Hire a Hangman (32 page)

“So someone from Anthony’s sure as hell notified Constance Frazer.” Signifying by-the-book admonishment, Hastings’s voice was flat. According to departmental guidelines, a homicide victim’s next of kin, if nearby, was always notified in person, preferably by a homicide detective. As the homicide officer in charge, notification had been Canelli’s responsibility.

“Yeah—well—” Canelli cleared his throat apologetically. Hastings could visualize Canelli’s broad, swarthy, amiable face, now registering deepest chagrin. Never had Hastings known a policeman more sensitive to criticism than Canelli. “Well, I’m afraid that’s right, Lieutenant. See, people from Anthony’s got here before the uniforms did. Two, three minutes after the shooting, no more. So, by the time I got here, everyone who worked at Anthony’s knew what happened. And, in fact, there was a real hysteria, I guess you’d say, at Anthony’s. Lots of Frazer’s society buddies were there, and they all left their meals and went out to see for themselves. And about half the staff, too. It was a real mob scene. But the uniforms, they did a great job, I’m not knocking them. It’s just that there wasn’t any way we could put a lid on things.”

“So we’re assuming that Constance Frazer knows. But we aren’t sure.”

“That’s about it, Lieutenant.”

“And the witnesses—do they all agree on what happened?”

“They sure do. That’s the good news, you might say.”

“This Chris, the parking attendant. You say he
thought
he heard shots. How close was he to the victim when the victim went down?”

“About forty feet, give or take.”

“And he only
thought
he heard shots?”

“Yeah, well, that occurred to me, too. Except that there’s always a lot of traffic on Franklin, you know.”

“No bullets found? No shell casings?”

“No, sir. The casings could be lying in the gutter, maybe, in a bunch of debris. But I sure didn’t see them. We’ve got floodlights now, though. And I passed the word that Frazer was a heavy-duty socialite who gets his name in the papers. So everyone’s on full alert, you might say.”

“No one heard shots but Chris. Is that right?”

“Yessir, that’s right.”

“Okay …” As he spoke, Hastings heard the sound of the shower, from the rear of the flat. Since the first days of her marriage, even before she’d had her children, Ann had lived in the same large, long, three-bedroom Victorian flat. The ceilings were wonderfully high and coved, the turn-of-the-century detailing of the woodwork was superb, and the location was vintage San Francisco. But there was only a bath and a half. So, after some discussion, it was decided that Hastings would shower in the morning and Ann at night. Result: she always smelled wonderful when she came to bed.

“Okay,” he repeated. “The guy lived about ten minutes from here. So I think I’ll talk to the widow, then go on down to the scene.”

“Shall I hold the body until you get here?” In the question, Hastings could hear the predictable faint note of hope. Occasionally, increasingly more often as the years passed, he allowed Canelli to take full charge at the scene of a homicide, signing off the body to the coroner and securing the scene after the lab crew was finished.

“Don’t bother to hold the body,” Hastings decided to say. “You close out at the scene. Your responsibility. Okay?”

“Well, jeez, sure, Lieutenant. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you in an hour, probably.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1991 by Collin Wilcox

Cover design by Michel Vrana

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