Authors: Collin Wilcox
Jaw set grimly, eyes bright with rigidly suppressed anger, voice edged with bitterness and scorn, she said, “His name is Edward Gregg. He’s remarried, and lives on Cherry Street. He’s a lawyer. A very rich, very successful lawyer. He’s forty-five years old, and—” Contemptuously, she shrugged. “And I’m forty-three, if that’s the kind of detail you’re looking for. We—Edward and I—have a daughter named Paula who’s a model and lives in North Beach.” About to say more, she frowned, then fell into a brooding, patrician silence.
Calling for a calm, cool response: “Thank you, Mrs. Hanchett.” He flipped a notebook page, made a final entry, flipped the notebook closed, returned it to his pocket, the businesslike policeman doing his job. “That’s very helpful.”
“Good.” Sitting in her chair, chin lifted, back arched, legs elegantly crossed, a finishing-school posture, she nodded, a slight, stiff-necked inclination of her impeccably coiffed head.
All of it making an irresistible target.
Holding her gaze, Hastings let a beat pass. Then, quietly, he said, “Did Inspector Canelli tell you the, uh, circumstances surrounding your husband’s death?”
“Circumstances?”
“It happened a little after ten
P.M.
, in the eleven-hundred block of Green Street. That’s on Russian Hill, between Hyde and Leavenworth.”
She made no response. But, deep behind her violet eyes, something shifted. He’d touched another nerve. Or was it the same nerve?
“Would you like to hear the details?” Hastings asked. “Or would you rather not? Your choice.” Aware that whichever way she answered he could only win, he was also aware of the smugness he felt. Friedman’s favorite targets were the rich and the famous. Sometimes Hastings could understand why.
“Do you mean that—” Watching him attentively, she broke off. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, tighter. “Do you mean that you know how it happened? Why it happened?”
“We’ve got two witnesses. There’re probably others, there usually are. It can take time for witnesses to come forward. But we have a good idea of Dr. Hanchett’s movements right up to the time the shots were fired.”
“And?” As she spoke, she held her finishing-school pose. If it was a performance, it was flawless: the lady of the castle, composed, ready to receive tidings that would daunt a lesser person.
The only possible response was the truth. “Well, he—Dr. Hanchett—spent approximately two hours in the company of a woman named Carla Pfiefer, who lives at eleven-forty-eight Green Street.” Covertly watchful, he let a second pass. Her face remained rigid. Another second. Then it began: raw, elemental hatred, clouding the eyes, twitching at each corner of the beautifully drawn mouth, constricting the muscles of the throat. Her voice dropped to a low, clotted whisper:
“So you know about it—about them?”
Silently, he nodded.
“She’s not the first, you know. She’s just the latest.”
“I know.”
“You’ve talked to her, then.”
“Yes. Last night. Today or tomorrow, I’ll probably talk to her again.”
“What’d she say? What’d she tell you?”
“I—ah—I don’t think I should get into that, Mrs. Hanchett. It’s—”
“Did she talk about me? That’s all I want to know—whether you talked about me.”
“No,” he answered quietly. “No, we didn’t talk about you.”
She was breathing more deeply now, round, taut breasts thrusting against the cashmere softness of her sweater. Her chin was still raised, her posture still disdainfully stiff. But she’d lost control of her mouth, and her eyes were balefully fixed. Finally: “Was it a man? Was the killer a man?”
“We don’t know that.” He looked at her attentively. “Why?”
“Because her husband,” she said, biting off each word, “is insanely jealous of her, that’s why.”
Until he could keep his voice level, his expression neutral, Hastings made no response. Then: “Her husband works at BMC. He’s a doctor. Is that correct?”
“Yes. A surgeon.”
“Has he ever made any threats against Dr. Hanchett?”
For a long moment she sat rigid, each hand clamped on the arms of her chair. Finally, after carefully clearing her throat and once more elevating her flawless chin, she said, “That’s up to you to find out. You find the murderer, Lieutenant. I’ll bury my husband.”
10:55
AM
“Please, Jonathan, don’t scratch. It only makes it worse, when you scratch.”
“But it
itches.”
“I know it itches. But if you scratch, it’ll get infected. Remember what the doctor said.”
“Have you ever had poison oak?”
“No, I never have.” Wearily, Jane Ryder smiled down at her son. Should she send him to school tomorrow? School had only been in session for seven days, since Labor Day. If she let him—
“Has Dad ever had poison oak?”
“Yes. He told you that last night.”
“I think I’ll watch TV. Can I have a cookie?”
“How about a bran muffin?”
Resigned, Jonathan sighed. “Okay.”
“First, though, I want you to go outside and pick up those papers in the hedge. Take a wastebasket. Then come back for the muffin.”
“Aw …”He began scratching at his chest, where the poison oak was the worst.
“Jonathan—
don’t scratch. Please.”
“Aw …”
“Here.” She took the plastic wastebasket from under the sink. “Pick up those papers and put them in the basket, and then empty the basket into the garbage can. Then come back and have your muffin and milk.”
Carrying the wastebasket hugged close to his stomach, he waited for her to open the kitchen door. He stepped out into the bright, warm September sunshine and walked along the side of the house to the small front garden. He unlatched the gate, placed the wastebasket on the sidewalk. Did his mother mean for him to pick up just the advertising circulars? Or did she mean for him to pick up the candy wrappers and bits of paper, too? There were germs on paper like that, lying in the dirt. He sighed—and scratched his chest. Didn’t his mother care whether he caught something from germs? One day she told him always to keep his hands clean, because of germs. But now, today, she—
Dark metal gleamed in the space between the thick-growing hedge. Something was lying on the ground. Using both hands, he parted two branches—
—and saw the pistol.
It was an automatic, and it looked real. Never before had he seen a make-believe gun that looked so real. He squatted, picked up the gun. It was heavy, the heaviest gun he’d ever felt. Not plastic, but metal. Just like a gun: a real gun, that could shoot.
Holding the gun in both hands, cops and robbers, he turned toward the gate, facing the house. He crouched, cops and robbers, and touched the trigger—
—and heard the whole world explode.
12:30
PM
Hastings took the microphone from beneath the dash, punched in the Command channel.
“Inspectors Eleven.”
From Communications, an unfamiliar female voice answered, “Inspectors Eleven, go ahead.”
“This is Lieutenant Hastings. Give me Lieutenant Friedman, please.”
“Yessir.”
A thirty-second pause. Then: “Friedman.”
“It’s Frank, Pete. What’s happening? Anything on the Hanchett homicide? Any reports?”
“I’m expecting prelims from the lab and the coroner by four o’clock. How about if you and Canelli plan on a meeting here at four-thirty?” Uncharacteristically, Friedman spoke brusquely, his voice tight. Downtown, things were happening.
“Four-thirty. Fine.”
“Okay. Gotta go. It looks like a couple of drug pushers are playing ‘Gunfight at the O.K. Corral’ out at Hunter’s Point.”
“Four-thirty. Where’s Canelli?”
“Here. You want him, for the Hanchett thing?”
Irritated, Hastings spoke sharply: “I’ve
got
him, for God’s sake. He’s the officer of record on this.”
“Okay. Calm down. I’ll switch you.” A long moment of dead air passed before Canelli came on the line.
“Leonard?”
“Wrong, Canelli. Guess again.”
“Oh, Jesus, Lieutenant. Sorry. These goddamn phones. I thought you were Leonard.”
“I want you to run three names for me. One of them—Fiona Hanchett—I want right now. She’s Hanchett’s first wife. She lives on Washington Street.”
“Okay—just a second.” On the other end of the line, the phone clattered as Canelli laid it on the desk. In the background Hastings heard the sounds of the squad room: typewriters clicking, a computer chirping, phones ringing, some voices mumbling, some voices raised. Finally: “Right. Got her.”
“Good. Go ahead.” Pen poised, Hastings waited.
“It’s forty-one-seventy-four Washington. Sounds like money.”
“I’ve got two more names. I don’t need them right now. One is a woman named Teresa Bell, who lives in the avenues, I think. The other is Paula Gregg. She lives in North Beach.” He spelled both names. “There’s a woman named Susan Parrish. A head nurse at BMC. You can—”
“Excuse me, Lieutenant. BMC?”
“Barrington Medical Center. Where Hanchett worked.”
“Oh, sure. Right.”
“Teresa Bell’s child died when BMC refused a liver transplant. Susan Parrish is an old friend of mine. Check with her to make sure we’ve got the right Teresa Bell. Susan and I have talked, so she’ll know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh. Good.”
Hastings could picture Canelli’s expression, his dark eyes anxious, his broad, swarthy face probably sweat-sheened. Taking orders from superiors, anxious to get the instructions precisely right, Canelli often perspired.
“Do you want me to take an interrogation, Lieutenant?”
“Not right now. You catch for me. After I’ve finished with Fiona Hanchett, I’ll get Teresa Bell’s address from you. I hope I’ll get some more names from her. There’s a meeting with Lieutenant Friedman at four-thirty.”
“Oh—okay.” Then, solicitously: “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks.”
12:30
PM
Already, she knew, the afternoon papers would have been delivered to Jamison’s, only a block and a half away. By noon, most days, the
Clarion
was dropped off the truck—big, square bundles wired together, thudding on the sidewalk in front of the grocery store.
But they’d always taken the
Sentinel,
always had it delivered, early in the morning.
That morning, the
Sentinel
had been delivered at twenty minutes after seven. She’d been waiting for it, been ready for it, had her plans already made. Quietly—very quietly—she’d opened the front door and gotten the paper. She’d taken it into the kitchen. She’d put the paper, still secured by a thick rubber band, on the table. Then, as she always did, she’d put the kettle on for her tea. Next she’d put the toast on. And then she’d set out the breakfast things: the butter, the marmalade, the teabag, the sugar. All followed by the silverware.
By that time the water was boiling, and the toast had popped up. Allowing her to sit down at the table, as she always did. Which, in turn, allowed her to slip the rubber band from the
Sentinel,
and unfold the paper.
It was then that the newspaper began to shake—at first only a quiver, not bad enough to prevent her from searching the paper’s first section. But then, when she learned that the
Sentinel
had not reported the monster’s death, the paper began shaking so violently that the type blurred.
Meaning that it would be best not to risk what could happen if she walked around the corner to Jamison’s and laid a quarter on the counter and took a copy of the
Clarion
in her hands. Because her hands, shaking, holding the
Clarion,
could betray her. She’d already had the warning.
But she had to know, had to see proof that the monster was dead.
Meaning that she must risk it, risk whatever awaited beyond the walls that had always sheltered her.
If rocks overturned exposed the wicked, then sunlight revealed the virtuous.
Brice Hanchett, dead.
At the thought, the trembling began again.
Virtue revealed—her own precious secret.
1:15
PM
“Mrs. Hanchett? Fiona Hanchett?”
Her face was bloated, her eyes pale and watery. Her hair, tinted a dusty blond, was in disarray. Her mouth moved uncertainly, as if the question confused her. Finally she nodded.
“Yes …”
“I’m Lieutenant Frank Hastings, Mrs. Hanchett.” He held up his shield, watched her labor to focus on it. As she studied the shield, her whole body swayed. Was it booze? Drugs? Grief?
All three?
“You’ve come about Brice.” Her voice was coarse, clogged by phlegm and roughened by too much liquor for too many years.
“That’s right, Mrs. Hanchett.” He looked past her, into the hallway of the two-story town house. The house was vintage Pacific Heights, market value more than a million dollars. Everything Hanchett touched, apparently, was gilded. Hanchett’s current wife, his current girlfriend, his ex-wife—all of them lived the life of privilege. Hanchett’s Jaguar cost more than most men earned in a year.
“Can we …?” He gestured. “Can we go inside? There’re a few things I have to ask you.”
“Is it John?” Her eyes were anxious. Repeating querulously:
“John?”
“Is John—?” He frowned. “Is he your son?”
As if she feared to answer, she first shook her head, then nodded hesitantly. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant—” Confused, she broke off. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten—” Once more, she shook her head.
“It’s Hastings. Frank Hastings.” He gestured again. “Can we go inside?”
“Oh—yes—please.” Hastily she drew back. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just that all this—Brice, dead, it’s made me—” Bemused, she waited for Hastings to step inside, then swung the heavy door closed. After an awkward moment, each deferring to the other, she preceded him into a large, sunny living room that had certainly been professionally decorated. She gestured him to a chair, and sat in a companion chair, facing him across a small antique cobbler’s bench. She wore a full kimono-style garment that covered her whole body, falling to her ankles.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Hanchett? Do you need anything?”
As if the question puzzled her, she blinked, then refocused her gaze on him. “Need anything?”