Authors: Collin Wilcox
“Information. Help.”
She began to smile, an ironic twisting of a mouth that age had begun to pucker. Or was it lipstick imperfectly applied?
Circling her eyes, also imperfectly made up, a network of lines had begun to deepen, a complicated tracery of chronic defeat. Her eyes were round and vague, Little Orphan Annie eyes in a tired, withering face.
“Help …” Still smiling, she slowly shook her head. “No, Lieutenant, I don’t see how you can help me. I imagine you’ve come because you’re trying to find whoever killed him. But the truth is, I don’t care whether you find the murderer or not. Does that shock you?” Now the smile twisted, as if she’d experienced sudden pain. The watery eyes leered, a grotesque imitation of the flirtatious coquette.
“I’m looking for the truth, Mrs. Hanchett. That’s what police work is all about.”
“Well, then …” As if to encourage him, she nodded, an exhausted inclination of her head accompanied by a vague movement of her hand. The hand, Hastings saw, was a true extension of the body, flaccid and bloated, expensively bejeweled. “Well, then, we won’t have any trouble, you and I. Because the truth is, I hated Brice Hanchett. I rejoice that he’s dead. I rejoice because, wherever he is—wherever the fires of hell burn the hottest—he’s now incapable of causing the rest of us any more pain.”
Watching her carefully, listening to her, Hastings realized there was more to Fiona Hanchett than a bleary-eyed, self-pitying woman who lived alone and ate too much and probably drank too much. The longer she talked, the more sense she made. Her words were crisp now, and she spoke in sentences. Her eyes were sharp-focused, her gestures decisive.
Therefore, Hastings decided to challenge her with a smile as he said, “You’re talking like a pretty fair suspect, Mrs. Hanchett. I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I ask where you were last night between the hours of ten and midnight.”
Encompassing the room and the house, she raised both arms, hands poised in a self-mocking imitation of a ballerina’s turn. “I was here, Lieutenant. I was right here. I was drinking expensive white wine and watching cheap TV. Is that when he was killed? Between ten o’clock and midnight?”
Hastings nodded.
“It was a street killing, I understand. Is that right?”
Still smiling, Hastings raised a hand. “Wait, Mrs. Hanchett. I’m supposed to ask the questions. You’re supposed to answer.”
“I’ve already answered. I was here last night. Alone. I was watching a TV movie. Two TV movies, in fact.” She smiled ruefully. “A double feature.”
“Okay, I’ve got another question for you. Or, rather, a request.”
“A request?”
“I’d like you to tell me about Brice Hanchett. Tell me everything—his history, his enemies, his friends, his career, anything you can think of.” He let a moment pass, watching her. Frowning now, she was watching him in return. Had he gained her confidence?
“To me,” he said, “you seem like a pretty good talker. So talk. Start at the beginning, and talk to me.”
Her answering smile was bitter. Her eyes were sharper, as if the memory of ancient hatreds had concentrated her attention. “A good talker, you say.” She nodded wearily. “That’s nice. I take that as a compliment.”
“And so it was meant, Mrs. Hanchett.”
“You seem like a thoughtful man. Do you like your work?”
Once more, he raised a hand. “Remember—I’m not here to answer. I’m here to ask.”
“Yes. Well …” She sighed, shifted her bloated body. Her voice dropped to a lower, more introspective note. Her eyes softened reflectively as she said, “Well, there was a time, Lieutenant, before I met Brice, when I was considered a very good conversationalist. I was a good musician, too. I’m still a good musician, I think. But, unhappily, my opinion isn’t the one that counts.”
“A musician, eh? What’s your instrument?”
“The cello.”
“With what orchestra?”
“I played in the Boston Symphony.” Her voice was soft. “I was only twenty-two when I got the chair. And then, two seasons later, I got an offer from San Francisco. San Francisco excited me, so I took the offer.” She let her voice die, let her memory-clouded eyes wander away. “I’ve often wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t taken the offer. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered.”
“So you met Hanchett,” Hastings prompted.
With what seemed infinite regret, she nodded. “Yes, I met Brice. I’d just come to town. I hadn’t been here a month when I met him. We were married six months later. And a year later I had John.” She pronounced her son’s name tentatively, her voice shaded.
John …
Is it John?
she’d asked anxiously.
Could John have killed his father, to avenge his mother? What was the ancient Greek play?
Oedipus?
No.
“John lives here,” he said. “With you. Is that correct?”
She nodded. “He lives in back. There’s an in-law apartment in the rear of the house.” As she said it, the complex shading came back into her voice. “John’s a casualty, too.”
“A Brice Hanchett casualty, you mean.”
Her lips twisted. Her voice dropped, as if hatred had smothered the words at their source. “Yes—another casualty.”
“Tell me about Brice, Mrs. Hanchett. Tell me everything. It’ll help. It’ll help both of us. Start at the beginning. Take your time.”
For a long moment she made no reply, but simply sat motionless, staring down at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. Then she began to speak. “Brice had an ego that drove him like a demon. His father and grandfather were both doctors. His grandfather made a fortune in real estate, too. A multi-, multimillion-dollar fortune. And his father doubled the fortune. Maybe that’s what drove Brice to excel as a doctor. I mean, there was already so much money, the only way he could distinguish himself, set himself apart from his father and grandfather, was medicine. So Brice went for it all: high-risk, high-profile surgery. And he succeeded, too. He was a first-class surgeon, there’s no question. But he was—he was insatiable. That’s the only word for it. Prestige, power, women, money—whatever it was, he could never get enough. Never.”
“But you married him.”
“Yes,” she answered, “I married him. I was dazzled, that’s the only word. I grew up in Grand Rapids. My father owned a lumberyard. A small lumberyard. I’d never met anyone like Brice. I was”—she paused, searching again—“I was mesmerized. That’s all I can say. My whole life was music. It was all I knew. I was a virgin, for God’s sake, when I met Brice. A twenty-four-year-old virgin.”
“Obviously, though, he was dazzled, too.”
“I was beautiful.” As she spoke, she looked him full in the face, as if she were confessing to something shameful. “It’s hard to imagine now, I know. But I was beautiful. And I was good at what I did. I was very good. I had a very good, very unique tone. My technique was sound, too. Looking back, I realize that I had class. And Brice could always recognize class, I’ll give him that.”
“How long were you married?”
“Almost twenty years. And all that time he was playing around. Always.”
“Did you call him on it?”
“No,” she answered. “I never did. Not for a long, long time.” She grimaced. “A lifetime, as it turned out.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“It was
this.”
Once more, she did the ballerina turn with her hands. “It was living here, in Pacific Heights. It was never having to think about money. Do you realize what that means, Lieutenant? Not to worry about money, that’s one thing. But not even to have to
think
about money, that’s something else.”
“So you kept quiet about his playing around.”
“I kept quiet about it—and I drank. So, of course, I lost my chair in the symphony. You can’t drink and play cello.”
“You have one child?”
As if she were confessing to another shameful secret, she nodded. “Some say—Brice, for one—some say I’ve spoiled John, made him a mama’s boy. And maybe they’re right. That’s one of those things, it’s not for me to say. The more I try to defend myself, the worse it seems.”
“But you did ask for a divorce. Finally.”
She smiled bitterly. “He and Barbara Gregg were practically living together. He’d rented a goddamn love nest for them. They started going places together—out to dinner, out to the theater. Finally they went to an opera opening together. There was a picture of them together, on the society page. That’s what did it. I saw that picture and I called a lawyer.”
“And now Brice is playing around—
was
playing around—on Barbara. Did you know that?”
“And Barbara was playing around on
him.”
This time, smugness softened the bitterness of her smile. “Did
you
know
that?”
“No,” Hastings answered. “Do you know his name?”
“His name is Clayton Vance.” The smile widened subtly. “He’s a car salesman. Jaguars, of course, very upscale. Still, I doubt that Brice was pleased, knowing Barbara was involved with a car salesman. He’d consider it a negative reflection on his status.”
“Do you think he knew his wife was seeing someone?”
“I’m sure he did. That’s the way Brice liked to play the game. Everything on the table, let the blood spatter where it may.”
“He drove a Jaguar. Brice, I mean.”
“He drove three cars. At least.”
Hastings wrote
Clayton Vance
in the notebook. When he reinterrogated Barbara Hanchett, he’d drop the name on her, watch for the reaction. Could he dent her composure, shake her up?
For a long moment Hastings sat silently, his eyes thoughtfully unfocused. In an investigation that was barely twelve hours old, the list of potential murder suspects was impressive. Jason Pfiefer, Carla’s estranged husband, still consumed by love, was a classic suspect. Barbara Hanchett could have been driven by a combination of jealousy and the prospect of gain, also classic motives. Teresa Bell, the woman who’d lost her child when Hanchett’s decision went against her, was still to be interrogated. Could Fiona Hanchett, embittered by her own ruined life, have pulled the trigger? What about their son? How much would John Hanchett inherit at his father’s death?
Those suspects, and perhaps many more …
It was time to play the guessing game: pick a suspect. Any suspect.
“I’ve got to be going, Mrs. Hanchett. But before I go, I’d like you to do something for me.” To reassure her, he smiled. “Call it a game. Call it ‘Who murdered Brice Hanchett?’”
She frowned. “A game?” It was a cautious question.
He nodded. “If you had to guess—if you had to pick a suspect from among the people you know—whom would you pick?”
“Is this a joke? Some kind of a joke?” As she asked the question, the words were slightly slurred. Her eyes were losing their acuity. She was regressing, once more the bleary, blowsy woman who’d opened the door. Was it an act? If it
was
an act, what was its purpose? To protect John? Someone else?
He let the smile fade. “It’s no joke, Mrs. Hanchett. Murder is never a joke.”
“But if I tell you—name a name—then I could be—” As if she were puzzled, she shook her head. “I could be sued.”
“No. I’ll never name you as an informant. I promise you that. And even if I did name you, there’re no witnesses. It’d be just my word against yours.”
It was a lie. But he’d told the same lie so often that it felt like the truth.
Now she was studying him with her bleary eyes. But deep in those eyes, he could see resolution sharpening.
Or was it calculation?
Finally: “Have you talked to Paula?” she asked. “Do you know where Paula was last night?”
He frowned. “Paula?”
She nodded. “Paula Gregg. She’s Barbara’s daughter by her first husband. It’s common knowledge that Brice abused her. And now she’s wild. She’s wild, and she’s dangerous.”
2:05
PM
As the static-sizzling silence lengthened, Hastings drummed the steering wheel with impatient fingers. Finally, Friedman’s voice materialized: “Frank? Where are you?”
“I’m on Washington Street. I’ve just finished talking with Fiona Hanchett, and I’m going to give Teresa Bell a try. But first I—”
“Teresa Bell?”
“She’s the one with the kid who died when he couldn’t get a transplanted liver.”
“Oh. Right. So?” Plainly, Friedman was still short on time, as harassed as he ever permitted himself to become.
“So I’ve got another possible. Barbara Hanchett’s daughter by a previous marriage. If someone can get an address for her, do a workup, maybe I can talk to her after I finish with Teresa Bell. Or, better yet, have Canelli talk to her. Tell Canelli that Paula Gregg is Fiona Hanchett’s pick for the murderer. Apparently she hated Hanchett.
Really
hated him, because he abused her sexually when she was younger.”
“Got it. Gotta go. See you at four-thirty down here. Right?”
“Right.” Hastings released the mike’s Transmit button and replaced the mike on its hook beneath the cruiser’s dashboard. Parked across the street from Fiona Hanchett’s town house, he was about to switch on the car’s ignition when he saw a tall, loose-walking young man approaching the vintage wrought-iron gate that led to the Hanchett house. He wore blue jeans, running shoes, and a regimental khaki shirt, shirttail out. His dark hair was lank, half-long and half-combed. Against the pallor of his face, his lips were unnaturally vivid, his eyes unnaturally dark. As he walked, his gaze was fix-focused, the lusterless eyes staring straight ahead. The movements of his thin arms and legs were oddly uncoordinated.
With a practiced gesture the man tripped the gate latch, swung open the gate, and strode down a passageway beside the Hanchett house, disappearing behind a redwood lattice side gate.
This, certainly, was John Hanchett, going to his in-law apartment at the rear of his mother’s house.
Is it John?
Fiona Hanchett had asked distractedly.
John?
Hastings picked up the microphone, cleared his unit, switched off the radio, got out of the car, and went through the iron gate. The lattice gate swung open to his touch, revealing a beautifully terraced garden of low-growing ferns, several small trees, and a series of low fieldstone retaining walls and flagstone walkways. The rear apartment’s rooms featured floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows that offered a full view of the garden.