Victims (23 page)

“I’m wondering,” he said finally, “what action you expect us to take on all this.”

I looked at Friedman, signifying that it was his turn. We’d been in Stringfellow’s office for more than an hour. During most of that time, beginning at the beginning, I’d reviewed the entire Quade murder case. The more I talked, the more depressed I began to feel, describing Alexander Guest and his schemes. As Friedman began to talk, I speculated on the reasons for my sudden feeling of depression. My conclusion: Stringfellow’s frozen reaction to my report must certainly mean that he had no intention of accepting my ideas, no intention of acting on the information I’d brought him.

“We’re not asking for anything,” Friedman said, speaking to Stringfellow. “We’re just laying it out for you.”

With an exaggerated air of regretful patience, Stringfellow wearily shook his head. “You may think you’re laying it out for me, Lieutenant. But you’re not. You’re giving me nothing but theories. Granted, they’re interesting-sounding theories. But, still, just theories.”

“We’re telling you what happened. It’s the only progression that fits the facts. All the facts.”

“You may be right. It might’ve happened just exactly as Lieutenant Hastings says. But insofar as proof is concerned—facts, physical evidence—you haven’t given me enough to ask for an indictment against a skid row bum, let alone against Alexander Guest, for God’s sake. For instance—” Stringfellow put on his glasses, using both hands to adjust them on his long nose before he fixed his patient, regretful gaze on Friedman. “For instance, do you have a positive paraffin test on Guest?”

“No. But we’ve got a minute-by-minute time frame,” Friedman said. “A second-by-second time frame, really. And Guest is the only one who fits the frame.”

“Bruce Durkin fits the frame,” Stringfellow answered quietly. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s our suspect. He says he fired one shot, I say he fired twice. And, what’s more, my boss says the same thing.”

“Your boss plays poker with Alexander Guest,” Friedman said. “Every other Wednesday night.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, Lieutenant.”

“Durkin didn’t fire that fourth shot,” I said.

“That’s your opinion,” Stringfellow answered, speaking in his dry, precise monotone. “It doesn’t happen to be mine. I think he’s guilty. And I think he’ll fall.”

“He’ll probably fall like a rotten apple,” Friedman said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”

Stringfellow shrugged indifferently, and looked elaborately at his watch. I suspected that, secretly, he felt relieved. If we’d given him a tighter case, supported by physical evidence, his decision not to prosecute Guest would have been made more difficult. Especially if Chief Dwyer decided to back us up—and also decided to leak our version of the case to the press. But two hours ago, when we’d talked to Dwyer, it was obvious that the chief had no interest in taking on Alexander Guest. For all we knew, Friedman had said, Dwyer might play in the same poker game with the D.A. and Guest.

“What about Kramer?” I asked. “What do we do with him?”

Stringfellow shrugged again. “He’s clean, as far as I’m concerned. He can walk. Unless Guest decides to press charges for breaking and entering, Kramer can walk.”

“I imagine,” I said, “that Guest would rather see Kramer out of jail—and out of town, too.” I let a beat pass, then added, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, Guest wants to close up this whole case just as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“Well, then—” Stringfellow pushed his chair back from his big walnut desk. “We’re all in agreement. Kramer walks—out of town. No problem.”

“The gospel according to Alexander Guest,” Friedman muttered. His voice was so low that Stringfellow could pretend he hadn’t heard the remark. He could also pretend not to see the contempt in Friedman’s eyes—and in my eyes, too.

Stringfellow rose to his feet, nodded formally to us and touched a button on his communications console. We were dismissed.

As I stood up I said, “He’s not guilty, you know. Durkin’s not guilty of murder.”

Stringfellow’s face was impassive as he said, “You just tell the facts in court, Lieutenant. Let the jury decide who’s guilty. Okay?”

Turning away without answering, I jerked open the door and left the office.

K
RAMER WAS RELEASED FROM
jail the following morning. Friedman and I talked about it, and decided we could be asking for trouble if we told Kramer, officially, that we thought Guest had killed Quade in an effort to frame him for murder. But, still, I wanted to talk with Kramer, wanted to hear, unofficially, whatever he had to tell me. I wanted to know, one on one, off the record, whether his suspicions squared with mine. So Friedman and I decided to lie. We told Kramer one condition of his release required that I accompany him to San Francisco International and put him on a plane for New York. Waiting for his flight to leave, I’d have my chance to talk to him.

I’d arranged for us to arrive at the airport more than an hour before Kramer’s flight left. Earlier, he’d called his wife, who was in New York, raising money for a legal defense that would no longer be necessary. He’d also called Marie Kramer, and talked to her for more than an hour. He hadn’t tried to contact John, who was staying at his grandfather’s house.

We got coffee and sweet rolls at the airport restaurant, and found a table close to the windows, with a good view of the airport. The day was clear and bright, and hardly a minute elapsed between airliners either landing or taking off.

“I’ve always liked airports,” Kramer said, looking out the window. He gestured to the busy runways. “This is where it’s all happening, you know. It’s where everything comes together.” Since he’d been released, only hours before, he’d obviously recovered his self-confidence, his poise. With his hair carefully combed, clean-shaven, with his trousers pressed and his shoes shined, he looked like the same man I’d first interrogated Saturday morning: a smart, aggressive, executive-style winner. Gone—but probably not forgotten—was the man I’d interrogated only two days later: the haggard, harassed man with the haunted eyes and unsteady hands, dressed in the orange prison jump suit, sitting hunched behind the interrogation room’s chipped steel table.

We sat in silence for a moment, each of us staring out across the airport. The time was almost eleven o’clock. Kramer’s flight left at noon. In a half hour, the boarding process would begin.

I took a deep breath, and began the speech Friedman and I had so carefully planned. First I told Kramer that what I was about to say was unofficial, that I would deny ever having said it. Then I told him everything: all the facts, all the theories—all the reasons why Guest would probably never come to trial. Not unless, I finished, we could develop new evidence.

“My God,” Kramer breathed, staring at me with an almost palpable intensity, his dark eyes boring into mine. “Do you really think that’s the way it happened?”

I nodded. “I think that’s the way it happened. But, as I said already, that’s totally off the record. I’ll deny ever having said it.”

“What’d Marie say? What’s she think?”

“I think she agrees with me about her father. But that’s off the record, too.”

“She didn’t tell me,” he mused. “When I talked to her this morning, she didn’t tell me anything about all this.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to tell you. Not over the phone, anyhow.”

“The bastard,” he said, letting his outraged gaze wander out across the airport. “The sick, conniving bastard.” He let a moment of silence pass, then once again turned his eyes on me. “He’s crazy, you know. Really crazy.”

I shrugged. “In court, ‘crazy’ doesn’t count. Not his kind of crazy, anyhow.”

He nodded. Now I could see calculation come into his eyes as the meaning of what I’d said began to register. “So what you’re telling me,” he said slowly, “is that you can’t touch him. Not legally.”

“When you say ‘legally,’ you’re talking about the D.A. Not me. I just investigate. You know that.”

“But you don’t think there’s much chance he’ll be indicted.”

“Not unless I can get a confession, or develop new evidence, I don’t think there’s much of a chance. New evidence—solid new evidence—is all that’ll force the D.A. to act.”

“So that’s what you hope to get from me. New evidence.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he answered, “you’re out of luck, I’m afraid. I’ve already told you what I know. Everything I know.”

“You’ve told me everything you know about the murder, about Friday night. But what d’you know about Guest—about the way he operates, about the corners he cuts?”

“You’re looking for leverage. Is that it? A wedge.”

I nodded.

For a moment Kramer looked at me. Then he shook his head and smiled. It was a hard, humorless smile, without hope.

“Alexander Guest doesn’t cut corners.”

“Everyone cuts corners.”

“Listen,” he said, “I’m on your side. There’s nothing I’d like more than to see that bastard in jail. He’s a—a monster. He ruined his wives’ lives, and he ruined Marie’s life. He tried to ruin my life, too. And, barring a miracle, he’s probably going to ruin John, too. So I’d do anything—
anything
—to see that Guest gets what’s coming to him. But I’m a realist. In my business, only the realists survive. And I’m telling you that I don’t think Guest will ever go to jail. Never.”

“He killed a man. You know it, and I know it. And he knows it, too. It happened. It won’t go away.”

The grim smile returned. “‘Murder will out.’ Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve
made
it happen.”

Now the smile warmed. “You’re a stubborn bastard, aren’t you? You’re—” Suddenly he broke off. I saw his eyes widen, saw his jaw slacken with amazement as he stared at some point behind me, across the restaurant. I twisted in my chair, to follow his gaze.

Marie Kramer and John stood just inside the doorway of the restaurant. The boy was dressed in a miniature blue blazer, gray flannel trousers and a preppy maroon cap. Both mother and child carried a variety of mismatched suitcases and nylon duffel bags—plus a boy’s baseball bat and fielder’s glove, and a pair of miniature skis.

With one hand braced on the table, as if for support, Kramer rose slowly, incredulously to his feet. Marie Kramer spoke to the child, apparently telling him to stay near the door. She placed the baggage she was carrying on the floor beside the boy. Then, tentatively, she began walking toward us, her dark, tortured eyes darting from me to Kramer. Her face was twitching uncontrollably, an animated mask of naked misery. Gordon Kramer advanced a few hesitant paces to meet her. For a moment they stood motionless, face to face, both of them mute. Then Marie dropped her eyes and dug into her purse with awkward, blundering fingers. Finally she withdrew an airplane ticket.

“Here—” She handed Kramer the ticket. “It’s for John. One way.”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Lt. Hastings Mysteries

H
ANEY WATCHED HER TAKE
a key from her purse, watched her fumble, watched her finally slip the key in the lock. But the lock refused to turn. Mumbling, she twisted the key, struggled with the knob, twisted the key again. When they’d come up the stairs, their arms circling each other’s waists, she’d missed a step, giggling as she fell against him.

She’d had—how many drinks had she had? Eight? Ten?

Walking from the bar to his car, thigh to thigh, they’d blundered giddily down the sidewalk, as heedless as two drunken teen-agers, and just as horny.

If she’d had eight drinks, or ten, then he’d had—he frowned, calculating. He’d had two drinks, at least, before they’d started drinking together. Two drinks, or maybe three. Say three. Meaning that, if she’d had eight, then he’d had eleven. And if she’d had ten, he’d had thirteen.

They should’ve taken a cab. He should’ve left the car, insisted they take a cab to her place. But he’d told her about the car. And, predictably, it had excited her: a Ferrari. Also predictably, she’d never ridden in a Ferrari, never known anyone who’d owned a Ferrari.

Did she know, could she comprehend, the magnitude of her own predictability? Did she realize how perfectly she fitted the stereotype of the San Francisco single? Every word, every gesture, every innuendo was a cliché: her body, her clothes, her mannerisms—everything fitted, with no surprises, nothing left to the imagination. She’d been amazed how much he’d been able to tell her about herself, amazed at the accuracy of his guesses: the kind of job she had, the kind of place she lived in, the kind of man she’d married—and then divorced. Estelle Blair, insurance rate clerk. Late twenties. Salary, probably twenty thousand. During the workweek, she toiled at her desk. At night she watched TV, perhaps went to a movie, perhaps took a Spanish class. Then, Thursday night, she tidied up her apartment, laid in some chilled white wine for Friday evening—and some orange juice, perhaps, for Saturday morning. Friday morning she dressed with special care, making sure that her breasts and her buttocks were displayed to maximum advantage. Then, after work on Friday, she made her way to Vanessi’s. She …