Hire a Hangman (14 page)

“Which, in fact, is what could’ve happened,” Friedman said. “It’s still a good theory. Except that now we’ve got to account for Teresa’s murder. Which brings us back to Fred. Suppose Fred knew that Teresa killed Hanchett. Suppose he figured she’d talk. Which it sounds like she would’ve. And suppose Fred’s a little bonkers, too. Or maybe he isn’t bonkers, not like his wife was. Suppose he just can’t bear to think of his wife behind bars. He knows she’ll go crazy. So he puts her out of her misery. A mercy killing, in other words.”

Hastings shook his head. “If he’d killed her out of love, he would’ve done it when she was sleeping. Or when she was watching TV, turned away from him. Besides, Bell has an alibi.”

“He’s got a punched-in time card,” Friedman countered. “Time cards can be falsified.”

“Have you got someone checking at the
Sentinel?”

“No. But I will. Definitely.”

“If we assume that the two guns came from Charlie Ross,” Hastings said, “then both murders were planned well in advance.”

“So maybe Bell planned them. Planned them, and committed them.”

“If Bell killed Hanchett, why would he kill his wife?”

“Maybe because he knew she’d talk,” Friedman suggested mildly. “If he didn’t shut her up, she’d incriminate him. You said yourself that she’s a talker.”

“Hmmm …”

“Or maybe it was a suicide pact,” Friedman said.

“Hmmm …”

“In any case, the game plan seems clear. You should take Canelli, and you should talk to Charlie Ross. I have an idea he’ll go along. With his real-estate holdings, he’s got a lot to lose.”

Hastings nodded agreement.

“And then, no matter what Charlie says, you’ve obviously got to talk to Fred Bell.”

“Where’ll you be?”

“I’ll be here, until I hear from you.”

“Right.”

10:30
AM

“Oh—hi, Lieutenant.” Ross’s welcoming hand gesture was uneven. His smile was ragged. His eyes moved fretfully. “Hi. Come in. Hi, there, Inspector.” Ross stepped back from the door, making room for the two detectives. “I was just thinking about you guys when the doorbell rang. I really was.”

Without comment, his expression grave, Hastings nodded heavily and entered the apartment. Canelli had been coached, and his manner was equally solemn.

When they were seated, Hastings said, “You didn’t call, Charlie. I told you to call by ten o’clock. You didn’t.”

“Lieutenant, Jesus, I been waiting for a call myself, about—about this thing. And all I’m getting is promises. You know—‘I’ll get right back to you, Charlie. Be patient, Charlie.’” Dispiritedly, he shook his head. In the harsh morning light streaming through the huge window that overlooked Dolores Park, the skin of Ross’s face was as pale as a corpse’s. When he gestured, his hands trembled slightly.

Staring at the other man, Hastings let his eyes go stone cold. Then, pretending a regret so completely synthesized that it felt genuine, Hastings shook his head as he said, “Actually, Charlie, the way things’ve turned out, it’s not really important now. Not after what happened last night.”

Involuntarily, Ross blinked. His thin mustache began to twitch. But it was a cautious twitch, not a worried twitch. In the interrogation game, Charlie knew all the moves. Therefore he simply waited for Hastings to speak.

“There’s another murder, Charlie.” Hastings spoke with great gravity, as if he were breaking the bad news to a member of the deceased’s family. “And it looks like it was done with that forty-five-caliber automatic, the one that disappeared along with the Llama, from the Foster Crowe collection.”

“Yeah.” Canelli shook his head lugubriously. “That’s two for you, you might say, Charlie. Two strikes, put it another way. It begins to look like you’re in deep shit.”

Ross decided to register a puzzled frown. “Wait.” He shook his head, raised a narrow, liver-spotted hand. “Wait. Hold it. Lemme understand this. You guys got a couple of murders to solve, and you’re saying I’m it. Is that what you’re saying?”

Mock-sympathetically, Hastings shook his head. “We don’t have much choice, Charlie. See, Homicide’s different from Pawnshops. In Pawnshops, there’s an ebb and flow, you might say. We can’t connect a guy to a few TVs, for instance, then we’ll get him for a few computers, typewriters, whatever.”

“Yeah,” Canelli offered. “In Pawnshops, there’s always another train coming along. But in Homicide, there’s only one train. See?” Brow earnestly furrowed, Canelli asked the question solicitously, doing his best.

“And in Homicide,” Hastings said, “it’s all physical evidence. That’s all the DA cares about. Confessions, eyewitnesses, that’s fine—depending on the witness. But without physical evidence, nothing happens.”

On cue, Canelli picked up the beat. “And, see, we’ve got the Llama tied tight to the Hanchett homicide, with ballistics. And we’ve got the Colt forty-five tied to the homicide last night. And we’ve got you tied to those two guns. So I have to tell you, Charlie”—Canelli shook his head mournfully—“I have to tell you, it don’t look like the future’s too bright for you.” Canelli turned toward the sun-drenched view of Dolores Park, and the Bay Bridge beyond. “All this, Charlie, and you wind up standing trial for murder.” Canelli shook his head again. “What a waste.”

“Hey—
wait.”
Aggrieved, Ross held up both hands, palms out. Pointedly ignoring Canelli, speaking to Hastings, he said, “What you
really
got is Floyd Palmer, that’s who you got. You got him connected to a few guns from this gun nut’s collection, as I understand it, and then you got him saying he got the guns from me. Christ. What’s that? Is the DA going to take that to the bank? Come on, gimme a break here.”

Elaborately patient, Hastings leaned closer to Ross. “What I’m starting with, Charlie—what I’m assuming—is that Floyd Palmer is telling the truth. That’s where I’m starting. And then—”

“Telling the
truth?
Christ, Lieutenant, the guy’s waiting for a court date. He’d tell you his mother’s an ape if he thought it’d help. He’d—”

“Charlie. Wait.” Hastings shook his head sternly, raised his hand. “Wait. You interrupted me. We’re doing business, you and I. And the rules are, you don’t interrupt. I can interrupt you. But you don’t interrupt me. That’s because I’ve got a badge and you haven’t.”

Ross muttered something, shifted his bony body in his chair. One elbow cocked on the arm of the chair, he slammed his chin down in the palm of his hand as he looked peevishly away.

Continuing in the same patient voice, Hastings said, “I guess I didn’t make this plain yesterday, Charlie. I guess I’ll have to lay it out for you again, eh?”

Still sulking, Ross refused to respond.

“See, I’m starting with the supposition that Floyd Palmer is telling the truth, like I just finished explaining. And then I’m assuming, since you’re basically a wholesaler—an operator—that you started with a big part of the action, and that you broke it down for retail distribution. I’m assuming that you started with maybe ten guns from the Crowe collection.”

“Ten?” Ross frowned.

“I forget the exact tally. That’s not important. What’s important is that you sold two guns to someone who killed two people in this town the past week.” Hastings let a definitive silence settle before he said, “I’m not saying you pulled the trigger, Charlie. I know better than that. But, like I say, I’m assuming that you’ve got information I need—material evidence in a homicide. That’s my assumption. So then I assume that, since you’re not willing to cooperate, you’re obstructing justice. And that’s a very, very serious business.” As if the prospect of Ross’s fate dispirited him, Hastings shook his head. “Someone who obstructs justice in a capital case, Charlie, especially someone with a record like yours, he’s looking at some pretty heavy time. He’s looking at probably—”

“Hey. Wait.”
As if he’d been touched by a hot wire, Ross’s whole body jerked.
“Wait.
You—Jesus—you’re trying to—”

At Ross’s elbow, a high-tech phone warbled. As if he were reaching for a prize, Ross grabbed greedily for the telephone and pressed it furtively to his ear.

“Yeah?” A pause. Then: “About time.” Exasperated, he tapped his teeth with a manicured thumbnail as he listened. Finally: “Where are you now?” A brief, impatient pause. “Okay. Stay there. Stay put. Do like I told you. This time, for Christ’s sake, do like I told you.” In one abrupt movement, suddenly all business, Ross cradled the phone, rose to his feet, and spoke briskly to Hastings. “Those two guns you’re talking about, that was the call I was waiting for, see, before I called you.”

Also on his feet, also all business, Hastings was ready with a notebook and a ballpoint pen as Ross recited, “Her name is Dolores Chavez. She’s a bartender at a place called The Haven, out on Church Street. Church and Twenty-eighth, Twenty-ninth, you can’t miss it. The place is probably closed, door locked. But knock, and she’ll open the door for you. Don’t waste any time, though. Dolores, she’s still a little green. And she’s stubborn, too. She can be very hard to handle. But she’s got what you want. We talked last night, me and Dolores. It’ll take a hundred, though.”

“A hundred, Charlie?” Pocketing the notebook, Hastings shook his head and spoke reproachfully. “A hundred did you say?”

“Oh—
Jesus.”
Ross crossed quickly to a cabinet, pulled open a drawer, produced two fifty-dollar bills. “Here. Take them.
Jesus.
Just
get
there, if you want anything from Dolores.”

“Thanks, Charlie. We’ll be in touch.” Quickly, the two detectives strode toward the door.

“And don’t forget those goddamn brownie points,” Ross called out after them. “Pass the word downtown.”

“Gotcha.”

11:30
AM

The Haven was a workingman’s bar that had been upgraded when the yuppies with their briefcases and BMWs began infiltrating the Mission District, San Francisco’s traditional blue-collar bastion. Budweiser signs had been taken out of The Haven’s plate-glass window, random shake shingles had been nailed to the front façade, and the door now featured a small stained-glass window that was protected by clear plastic. A check with Mission Station suggested that The Haven’s record was good: no drug dealing, no pimping, few fights—and no known fencing of stolen property on the premises.

“Why don’t you stay in the car,” Hastings said. “I’ll see which way she jumps.”

“A lady fence.” Marveling, Canelli cocked his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a lady fence. I bet she wrestles on the side.”

Hastings smiled. “You don’t think bartending and fencing keeps her busy enough?” He got out of the cruiser, walked to the door of The Haven, tested it, knocked. When the door opened a crack, he was ready with the badge. Immediately, a small, quick-moving, dark-eyed woman opened the door wider. A moment later he was inside, with the door bolted, facing her. She was about thirty, short but robustly built, a full-breasted Latino beauty. Her dark, snapping eyes were bold, her body language strong-minded. Standing just inside the door, Hastings surveyed The Haven’s interior. With the chairs stacked on the tables and open cartons littering the mahogany bar, the place was lifeless, depressing, without purpose. In the rear, wearing Walkman earphones, a black man was leisurely mopping the floor, his slow strokes synchronized to some inaudible rhythm.

“Back here …” The woman turned away, began walking purposefully toward an Exit sign at the end of a short back corridor with His and Hers on either side. Like her manner, the movement of Dolores Chavez’s buttocks and thighs was purposeful, straightforward, assertive. Some women walked to please men. Dolores walked to cover ground. In cadence, her thick black hair, earlobe length, swung rhythmically.

She lifted a two-by-four that barred the metal-clad rear door, drew back two large bolts, swung open the heavy door, and walked into a small, paved areaway stacked with garbage cans and trash bags. As he pulled the door shut behind them, Hastings glimpsed a furtive, furry movement between two garbage cans. Good. If Dolores caused trouble, a call to the health department would be Hastings’s first move.

She turned to face him, saying, “I talked to Charlie.”

Hastings nodded. “I was there when you called.”

“Charlie says you’re okay, don’t screw people over.” As she said it, her dark, quick eyes boldly assessed him.

“Charlie’s right.” He let a beat pass. Then, meaningfully: “People like us—you and I—we’ve got to keep our word, keep our promises. Otherwise it all comes apart.”

Plainly still suspicious, she nevertheless inclined her head slightly. “Yeah …” Her voice was only lightly accented. Contradicting her exterior self, there was a softness to her face, a harmony of ovals, gently joined. But her dark, vivid eyes remained hard. Legs braced wide, fists propped on her hips, her body language was still uncompromising. Plainly, butting heads with Dolores would yield nothing more than a headache.

So, relaxing his own body, Hastings waited for her to speak.

“This is the first time I’ve ever done this. Talked to a cop, I mean,” she said.

Hastings nodded.

“I’ve got a kid. A son. You understand?”

“I understand.” Why was he tempted to say,
I’ve got a son, too. And a daughter
?

“My arrangement with Charlie’s nothing, really. I used to date a guy, one of Charlie’s guys. He introduced me to Charlie. Then we broke up, this guy and me. So then, a couple of times, I hear about someone’s looking for something, I give Charlie a call, turn a couple of bucks. Mostly TVs, a couple of CD players, like that. I never held the stuff, not really. I just took a cut. A little cut.”

Hastings nodded again.

“Guns, though …” Mouth set firmly, eyes still hard, she shook her head. Was she about to deny that she’d done it, dealt the Llama and the .45? Charlie Ross would pay, if she backed away. Charlie would pay and pay again, everything doubled.

“They were a mistake,” she was saying. “Those guns, they were a mistake.”

Suppressing a grateful exhalation, Hastings nodded again. The areaway where they stood was bordered by the air shafts of two small apartment buildings, each three stories high. A narrow blind alley led from the areaway to the street. Hastings stepped a companionable foot closer and said quietly, “Tell me, Dolores. Just tell me how it went. Don’t try to second-guess yourself. Just tell me.”