Victims (15 page)

“Yessir, that’s clear.” With his face registering conscientious concentration, Canelli looked up and down the hallway, laboriously committing the layout to memory.

I listened at the boy’s door for a moment, then knocked, then opened the door and went inside, gesturing for Canelli to close the door behind us.

“Hi, John. How are you today?”

He looked at me, frowned, then returned his gaze to the TV screen, where, surprisingly, Popeye and Olive Oyl were sliding together down a ship’s anchor rope.

“John, I’m sorry, but—” I stepped in front of him, and switched off the TV. “I’ve got to talk to you. It’ll just take a minute or two.”

Instantly, his face clouded petulantly. To divert his attention, I gestured to Canelli, standing close beside the door. “This is Inspector Canelli, John. He’s a detective, too.”

Canelli raised an awkward hand in a sheepish-looking greeting.

“You said you’d show me your handcuffs,” the boy said, returning his attention to me.

“I will. Before I leave, I promise I will. And Inspector Canelli will show you his gun, too. Do you know what a .357 Magnum is?”

“No.” As he spoke, his eyes wandered to the blank TV screen. His face was still puckered petulantly. Plainly, it had been a long time since he’d been denied his pleasure.

“A .357 Magnum is the most powerful handgun—pistol—in the world.” As I spoke, Canelli shuffled uncomfortably, smiled again, half-raised his hand again.

I’d gotten John’s attention. He stared at Canelli with renewed interest as I said, “But first, I’ve got to know from you—”

At the door, Canelli stiffened. I saw the doorknob turn. Canelli gripped the knob, opened the door a few inches. Then he fully opened it to admit Marie Kramer.

“You sit on the bed, Mrs. Kramer,” I ordered, gesturing for Canelli to see that she obeyed. Then I pointedly ignored her, turning back to the boy. With Carmody possibly due momentarily, I had no time to waste.

“What I’d like to do, John,” I said, kneeling down in front of him, “is tell you what you did—what your father said you did—on Friday night. I know some of the story. I’ll tell it, and you listen. I’ll also talk about some things that happened a little while ago—several months ago. Whenever you can—whenever I make a mistake—you help me out. Okay?”

From behind me, I heard a sound: the mother, protesting. I saw John’s eyes turn to her, then return to me. Hastily, I began talking.

“Your father left you and your mother when you were only three years old. So you probably didn’t even remember him when he came to San Francisco last spring, and picked you up at your school. But then, as you talked with him, you remembered. He told you that someday soon, he’d come for you, take you to live with him. And he did come for you, Friday night, three days ago. You were staying at your grandfather’s house. You went to sleep in your room—the back bedroom, on the ground floor of your grandfather’s house. Charlie Quade was in the room next to yours.” I paused, then said, “Is that right so far?”

Slowly, somberly, he nodded. “That’s right.” He spoke gravely, cautiously. Without doubt, he sensed the gravity of the situation, sensed the danger.

To establish that, in fact, Quade was known to the boy, I asked, “Did you like Charlie Quade? Did you play with him?”

“No. He was too grouchy to play with. He was almost as bad as Bruce.”

“But you spent considerable time together, you and Quade.”

He nodded, then shrugged, then nodded again, indifferently. I went on.

“You went to sleep about ten o’clock Friday night. Then, two or three hours later, you woke up. Someone was in your room with you. It was your father. He warned you to be very quiet. He’d brought clothes with him, clothes for you. He got you dressed, and the two of you left your room. Quietly. Very, very quietly. The two of you went out into the hallway. You were headed for the door leading to the driveway. But then, suddenly, Mr. Quade came out into the hallway. Or maybe you weren’t sure it was Mr. Quade, because it was dark, in the hallway. Then, before you knew what was happening, shots were fired. You couldn’t be sure, but you heard—”

He was shaking his head. Saying: “No. Not then. We were outside, then.”

“You were outside when you heard the shots?”

He nodded: a quick, decisive head bobbing. “Outside. Yes.”

“Where, outside?”

“On the driveway.”

“Are you sure, John? Are you sure your father didn’t tell you to say that—?”

“We were on the driveway, almost to the sidewalk. We heard shots. Three.”

“Three shots?”

Once more, he quickly nodded. “Three.”

“Just a minute, John.” Quickly, I crossed the room, asked Canelli for his big .357. I swung out the cylinder, ejected the cartridges, put the cartridges in my jacket pocket. As he watched, the boy’s eyes grew wide, rapt. I clicked the cylinder back into place.

“This is a .357 Magnum, John. This gun will shoot through a car. All the way through a car. Here, you can take it. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded. But don’t point it at anyone, even though it’s unloaded. Remember what I said on Saturday: Whenever you have a gun in your hand, handle it like it was loaded.”

“Gee—” Using both hands, he held the revolver at shaky arm’s length, aimed at the TV screen. “Can I cock it and click it, like I did yours?”

“Go ahead.” I watched him while he drew back the hammer, pulled the trigger. When the hammer fell, his whole body twitched, ecstatically. “Gee—
whiz
,” he breathed. “That’s some gun. It’s heavier than yours. Bigger, and heavier.”

“And more powerful, too.”

“Can I do it again?”

“Go ahead.” I watched him click the gun once more, then told him to lower the weapon. “Here—” I gestured to a nearby toy chest. “You sit here. You can hold the gun in your lap, for a while.” As he obeyed, I knelt on the floor again, close to him. “That gun—Inspector Canelli’s gun, and my gun, too—they’re called ‘revolvers.’ They’re called that because the cylinder revolves every time you fire it.” I let a beat pass, watching his eyes glisten with excitement as he stared down at the big gun in his lap. Then, speaking quietly, fearful of breaking the spell, I said, “Is that the kind of gun your father has? Like Canelli’s gun, and my gun?”

For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard me, so intently was he staring at the gun. I was about to ask the question again when he shook his head. “No. Not like this.”

The tension in the room was palpable as I asked, “What’s it like then, his gun?

“I don’t think he has a gun.”

“He had a gun last Friday night, John. We know he had a gun when he came to get you.”

Plainly reluctant, he withdrew his avid gaze from the .357, raising his head. Frowning as his eyes met mine, he said, “My daddy didn’t have a gun, then.”

“Are you sure, John? Absolutely sure?”

He nodded once, then asked, “Can I pull the trigger again?”

“All right.” I waited for him to cock the gun and aim it at a stuffed animal before I said, “Are you sure—absolutely sure—that your father didn’t have a gun in his hand, last Friday?”

He nodded. “I’m sure.”

“How many shots were there, again?”

He lowered the revolver to his lap and held up three fingers of his left hand. It was a classically innocent, emphatic childhood gesture. “Three. One shot, then two more.” He gripped the revolver again with both hands. “Can I—”

Suddenly the bedroom door opened. I recognized Michael Carmody, Guest’s smooth-talking, urbanely dressed assistant. Bruce Durkin stood close behind the lawyer, looking over Carmody’s shoulder. Both men were frowning as they advanced into the room. Instantly, Canelli stepped in front of them. As if he were directing traffic, Canelli raised both arms.

“You can’t do this.” Carmody stepped sharply forward, as if to dodge Canelli’s restraining arm. Instinctively, I took Canelli’s revolver from John, thrusting the empty weapon in my belt.

“You’re intimidating this boy,” Carmody blustered. “We’ll lodge a complaint with the D.A. I can promise you that.”

“I’m acting on the D.A.’s request, Mr. Carmody. Mr. Stringfellow’s request. You can talk to him.”

“Nevertheless, I—”

Marie Kramer was rising unsteadily to her feet, bracing herself with one hand on the headboard of John’s bed. “It’s all right,” she said. “They’re not—”

The lawyer turned on her, stepping so close that his face was within inches of hers. “Your father won’t like this, Mrs. Kramer.” He spoke in a low, angry whisper. “He won’t like it at all.”

“John’s all right,” she mumbled, her voice a self-defensive mumble. “He’s all right. He and the lieutenant were just talking. That’s all. Just talking.”

Furiously, Carmody turned away to confront Canelli, who still stood with his arms raised. “Will you put your arms down, you big ape?”

“Ape?” Canelli’s expression first registered a kind of mild puzzlement, followed by soft-eyed reproach. Carmody had hurt Canelli’s feelings. “Ape?”

“Never mind, Canelli.” I stepped forward, touching one of his arms, still upraised. “It’s all right. We can go.” Then, for the record, I said, “You heard everything John Kramer said, didn’t you? Every word?”

“Yessir,” Canelli answered. “I heard every word.”

“B
EFORE YOU TELL ME
what you’ve got to tell me,” Friedman said, “listen to what
I’ve
got to tell
you
.”

I put my quarter in the coffee machine, waited for my cup to fill, then followed Friedman down the hall to his office. Obviously feeling smugly self-satisfied, Friedman sat behind his desk, loosened his collar, raised a pudgy forefinger, and said, “First, Washington finally came through on the ownership of the gun. It took them a while, but they came through.”

“Well?” I asked, sipping my coffee, “are you going to tell me?”

“The gun is registered to Gordon Kramer.”

“Jesus. Really?”

“He bought it in New York, six years ago. And it’s never been reported stolen, or sold.”

“So we’ve got the gun tied to him, and Ballistics has the fatal bullet tied to the gun,” I mused. As I spoke, I was thinking of John Kramer. Had he lied to me? So convincingly? So casually, keeping his attention so guilelessly fixed on Canelli’s service revolver? It seemed impossible.

“I also discovered,” Friedman said, raising a second finger, “that, yes, Kramer was tied up with organized crime, in New York. I talked to a friend of mine, there. He knew all about Kramer.”

“Was he ever arrested?”

Friedman shook his head. “No. He never even came close. He was a front man, all the way. He was very smart, apparently. Very good at what he did. Which was laundering money. But for every ten dollars he laundered for the mob, he apparently kept one dollar for himself. And he made his dollars grow. Legitimately, more or less.”

“Has he been clean since he moved back to New York?”

“As far as Fred—my friend—knows, he
has
been. At least, he hasn’t come to anyone’s attention that Fred knows about. He’s still checking, though.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Well—” Apologetically, Friedman shrugged. “Not a whole lot else. Except that Bruce Durkin, Mrs. Kramer’s live-in bodyguard, or whatever, has a record in Los Angeles for felonious assault.”

“He told me he’d been arrested. I wonder where Guest found him.”

Instead of replying, Friedman glanced at his watch. “After I heard that the gun was registered to Kramer, I arranged to have him brought down for interrogation. He should be ready just about now. Do you want to join the party?”

“Fine. But, first, you’d better know what I found out from John Kramer.”

“Please—” He waved a hand in a gesture of broad invitation, then settled back to listen.

When I finished describing the interrogation, Friedman sat silently, obviously lost in thought as he stared vaguely out the window. Finally he blinked, and focused on me.

“This kid is six years old,” he mused. “Kids that old can be pretty sharp, pretty observant.
Is
he pretty sharp?”

“He’s sharp enough,” I said. “The question is, could he be sharp enough to repeat exactly the story Kramer told him to tell—and sharp enough to make it seem convincing.”

“You talked to him. What’s your best guess?”

“My best guess,” I said slowly, “is that he’s telling the truth. I don’t think he’s been rehearsed.” I was aware of the reluctance I felt, saying it. If I believed John—if his story stood up—then my job had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

“Christ,” Friedman grated, obviously also stung by the same thought. “Where’s that leave us?”

“There’s still the gun,” I said. “Kramer’s got to explain the gun.”

Friedman heaved himself to his feet. “True. There’s still the gun. Let’s see what he says about it.”

“I bought it years ago,” Kramer said. “I bought it when I lived in New York, just after we were married. When we moved to San Francisco, I brought it with me. When I went back I left it with my wife. With Marie.”

In the small interrogation room, a sudden silence settled.

Marie Kramer …

She’d been out Friday night. She’d probably been hitting the singles’ bars.

Had she learned Kramer was in town, trying to steal her child? With the gun in her purse, could she have followed him to the Guest mansion? Could she have watched Kramer enter through the garage? Could she then have followed him into the house? She’d doubtless been drunk. She could have become confused in the darkness, mistaking Quade for Kramer. I closed my eyes, visualizing the scene of the crime. Yes, given the layout, it would have been possible for Kramer to have entered through the garage, gotten John out of bed, dressed him and taken him out through the doorway to the driveway while Marie was still in the garage, or perhaps in the house’s rear hallway, out of Kramer’s sight. Kramer and John could have been outside on the driveway when Quade emerged from his room. Shots could have been exchanged.

Shots …

Four shots? Three shots?

Sitting at the interrogation table, dressed in an orange jump suit, Kramer was staring hard into my eyes, as if to divine my thoughts through sheer force of will. I saw him lick at his lips, then slowly shake his head.