Hire a Hangman (13 page)

“We’re conducting an investigation, and we think she might be able to help us. This is Lieutenant Hastings. I’m Lieutenant Friedman.”

“Huh.” Speculatively, Penziner looked from one man to the other. “Two lieutenants. Big deal, eh?”

“I notice,” Friedman said, “that she has a lot of lights on. Do you think she might be in there, and not answering the door?”

Looking up at the windows, Penziner was frowning thoughtfully. “Well, I was just going to say …” His voice trailed off. Then, clearing his throat and turning to face Friedman squarely, raising his chin and standing straighter, as if he were a private reporting to a superior officer, Penziner said, “I don’t know what it is that you’re investigating, Lieutenant. But the truth is—the fact is—maybe about a half hour ago, maybe a little longer, I heard a real loud noise over here.”

“What kind of a noise?”

“Well …” Penziner elevated his chin again, cleared his throat again. “Well, at the time, I thought it could’ve been a shot.”

The two detectives exchanged a quick, meaningful look. Hastings turned away, walked quickly to his cruiser, raised the trunk lid. The service light inside the trunk was inoperative, but he found the pry bar. He closed the trunk and began walking back to the Bell house, pry bar concealed, as Friedman finally succeeded in persuading Penziner to return to his garage and close the door.

“Okay,” Friedman said. “Let’s do it. Ring first. Right?”

“Right.” Hastings pressed the bell button again, listened carefully, then inserted the pry bar between the door and the jamb. He braced himself, then began increasing the pressure until the door suddenly snapped and swung open. Hastings laid the bar on the small tiled porch, drew his revolver, and stepped into the interior hallway.

Yes, he could smell it: the stench of excrement and urine and blood, overlaid with a lingering tang of cordite. This was the odor that defined the homicide detective’s job, the smell of violent death.

She lay in the entry hall, less than ten feet from the front door. She lay on her back, one arm flung wide, one arm folded across her stomach. Her eyes were half open, as if she were staring sidelong at something she found distasteful. Her mouth was agape. She wore a plain cotton housedress, the kind that Hastings’s mother used to wear, he suddenly remembered. Her skirt was slightly raised, her feet slightly spread. Her entire torso, shoulders to stomach, was blood-soaked. The blood that had pooled on the hardwood floor was still fresh, still glistening.

Guns drawn, the two detectives went from room to room, checking out the closets and the shower stall, looking under the beds, verifying that the door to the rear garden was securely bolted from the inside. Except for the two bedrooms and the one bathroom, all the rooms were lighted. Nothing had been disturbed: drawers were in order, a woman’s purse on one of the beds was intact. As the two men returned to the body, Friedman holstered his revolver and said, “He probably rang the front doorbell, got admitted, and killed her immediately, as soon as he closed the door. Then he left.”

With his handkerchief covering the interior knob, Hastings was experimenting with the front-door latch. “It has a spring lock.”

“Rats. I was hoping he’d used a key to lock up.”

“The husband, you mean.”

“You know the first rule—if a woman’s killed, it’s probably the husband. And vice versa.” Friedman took out his own handkerchief, went to a telephone attached to the hallway wall, and put in calls to the coroner and the police lab. Then he returned to the hallway, where Hastings was studying the body.

“With all this blood,” Friedman said, “it looks like the bullet hit a main artery.”

“Or the heart.”

“Yeah—the heart.”

In silence, the two men stood motionless, side by side, looking down at the body. Finally, Friedman drew a long, deep breath. “Well, so much for the theory that Teresa Bell killed Hanchett.” His voice was hushed, an involuntary response to the specter of death.

“They’re connected, though. They’ve got to be connected. Whoever killed Hanchett had to’ve killed her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Sense?” Friedman snorted. “You want sense, in this business?

“So what’s the plan?” Hastings asked. “You’re the senior officer.”

“First,” Friedman answered, “we get Canelli, or some other underling, to come and take charge, so we aren’t stuck here all night. That’s first. Command officers need their sleep, remember. Then, obviously, one of us talks to that guy next door—Penziner—while the other one of us makes sure the husband—Fred Bell—reported for work tonight. And then we wait for the prelims, tomorrow morning. Especially, we wait for the word from Ballistics.”

“Why especially Ballistics?”

“Because,” Friedman pronounced, “I have a feeling that the murder weapon was a forty-five Colt automatic. Presentation model.”

9:30
PM

It was beginning again: the trembling, deep within. Even here, safe in his own living room. Even now, long after it was over.

The flash of memory that caused the trembling—what had triggered it? Was it her eyes? Those round, manic eyes, the eyes that first turned surprised, then turned anxious—

—and then turned to stone.

Or was it her voice? The last of her voice, rattling in her throat?

Or was it the twitching? The fingers and the feet: busy, fretful little movements, as if she sought to pluck at his sleeve, like a beggar on the street.

Had he drawn the drapes? It was essential, he knew, to draw the drapes. Yet it was an effort to raise his eyes to the window. And only then did he remember: he’d drawn the drapes before he left. First he’d drawn the drapes. All the drapes. And then he’d dressed. It had all been carefully planned: the dark jacket, the jeans, the wide leather belt for the gun. Then the cap. And, finally, the surgical gloves. And then he’d taken the pistol from under the mattress—the pistol and the clip, fully loaded. And then he’d—

The pistol.

He still had the pistol. Incredibly, the pistol was still thrust in his belt. He’d meant to throw the pistol in the sewer, only a block from her house. One particular sewer, its grating large enough to accept the pistol. But he hadn’t done it, hadn’t gotten rid of the pistol.

And therefore he was trembling.

So it wasn’t her eyes, remembered, that made him tremble. It was the pistol thrust in his belt, flesh of his flesh, a cold steel tumor.

A cancer that could kill again.

11:15
PM

Sitting at the kitchen table, Hastings broke off a piece of French bread and dipped it into the thick, fragrant split-pea soup. Two days ago, a cause for celebration, Ann had made a large potful of the split-pea soup with ham hocks. The jumbo-sized bowl before him, she’d announced, was the last of the batch, defended from Billy and Dan by heroic means. Sitting across the kitchen table, sipping herb tea, Ann was looking gravely at him over the rim of the teacup. Hastings knew that look. Ann had something on her mind.

Had Victor Haywood called?

Yes, almost certainly, Victor had called. It was that kind of a look.

She would, he knew, wait until he’d finished eating. It was part of their unspoken agreement: never begin an argument while either partner was eating.

So, when he’d appreciatively cleaned the bowl with a last scrap of French bread, and had drunk some of his milk, Hastings said, “Let me guess. It’s about Victor.”

She sighed, a ragged, tremulous exhalation. Was her hand unsteady as she placed her teacup in its saucer? He couldn’t be sure.

“Isn’t it always about Victor?”

He decided to make no reply.

“He says you did eight hundred dollars’ damage to his car.”

“That’s bullshit. That’s utter bullshit. A hundred, maybe. Not eight hundred.”

“The door is creased, he says. And the whole side of the car has to be painted.”

Creased? Could the door have been creased? Had he looked for a crease, looked for damage?

No, he hadn’t looked, not really.

He drained the glass of milk. “It was a dumb thing to do. I—Christ, it’s been a long time since I’ve done something like that, lost my temper. I wonder what his deductible is. Two hundred?”

“He wasn’t talking about deductibles.” Ann spoke in a low, tight voice. Her blue eyes had darkened, a sure sign of her distress. When he’d first known her, it was the eyes he’d always remembered whenever they were apart and he was thinking of her. And the line of her jaw, too. And her just-right nose, and the particular curve of her lips. And the sweep of her tawny blond hair as she moved her head.

“I’m sorry.” He reached across the table, touched her hand. “I should’ve known he wasn’t talking about deductibles.”

She made no response to the touch of his hand. Her eyes were growing darker, not lighter.

“He’s talking about court,” she said. “About going to court.”

He snorted. “For a dented door? I thought Victor was smarter than that.”

“He
is
smarter than that.” She drew a deep breath, looked at him squarely, with deep, reluctant gravity. “He isn’t talking about deductibles. He’s talking about custody.”

“Custody?”

“You don’t know him, Frank. Once he says he’ll do something—once he makes a threat—he goes through with it. Always. It—it’s part of his personality.”

“He won’t get custody of the kids after five years of divorce.”

“He’s married. He has a stable home. He makes lots of money. If he gets the right judge—a dinosaur …” She let it go bleakly unfinished. Now her eyes were downcast, dispirited. Ann hated controversy, hated the prospect of confrontation.

“I’ll talk to him, Ann. I—I’ll apologize. Swear to God.”

“It won’t help. I know what happened. Just listening to him, I know what happened. You threatened his masculinity. Victor can’t stand that. Physically, he’s a coward. When you threatened him physically, you—” She broke off, searching for the phrase. “You exposed him, brought the whole house of cards—his pasted-up public persona—tumbling down.” She smiled ruefully. “That’s a pretty labored metaphor, but …” On the Formica table, her forefinger began moving, as if she were drawing random designs in sand.

“What actually happened,” he said, “was that he got the best of me. I know better than to lose my temper. But he got to me with his goddamn”—he opened his hand, closed it to make a fist, struck the table with rigidly suppressed fury—“his goddamn superiority. If I—if I hadn’t hit his goddamn door, I’d’ve hit him.” He tried to smile, to reassure her. “And then we’d really be in trouble.”

“He hates you, Frank. He’s always hated you, I suppose, because you’re soiling goods that once belonged to him. That’s how he thinks, you know.”

“He’s sick. He’s supposed to treat people’s neuroses. But, Christ, he’s—he’s—” Angrily, he broke off. Releasing energy, he rose, put his dishes in the sink, ran water into them. She hadn’t risen with him. Instead, she sat as before, shoulders slumped, staring down at the table, still tracing random designs on the Formica. He went to her, took her shoulders, gently raised her to her feet, and turned her to face him. Then he drew her close, held her steady. When he felt her respond, felt her arms come around him at the waist, that one particular touch, he whispered into the hollow of her neck, “Let’s go to bed. Okay?”

He felt her nod, felt her arms come closer around him. She’d forgiven him, then. For causing them trouble—serious trouble, maybe—she’d forgiven him.

9:20
AM

A
S HASTINGS ENTERED THE
squad room, he saw Friedman waving from behind the glass walls of his office. Good. From the particular pitch and arc of his arm motion, Hastings knew that Friedman had news.

Hastings picked up his messages and incoming files, opened his office door, and dropped the folders and printouts on his desk. Then he strode down the short, glass-walled hallway to Friedman’s office. He took a seat, said good morning—and waited.

“As I predicted,” Friedman said, “it was a forty-five Colt automatic that killed her.”

“I don’t remember your predicting that.”

Instead of countering, Friedman said, “The bullet went right through her and was embedded in the wall, so it’s not in very good shape. But Ballistics says that, for sure, it came from a Colt forty-five automatic.”

Hastings was aware of a visceral lift. “So it starts with Charlie Ross,” he said.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t end with Charlie Ross.”

“I think he’ll come around,” Hastings said. “He’s just giving himself room to maneuver.”

“So when’ll you see him?”

“Today. This morning. What about Fred Bell? Anything?”

“He’s apparently clean. His time card says he was at work promptly at eight o’clock. And that’s downtown. He’s a printer at the
Sentinel.
So that’s a half-hour drive, minimum. I checked back with Penziner, the next-door neighbor. He puts the sound of the shot at just a little after eight o’clock, absolutely. That’s because he finished watching ‘The Price Is Right,’ one of those game shows, at eight o’clock. Then he went right down to the garage to do some work on his car. That’s when he heard the shot. His wife backs him up.”

“So Teresa Bell was dead for what? About a half hour, when we got there?”

Friedman nodded. “Something like that.”

“And she was probably killed with a gun that Charlie Ross fenced.”

“Odds on, I’d say.”

“So someone wanted both Hanchett and Teresa Bell dead. He bought two guns, one for each job. He intended to ditch both guns, probably. But the Llama turned up.”

Once more, Friedman nodded.

“If someone wanted both of them dead,” Hastings mused, “then it’s got to have something to do with BMC—with the death of the Bell child. That’s the only connection between Hanchett and Bell.”

“I wonder,” Friedman said, “whether it could have something to do with a frustrated liver recipient, something like that.” Speculating, he settled more deeply in his chair, let his eyes wander away.

Hastings frowned. “That’d only make sense if the Bell child got an organ that otherwise would’ve gone to another child, and that child’s parents bore a grudge against both Hanchett and the Bells. But that’s not what happened. The Bell child didn’t get the liver. And he died. Which would have made Teresa Bell the perfect suspect. Grief drove her bonkers, and she exorcised her demons by killing Hanchett. Which, in fact, is exactly what I thought happened.”