her husband works nights, and I want to wait until he’s out of the house.”

“Do you think she’ll let us in?”

“I think she will,” Hastings answered. “I think she’s a talker. I don’t think she can stop herself from talking.”

“Sounds good.” Friedman heaved himself to his feet and began collecting his printouts. “I’ll meet you at the Bell place at eight-thirty. Meanwhile, hopefully, I’ll have something on the gun. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully.”

1:15
PM

“You know, Lieutenant—” Brow earnestly furrowed, plainly struggling to frame the thought, Canelli shook his head. “You know, there’s something screwy about this Hanchett thing. Know what I mean?”

Hastings took off his reading glasses, put them on a stack of interrogation reports, and rubbed his eyes. The glasses were new, a reluctant concession to the aging process. The optometrist had suggested bifocals, with plain glass on top. Friedman, too, had recommended bifocals. But Friedman, Hastings had observed, continued to struggle with reading glasses. Ann had been noncommittal. After more than a month of delay, Hastings made his decision: when Friedman got bifocals, so would he.

“Screwy?”

“Yeah. Screwy. I mean, things just seem to be—things seem to be just—just sort of coasting. In neutral. Nothing’s adding up.”

Hastings smiled. “That’s why they’re called mysteries, Canelli.”

“Hmmm …”

“Personally,” Hastings said, “I think the Bells did it—the mother, maybe with support from her husband. She’s wacko enough to have done it. And, God knows, wacko or not, she’s got a motive. Or at least a perceived motive. From all I can get on Hanchett, he probably didn’t bother to give the Bells much sympathy when he told them their son wouldn’t be getting a liver. And that kind of thing can fester. If she started thinking that Hanchett was responsible for her son’s death, and if she started to brood about it, and if she wasn’t too stable to begin with, then she could’ve gone over the edge.”

“Yeah …” Canelli nodded dubiously. Then, tentatively: “It sounds like we shouldn’t have much trouble getting prints from her. I mean, if she’s a loony and everything, then you could probably get her prints on something without her ever suspecting. Except that—” As if he were vexed with his own reasoning, he interrupted himself, and began again. “Except that some of those goddamn loonies, I’ve found, they’re cagey. It’s paranoia, that’s the way it was explained to me. They—you know—they’re always suspecting people’re out to get them. Which, of course”—he shrugged—“some people are. Like us.”

“What about the ones you interrogated?” Hastings asked. “Paula Gregg and her father. What’s his name?”

“It’s Edward, Edward Gregg. He’s a big-shot lawyer. Plenty of money, like that. A real asshole, in my opinion. Lawyers, you know, a lot of times they look down their noses at cops, have you ever noticed that, Lieutenant?”

Hastings nodded. Lawyers, doctors, psychiatrists, successful executives—all of them patronized the cops. The more taxes they paid, the higher the angle of their noses.

“So what about Paula?” Hastings asked. “I understand she hated Hanchett because he molested her.”

“Boy,” Canelli said fervently, “you got that right, Lieutenant. She hated him, no question.”

“So could she’ve killed him, would you say?”

Once more furrowing his brow, Canelli considered this, then said, “I could see her killing him—you know, on the spur of the moment, like that. But planning it—lying in wait for him—” He shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

“Her father? Edward Gregg. Anything there?”

“You mean him killing the guy who wronged his daughter, that kind of thing?”

Hastings shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. Besides, Hanchett took Gregg’s wife away from him. Hanchett took his wife and then screwed his daughter.”

“Yeah—well—if Gregg was a wacko, like the Bell woman, maybe I could see it, Lieutenant. But this guy, he’s thinking about his stocks and bonds and what he’s going to wear to the opera, seems like to me.”

“Well, it won’t hurt to—” Hastings’s phone warbled, the interoffice line.

“It’s Pete, Frank.” From the particular inflection in Friedman’s voice, it was subtly apparent that he’d discovered something significant.

Which was Hastings’s cue to respond with a disinterested “Hi.” Playing the hard-to-get game.

“I got a name from Floyd Palmer. I’m disinclined to boast, as you know. But I have to say, as soon as I brought Florence Ettinger downtown and made sure that Floyd knew about it, why, Floyd rolled over, no sweat.”

“And?”

“And it’s Charlie Ross. Good old Charlie Ross. How about that?”

Charlie Ross—a slim, vain, dapper little man, sixty at least, who talked like a racetrack tout and preened himself like a pint-sized peacock. An impeccably garish dresser who’d worn toupees as long as Hastings had known him, Ross was San Francisco’s most prosperous, most reliable fence, specializing in big-ticket items. During the brief time Hastings had worked the pawnshop detail, Charlie Ross was reputed to have successfully fenced a Renaissance painting and two Rollses, a package deal.

“If Charlie had that Llama,” Hastings said, “then he sold it. No way did he kill anyone.”

“Agreed.”

“Have you got an address for Charlie?”

“Definitely.” Friedman read off an address in Dolores Heights.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Hastings said. “I’ll take Canelli.”

“Right. Say hello to Charlie. Remind him that, the last time I busted him, when I was in Safes and Lofts, I gave him four cigars to smoke until his lawyer sprung him.
Loaned
him four cigars.”

“Hmmm …”

3:50
PM

“Hello, Charlie.” Smiling, Hastings offered his badge. “Remember me?”

Squinting myopically, Charlie Ross looked first at Hastings, then at Canelli, then back to Hastings. “The face is familiar, but—” Apologetically shaking his head, he shrugged. “But I can’t place you. Sorry.”

“No problem, Charlie. I’m Frank Hastings.
Lieutenant
Frank Hastings.” He paused to let the significance of his rank register. “I worked the pawnshop detail years ago, and we talked a few times. This is Inspector Canelli.” Hastings introduced the two men with a wave. “I’m in Homicide now. Lieutenant Friedman and I are co-commanders. Lieutenant Friedman sends his best regards, by the way.”

“Ah.” As if he were recalling fond memories of happier days, Ross smiled. He was dressed in a gleaming white shirt with long collar points, knife-pleated gray polyester trousers, and a matching vest. His blue-on-blue tie was impeccably knotted; his tasseled loafers gleamed. His dark, lusterless toupee and pencil-thin matching mustache contrasted vividly with the pallor of his sallow, pinched face. His lips were heart-patient pale. “Ah, Inspector Friedman. That’s how I always think of him.” The small smile softened appreciatively. “Nice man, very fair, very smart. And funny, too. Dry, and funny. I always figured his humor went right over most people’s heads. You know?”

“Listen”—Hastings’s gesture requested admittance to Ross’s apartment—“I’d like to talk to you, Charlie. I think you can help us with a case we’re working on.” Holding the other man’s eye, he let a carefully calculated moment pass before he said, “It’s a murder case.”

Ross’s expression went blank, a conditioned response. But the small, carefully drawn mustache twitched, an involuntary reaction. As Friedman had observed, the word
homicide
had near-magical power. Now the tip of Ross’s pink tongue moistened thin, pale lips.

“Yeah …” Ross nodded. “You did say you’re in Homicide now, didn’t you? By the way, I’m sorry I couldn’t place you, Lieutenant, from Pawnshops. The fact is, lately I’ve been having health problems.”

“Maybe you should think about retiring. You’re a celebrity. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“Yeah, sometimes I think about it. But then I think, what’d I do all day long?”

Hastings nodded sympathetically. The silence that followed signified that the preliminaries had been concluded. Whereupon Ross stepped back, allowing the two detectives to enter without further formalities—and without warrants. Appreciatively, Canelli’s gaze swept the large, extravagantly furnished living room. “Very nice, Charlie,” he said affably. Then, grinning: “I suppose you kept the receipts.”

Ross’s pained expression registered prim disapproval. His hospitality, his willingness to waive the matter of a warrant, had been affronted. Correcting the lapse, Hastings said, “Yeah, very nice, Charlie. Good neighborhood, too. And according to City Hall, you own the building.”

“Yeah, well …” Pointedly ignoring Canelli, Ross delicately spread his small, manicured hands. “Well, I’m not getting any younger, Lieutenant. Like we said. And I don’t collect Social Security.”

Hastings nodded again. Then, signifying an end to the pleasantries, he dropped his voice to a lower, more businesslike register. “What we’re looking for, Charlie—what we’ve got to have—is information on a Llama automatic.” As he spoke, he took from his pocket a slip of paper on which he’d written the missing guns’ serial numbers and the name of the original owner—only to realize that he’d left his reading glasses on his desk. He held the paper at arm’s length, frowned, finally made out the name. “The original owner,” he said, “was a Beverly Hills gun collector named Crowe. Fourteen of his guns were stolen, but eventually ten were recovered. That leaves four. Two of those four went through Floyd Palmer. We’re trying to trace those two guns now. But whether or not we find them, they’re accounted for. That leaves two guns. One of them is a Colt forty-five automatic—a presentation model, embossed, nickel-plated, very fancy. And the other gun—” Hastings paused and leaned forward, verifying that Ross realized they’d come to the essence. “The other gun is the Llama automatic. That’s the one we’re interested in.”