Hire a Hangman (27 page)

“Following
you?” Involuntarily her head came up, her eyes swept the nearby rows of parked cars.

Aware of the wayward pleasure he was experiencing, aware that he wanted to see her eyes register fear, he continued, “They could have my phone tapped. Or my place could be bugged. They have tiny microphones, you know—battery-powered transmitters.”

“You suspected all this, and you told me to meet you? Christ.” Incredulously, she shook her head. “You
are
crazy. Do you realize what you’re doing? Do you realize that—”

“It started with you. Everything. You know that, don’t you? It was your idea.”

“So if they’re following you, then you thought it’d be nice if they followed me, too. Share and share alike. Is that it?”

“I didn’t say they were following me. I said they
could
be following me. I’m—Christ—I’m a suspect, don’t forget. Not you. Me.”

“So you’re carrying the gun. The one thing that can incriminate you, and you’re carrying it.” As she spoke, she gestured to the seawall, close beside them. “Christ, throw the thing away.
Now.
Give it time.
I’ll
throw it away.” She stepped closer, extended her hand.

Quickly he stepped back, saying, “If I were staying, I’d throw it away. But I’m going. So I need the gun. Fuck it. And fuck you, too.”

As if she pitied him, she shook her head. “Do you know what you’re doing? You’re imagining things, that’s what you’re doing. The police question you, and you think it’s all over.”

“I pulled the trigger. Where were you when I pulled the trigger? Did you see her eyes turn to stone?”

“We agreed. Long before that, we agreed to—”

“Words. Talk. You talked. You made promises. But I pulled the trigger.”

“Ah—” As if she understood, she nodded. Then, again, she stepped forward. Not to take the gun, but now to touch him on the forearm, a belated lover’s touch.

Did she suspect that he’d brought the gun because he knew he might kill her to save himself?

Did she sense that he couldn’t do it?

Not here. Not now. Not with the music from the yacht club coming so clearly in the warm September evening.

9:35
PM

As she saw him leaving her, walking away in the direction of the yacht club, the rhythm of his strides uneven, his shoulders drawn forward, head lowered, frightened and defeated, his words began to resonate, as fateful as footsteps on a fresh-dug grave:

It started with you.

It was your idea.

Yes, it had started with her. And so it must end with her.

Before he could run—before the police could question him—she must end it.

Now. Tonight.

9:55
PM

He switched off the headlights, switched off the engine, set the hand brake. Just ahead, on the opposite side of the street, he saw the entrance to the accessway. Surprisingly, only a few cars were parked nearby. Was it significant? When he’d left here, an hour ago, there’d hardly been a parking place. Did it mean that the police were watching? Or did it mean that, Friday night, there were parties to go to, movies to see, people to meet?

While others partied, he would pack a suitcase, draw the drapes, turn off the lights—and leave. He would drive to an automated teller machine, clean out his checking account, clean out his savings. In the rented Buick he would begin driving south. He would cross the border at San Diego, just another one-day tourist, shopping. Paying cash for gas and motel rooms, he would drive to Mexico City, where he would take the license plates from the car, and leave the car for car thieves. Charles Wade, tourist. Before he was missed, sometime Monday, he would be safe. Charles Wade, calling her from Cancún. Telling her how to send him the money: cash at first, then checks.

Charles Wade, running.

While others partied, made love, watched a movie, he would be running. Whatever mess he made, others would clean up.

Job to job, apartment to apartment, city to city—all his life, running. After his father had left—disappeared, one afternoon in May—his mother began moving. Job to job, apartment to apartment—always smaller apartments, always darker apartments, always cheaper apartments. Until, like his father, he had left her, too. He’d been sixteen. His mother had just been paid. She’d cashed her check, and had gone out to buy groceries—and a bottle. He’d gone to the scuffed bureau they shared and pulled open the second drawer from the top. There, among the tangles of her underwear, he’d seen the nest of money, all bills, no silver. He’d left her a twenty-dollar bill, and taken the rest. All afternoon, when she was at work, he’d thought about it, planned it. He’d filled two shopping bags with clothes and hidden them beneath his bed, ready. Like tonight, it had been a Friday. Like tonight, the weather had been soft and warm, Indian summer in New York City, on the Lower East Side, where everything and everyone was for sale. Especially teenage boys with firm, rounded buttocks.

Why was he reluctant to leave the shelter of the Buick? Was he sensing danger? Unconsciously sensing danger? He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. By midnight he would be on the road. By morning he could be in Tijuana. Another town where everything was for sale.

10:00
PM

Friedman slid the van’s door open and waited for Bernhardt to give him the clear plastic evidence bag containing two drinking glasses. “Any trouble?” Friedman asked, handing the evidence bag to the fingerprint technician and then gesturing Bernhardt inside, so the van could be closed and the interior lights switched on.

“Smooth as silk.” Bernhardt smiled, nodded through the windshield toward the woman who stood on the sidewalk nearby, keeping a discreet distance from the undercover van. She wore a bomber jacket and tight blue jeans. A small red metal toolbox rested beside her on the sidewalk.

“The lady has a way with locks,” Bernhardt observed.

“Have you looked for the gun?”

“No. I’ll do that when I take the glasses back.” A tall man, Bernhardt knelt on the floor of the van, his eyes following the fingerprint technician as he began working.

“Don’t let her inside the apartment.” Friedman gestured toward the locksmith.

“Right. There’s a stairway. She stayed there.”

Approvingly, Friedman nodded. Now both men watched the technician as he carefully applied the black fingerprint powder to the glasses, then delicately brushed it away. In the front seat, monitoring the radio, Hastings sat facing forward, eyeing the lady locksmith and her tight blue jeans. In the rear of the van, the technician rotated the glasses, examining them closely. Then, satisfied, he began applying the strips of Scotch tape to the fingerprints.

“How do they look?” Friedman asked.

The technician shrugged. “Average, I’d say.” Working quickly now, he stripped off the tape, checked the result, finally nodded, satisfied. He began cleaning the glasses with a cloth as Friedman turned to Bernhardt.

“Can you hear me on that goddamn radio?” Friedman asked.

Bernhardt shrugged. “I hear you a little. Enough, I guess.” He took the walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket. “It’s very sensitive on the squelch, I’ve found.”

Friedman nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.” As he spoke, the technician handed him the bag with the clean glasses inside. He handed the bag to Bernhardt, who turned toward the door. With permission from the fingerprint man, Friedman switched off the interior lights and slid the door open.

“Don’t forget the forty-five,” Friedman said. “Give it fifteen, twenty minutes, a very light toss, no fuss, no muss. Right?”

“No fuss, no muss. See you soon, guys.” Bernhardt nodded to the two lieutenants, stooped, and stepped out of the van. A moment later the tall, loose-limbed private investigator and the petite locksmith were striding toward the building’s lobby. As Friedman watched them trip the lock and enter the lobby, the primary radio, mounted beneath the van’s dashboard, came to life.

“Surveillance Four? Are you on frequency?”

Hastings recognized the voice of Bill Sigler, one of three communications supervisors. Whenever Sigler came on frequency, something significant had happened.

Turning away from Friedman, who was talking to Canelli on another channel, Hastings keyed his microphone. “Surveillance Four. Hastings.” As he spoke, he turned down the volume of the primary receiver, then leaned closer to the speaker while Friedman continued talking to Canelli.

“Yeah,” Sigler was saying. “Lieutenant, I know you’re on surveillance. But I’ve got a lady holding who really wants to talk to you, plain language. I told her I’d try to get you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Her name is Hanchett. Barbara Hanchett.”

As if some subliminal switch had been closed, both lieutenants stiffened. Quickly, Friedman signed off on Canelli as Hastings turned up the primary radio’s volume.

“Okay, Sigler. Put her on. You’ll be getting it on tape. Right?”

“Right.”

A moment passed. Then, clearly, a woman’s voice: “Lieutenant Hastings?”

“Mrs. Hanchett. What can I do for you?”

“Can you come over here, Lieutenant? Now? Right now? I’ve, uh—I’ve got something to tell you.” In her voice, Hastings could plainly hear the tightness, the tension. Was it fear? Simple anxiety? Something else? Clearly, Hastings could picture Barbara Hanchett: a cool, calm, utterly controlled woman. Controlled—and controlling, too. A drawing-room dragon lady. Questioningly, Hastings looked at Friedman, who was looking intently at the primary radio’s speaker. Finally, Friedman raised his double chin a half-inch and slightly tilted his head, signifying that he favored proceeding cautiously, deliberately.

“I can probably be there in a half hour, Mrs. Hanchett.” Hastings hesitated. “This is an open line—it’s being broadcast on a discreet channel, but it’s still being broadcast. It’s also being taped, by police communications. Do you understand?”

“Y—yes, I understand.”

“Okay. So now I want to ask you—are you in any danger? Any physical danger, now? Right now?”

Her reply was a short, harsh laugh. In the laugh, Hastings could hear the edge of hysteria. “No, I’m not in danger. It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what’s so urgent, Mrs. Hanchett? What is it that can’t wait?”

“What’s so urgent,” she said, “is that I can tell you who killed Teresa Bell.”

In Friedman’s eyes, Hastings could see his own expression mirrored: equal measures of caution, excitement, and quick calculation. For once, Friedman was sitting erect, not slouched. His eyebrows were raised: all the excitement Friedman ever allowed himself to reveal.

“Okay.” Hastings spoke distinctly, deliberately. “Tell me. Who is it?”

“It’s Clay—Clayton Vance.”

10:10
PM

Vance was walking down the alleyway as if he were suspended in time and place, cocooned from the night’s noises and sights and smells. The pavement hardly made contact with his feet; the concrete walls rising on either side might have been stage scenery, make-believe, without substance, without reality. Yet, as he walked, he was aware that his senses were drawn unbearably taut, a thin, shrill song. Steadily, the steel door was drawing closer. In the darkness he could see the seam of light between the door and the frame—the seam into which he’d inserted the book of matches, more than an hour ago.

10:12
PM

As Hastings released the Transmit button of his microphone, one of Friedman’s walkie-talkies came to life.

“Lieutenant,” Canelli was saying, “he’s here. He just got out of a Buick back here. He’s walking down the back alley of his apartment building.”

Urgently, Friedman handed the civilian walkie-talkie to Hastings and used the departmental walkie-talkie to tell Canelli what they had just learned from Barbara Hanchett. Turning away from Friedman, Hastings spoke into the civilian walkie-talkie: “Bernhardt. Alan. Come in.” He released the walkie-talkie’s Transmit switch, tried again—and again. On the surveillance radio, Canelli was saying that Vance had just pulled open a utility door and was entering the building. Friedman, the theorist, handed his microphone to Hastings, the field commander. In seconds, responsibility had shifted.

“Can you get in that door, Canelli?” Hastings asked.

“I doubt it, Lieutenant. I can’t even see a knob. I bet it’s an anti-burglary door. You gotta ring to get in, I bet.”

Irritated, Hastings demanded, “Then how’d Vance get in?”

“He must’ve blocked it open.”

“Okay. Jesus. Stay put. If he comes out, take him. Clear?”

“Yessir. That’s clear.” Canelli’s voice was chastened; Hastings had hurt his feelings.

“I’ll get reinforcements.” Friedman reached awkwardly over Hastings for the microphone that would connect him to Communications. One last time, Hastings tried the walkie-talkie. Finally he heard a static-garbled man’s voice. Was it Bernhardt?

“Alan. Is that you?”

An unreadable response, then nothing but static.

“If you can hear this,” Hastings said, “I want you to get out. I want you to leave the building by the front door. The subject has returned. Repeat, the subject has returned. Get out. Leave by the front stairway.
Now.”
He switched off the walkie-talkie and handed it to Friedman. Across the street, two couples were just leaving the lobby of Vance’s building. Quickly, Hastings threw open the van’s door. “Keep trying Bernhardt. I’m going inside.” Sprinting across the street, Hastings caught the two couples as they clustered around a parked car. He showed them the shield, demanding, “Which one of you lives there?” He gestured to the apartment building.

Hesitantly, as if he’d been called on to answer a difficult classroom question, one of the men raised his hand. He was short, fat, and bald. And probably half-drunk.

“I want you to open the door—the lobby door.” As he spoke, Hastings grasped the man’s thick forearm, turning him back toward the building. “Now. Right now.”

“But—”

Lowering his voice as he propelled the man roughly forward along the sidewalk, Hastings grated, “This is police business, asshole.
Important
police business. Run, don’t walk.”

10:13
PM