Hire a Hangman (24 page)

“So how’s it going, Alan? How long’s it been since you cut loose from that snake Dancer?”

“A little more than a year.” Bernhardt’s voice matched his face: measured, modulated.

“You’re doing all right free-lance,” Friedman said. Then: “Aren’t you?”

Bernhardt considered. “Yeah, I suppose I am. Everyone wants more business, I guess. But in my case …” He let it go unfinished.

“Meaning that, really, you’d rather write plays than surveillance reports.”

“Except that if the plays don’t get produced, then I’ve got to keep writing the reports.”

“And you and that classy lady you saved from Hollywood, you’re still an item?”

Bernhardt smiled. “You’re an incorrigible busybody, you know that, Pete?”

“So I’ve been told.” Friedman spoke complacently, then pointedly let a silence settle. He was expecting an answer.

Bernhardt’s smile widened as he said, “Okay, the answer is yes, we’re still an item.”

“Good.” With an air of finality, Friedman nodded. Having satisfied his curiosity, he was ready to proceed. “You’ll recall that the last time we talked, you said you owed me a big one for that fingerprint search a month or so ago on the State of California’s six-million-dollar Japanese fingerprint computer. Right?”

“Definitely.”

“So how’re you fixed for time, the next day or two?”

“I’ve got time.” As he spoke, Bernhardt took out his notebook and pen. “What can I do for you?”

“What I need,” Friedman said, “is a little illegal entry, maybe a little fingerprint lifting. Are you any good at fingerprints?”

Bernhardt shrugged. “I’ve done it. But I can’t say I’m very proficient. What’s the rundown?”

“There’re three, maybe four guys I need fingerprints on. Do you know about the Hanchett murder case?”

“Sure. I read the papers.”

“And the murder of Teresa Bell, two nights ago?”

Bernhardt frowned. “Teresa Bell?”

Friedman sighed. “Teresa Bell was neither rich nor famous, so she didn’t make the front page. But she’s dead. We think she killed Hanchett. Then we think she was killed to shut her up. If we’re right, we may have the fingerprints of her murderer on some cartridges. But all we’ve got are suspicions, not nearly enough to get search warrants.”

“So?”

“So I need you to get fingerprints from a list of suspects, like I said. We’ll do a little on-the-spot fingerprint work. You get inside the guy’s house, find something like a drinking glass, maybe unscrew a doorknob, whatever it takes. You bring the item out to our van, where we’ve got a fingerprint technician. He takes a couple of minutes to lift some prints. Then you return the glass, and we go on to the next suspect.”

Bernhardt frowned. “But, Christ, what if—?”

“Wait.” Friedman raised a peremptory hand. “I know what you’re going to say, and I’ve got it covered. It’ll be a team effort. I’ll be the team captain.” He smiled puckishly at the other man. “Does that reassure you?”

“Hmmm.”

“You’ll have a half-dozen guys backing you up. There’ll be a guy tailing the suspect, naturally, so he won’t walk in on you. Then one guy in front of the suspect’s house, and another guy in back. Plus me and the fingerprint guy. A goddamn task force, in other words. How’re you on locks?”

Bernhardt shrugged. “Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. You know how it is with locks. If the technology is ahead of you, then you lose.”

“Well, I’ll get a locksmith. A private party. So all you have to do is go inside. You’ll have a walkie-talkie, of course. And I’ll be coordinating from the van. If the subject returns home, I’ll give you fair warning. You’ll have to bring your own car, though. We don’t want anyone to connect us, naturally.”

“What about the walkie-talkies? If they’re police-issue, they’ll connect us.”

“I’ll get a couple from the property room. Drug dealers are very big on walkie-talkies.”

Bernhardt nodded, then shrugged, one gesture canceling the other. “Sounds like it should work. But I don’t understand what you’ll gain by all this. Talk about illegally gathered evidence. The DA’ll never touch it.”

Always impatient whenever a pet project was questioned, Friedman dismissed the point with a wave of the hand. “You get the goods, I’ll handle the details. And, meanwhile, you’ll be back in the black, so far as our private tally is concerned. Okay?”

“Yes. Fine. When do we start?”

“How about now? This evening? I’ve got four subjects in mind, like I said. I’ll put a stakeout on each one of them. The first one who leaves the house, gives us a shot, we’ll go for it. Same thing applies to his place of business. I figure that, with luck and good communications, we’ll have what we want in twenty-four hours. Okay?”

“Okay.”

6:20
PM

Standing side by side in the archway of the small living room, they watched the boy as he sat absorbed before a small TV set. On the screen, cartoon characters chattered and shrieked. No matter what the characters did, the boy’s face remained unchanged as he methodically ate a chili dog they’d picked up at Taco Bell. The archway was narrow. Canelli was conscious of Dolores standing close beside him, their thighs sometimes brushing. After she’d gotten Oscar settled, she’d gone into the bedroom and changed into jeans and a silky blouse that clung to her torso. Her feet were bare. Beneath the silken swell of her breasts, her arms were crossed.

“Television …” Resigned, she sighed. “What’re you going to do?”

“He looks like he’ll be okay, though,” Canelli offered.

“Yeah, he’ll be okay.”

They remained silent for a moment, still companionably close. On the TV screen, during a raucous commercial, a clown was pitching a computer war game; the sound effects might have come from a Vietnam film clip.

“Well,” Canelli said finally, “I guess I better get back to the Hall.” Unwilling to move away from her, he spoke softly, regretfully. On the TV screen, the pyrotechnics continued. He decided to take a tentative half-step backward, into the hallway. Moving with him, she led the way to the front door. Then, turning toward him, her back to the door, she stood motionless. As if she were determined to measure up to some distasteful task, she lowered her chin, bowed her neck, set her shoulders.

“Listen, Canelli, I, uh—” She frowned, broke off, began again, this time speaking in a rush: “I, uh, just wanted to thank you.” Still she stood motionless, obviously struggling. Then, slowly, with grave determination, she raised her eyes to meet his. “I wanted to thank you a lot. I mean …” She shook her head sharply, as if to dispel some painful vision. “I mean, it would’ve been terrible, if Oscar had stayed in that hole.” Deep in her dark eyes Canelli saw a softness. As if to deny it, her frown deepened. But, still, the softness remained.

“Ah, jeez, Dolores …” Canelli’s head bobbed. “Jeez, it’s okay. I’m just glad it worked out, is all. You know, sometimes you get tangled up in that bureaucracy, all that crap, it doesn’t always work out. But this time it did. So …” In acknowledgment of their good fortune, he waved a hand. Then, because they were standing so close, he touched her shoulder, let his hand linger. “So I’m glad.”

With his hand still on her shoulder, she suddenly smiled. Plainly, the smile surprised her. “You’re a funny guy, you know that? Especially for a cop, you’re a funny guy.” As if they’d just been introduced, she studied him for a moment. Then, boldly: “Have you got a girl?”

“I, uh …” He squinted, frowned, shifted his feet, took back his hand. Visibly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. “I, uh, yeah, I do, as a matter of fact. Gracie. We’re … engaged, I guess you’d say.”

“Ah …” Self-protectively, she nodded. Now she said something in Spanish, three short, wistful words. Then her eyes changed. Her voice was crisp as she said, “Listen, looking these guys over, there’s one more to go. Right?” It was a businesslike question, asked with precision.

“Yeah. Right. At least I think that’s what the lieutenant is saying. But—”

“Is this last guy the one you suspect most, or what?”

He snorted. “Who knows? You gotta talk to the lieutenant for that.”

“But you want the guy eyeballed. Right?”

“Right. But I thought you—”

Impatiently, she shook her head. “I never said I wouldn’t do the job. I just said I didn’t want to lie. I mean, I’ve got problems enough without that.”

“Well …” He grinned. “Well, let’s do it, then.” He checked the time. “Let’s give it a shot, see what happens.”

“Can I be back in time to put Oscar in bed? Eight-thirty?”

“No problem.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Oscar and make sure Maria can watch him. But it’s gotta be eight-thirty, Canelli.”

“Guaranteed.”

In the narrow hallway, before she could pass, he was compelled to flatten himself against the wall. As he did, she came close, rose upon tiptoes, and kissed him full on the mouth. Once more, she said something in Spanish. Only a few wistful words.

6:25
PM

Hastings pressed the blinking plastic button and lifted the telephone to his ear.

“Hastings.”

“This is Susan Parrish, Frank.”

“Susan.” He smiled. “You’re my most faithful informant, you know that?”

“Is that good?”

“It proves you’re on the side of the angels. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I feel kind of silly, telling you this. I mean, it’s just gossip, that’s all it is. But when you told me you wanted to know about Dr. Pfiefer’s beard, the easiest thing to do was talk to his nurse. It was hard because I couldn’t tell her why I was asking—except that, really, I think she figured it out. It’s all over the hospital that Dr. Hanchett was murdered as he was leaving Carla Pfiefer’s place. And then, of course, you’ve been here, questioning Dr. Pfiefer. And that’s stirred up a lot of gossip, naturally. But anyhow—” In the background, a telephone warbled. “Oh, damn. Hold on a second, Frank.” She clicked him on hold. A half-minute passed. Then, a little breathlessly: “Sorry, Frank. I think I need a vacation.”

“I think you’ve earned one.”

She laughed ruefully. “I just had one.” They shared a short, companionable silence before she said, “Well, anyhow, the bottom line is that, just about an hour ago, I saw Dr. Pfiefer’s nurse—Maggie Christian—in the cafeteria, on her break. She was pumping me about whether or not you thought Dr. Pfiefer was a suspect in the Hanchett murder. I said that if he was a suspect, he was one of several. Was that the right thing to say?”

“Perfect. You catch on quick. Always have, come to think about it.”

“Thanks.” Plainly pressed for time, she spoke briskly, anxious to finish her story. “Anyhow, according to Maggie—who, until now, I’d never really known, except to nod and say hello to—according to Maggie, Carla Pfiefer is one very kinky lady. Maggie thinks that, even though Carla had moved out on Pfiefer, and was going hot and heavy with Hanchett, she was also seeing Pfiefer—screwing him for old time’s sake, whatever. Maggie thinks Carla is one of those women who get their kicks driving men mad, mostly by playing one against the other.”

“How do you rate Maggie Christian as an observer? Do you think she knows what she’s talking about? Some people, you know, just like to stir things up.”

“As I said, I don’t really know her. But I think she’s very smart, and probably very observant. She’s been here for about six months. So I think I’d’ve known if she liked to cause trouble. It’s my business to know things like that.”

“Is she well liked, would you say?”

“I’d say that—” Once more, Hastings heard another phone warble. “Listen, Susan, I’ll let you go. And I’ll tell you what happens.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

6:45
PM

“Wait
a minute.” As if she were releasing tightly coiled energy, Carla Pfiefer strode to the large plate-glass window that overlooked the street where Hanchett had died. She turned to face Hastings. Every line of her body registered outrage and defiance. She wore stone-washed blue jeans, a white cashmere sweater, and thong sandals. The skintight jeans revealed lean, provocative flanks; the sweater suggested small breasts and a supple torso. Her shoulder-length dark hair was thick and full. Her mouth was hard, her voice harsh.

“Wait.”
She raised both hands, palms forward, as if to restrain Hastings, push him away. “I don’t think I’m getting this. I don’t think I understand what this is all about. What are you, a voyeur? Do you get off on hearing how people spend their time in bed? Is that what this is all about?”

“What this is all about,” Hastings answered, his voice heavily measured, “is that I’m trying to get some feeling for your relationship with Brice Hanchett. Monday night—the night of the murder—it seemed likely that it was a street crime. A robbery, maybe, that went sour. So I wasn’t especially interested in the details of your relationship with Hanchett. But that was Monday. Today’s Friday. There’s been another murder in the meantime, that we think is connected to the Hanchett murder. And we—”

She frowned. “Another murder?”

“Wednesday night. A woman named Teresa Bell.” Looking for a reaction, Hastings let a moment of silence pass. But he saw nothing behind the defiant frown, now turned puzzled. “We think she killed Hanchett. We think it was premeditated murder—very carefully planned.”

“And you think—you’ve come to tell me—that you think Jason is involved.” Incredulously, she shook her head. “Jesus, you must be crazy. Really crazy. Have you talked to Jason, told him what you’ve been telling me, all this crap about him being a jealous husband?”

“Of course I’ve talked to him.”

“And?”

“Look, Mrs. Pfiefer”—he hardened his voice—“I’m asking the questions. Okay?”

“Jealousy.” It was a contemptuous epithet, contemptuously delivered. “Christ, you don’t know how ridiculous you sound.” As if she pitied him, she slowly shook her head.

“Premeditated murder means there was a motive. And jealousy is one of the best motives around.”

“But Jason—” She dismissed her husband with a flick of her hand. “Jesus, he’s a goddamn iceberg. When he’s the maddest, he’s the coldest. Jealousy—Christ, that’s for ordinary mortals, people who feel things, who can’t control their emotions. Jason’s whole thing is control. If you knew him, you’d realize that.”