The Third Figure (7 page)

“That’s a common story, too”

She nodded. “So is the last of it, too, I suppose. I decided that what we needed was a child, to bring us closer together and give John a sense of responsibility. Unfortunately, however, the child was conceived at almost exactly the time North Korea invaded South Korea—and John was in the reserve.”

She sighed. “In a way, Korea was John’s last chance. He was a pilot, flying cargo planes, and he liked it. When his Korean tour was over, he told me that he wanted to stay in the Air Force. But I wouldn’t let him. My mother, I suppose, had told me it was a ghastly life, being an army wife. So, anyhow, John went back with his old company, selling stocks. Except that, this time, he didn’t even make any pretense of working. He just stayed in the bars all day and drank. Sometimes he’d go to movies, and once a week or so he’d visit an old girl friend who’d just got divorced. He was never obvious about it, though, or inconsiderate. John was always considerate and really very sweet. He would have made a good husband, probably, if he’d stayed in the Air Force. The army can be a good place for weaklings.”

“What happened then, Mrs. Hanson?”

“Well finally, after a year or so, John became an embarrassment to his family—and to me. So we decided, his family and I, that the best thing for John would be for us to move to Los Angeles. If we could get John away from his old environment, we decided, everything would be all right. And also, as part of the therapy, John’s family would stop sending us money. As it turned out, there was more than just therapy involved. Mr. Hanson’s business was failing, and two years later, in the recession of 1958, it failed altogether. By that time, of course, we’d come to Los Angeles. John was selling ‘real estate,’ instead of ‘selling stocks.’” Bitterly she accented the two phrases. “And instead of his parents giving us money ‘until we got on our feet,’ I began working. Full time. I became very good at real estate escrow. And, over the years, I had various affairs with various men. Somehow it was the only thing left.”

“You and John had a child, did you say?”

A brief spasm twitched at her face.

“Yes, Mr. Drake. We had a child. John Hanson the third. He was a beautiful boy. He still is a beautiful boy, only now he’s sixteen. He doesn’t need me anymore. He never did, really. That was my husband’s single virtue, you see: he loved his son. He loved Johnny, and he understood him. I suppose, in many ways, John was really more a boy than a man. He was defenseless, and innocent, and …” She swallowed, then continued in a firmer voice:

“When I had to go to work, my husband looked after Johnny. He’d even pace himself, drinking, to fit Johnny’s schedule.” She paused, staring down at her hands. “I’ve often wondered whether that’s why I started with other men—because my husband, for all his faults and his weakness, really meant more to Johnny than I did. I don’t know. I do know, though, that men became more and more important to me. Wealthy, aggressive men. Men with drive and ambition.”

“And that’s how you met Dominic Vennezio.”

She raised her head in the timeless gesture of the fallen woman, defiant in her fall.

“Yes, Mr. Drake. That’s how I met Dominic.”

“And …” I hesitated. “What happened to your husband, Mrs. Hanson, after you met Vennezio?”

“Shortly after I met Dominic, and began—seeing him, John left.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“I understand he went back to San Francisco.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“Not directly.”

“But you know he’s alive.”

“I’ve heard he’s alive. I don’t know for sure. He has a younger brother living here in Los Angeles. Bruce. If anything had happened to John and Bruce knew about it, I suppose I’d’ve heard.”

I nodded, thinking about it. Finally, I said, “What about the boy? I mean, weren’t you surprised that your husband would’ve left his son if they were so close?”

“Johnny was fourteen by then. They weren’t close any longer.”

“Is he—” Involuntarily I looked around. “Is the boy living with you?”

“He was, until this last year. Now he’s going to Midfield. It’s a boarding school in the Ojai Valley, just forty miles from Los Angeles.”

“I see. And how long has it been since your husband left?”

She thought about it, then said, “Just about two years. I’d been working for Dominic three months, when John left.”

“Were you living here at the time?”

She laughed with brief, bitter humor. “We were living in a one-room apartment. Drinking is an expensive habit, Mr. Drake, especially when there’s only one income.”

“Then …” I hesitated. “Then, if I understand the sequence correctly, first you met Dominic. Then, three months later, your husband moved out. And then, shortly afterward, you moved into this house. Is that right?”

She nodded. Her earlier defiance had gone—dissolved, perhaps, in a wayward moment of disillusioned, self-pitying introspection.

“Did Dominic ever tell you much about his business, Mrs. Hanson?”

“Never. At least, nothing about anything beyond real estate. Dominic had a passion for real estate. He owns—owned—several buildings in town. And he speculated in land, too.”

“But he never mentioned the Outfit.”

“No. Never.”

“Were you aware that he was connected with organized crime?”

“Yes, of course. I read the papers, Mr. Drake.”

“And did you realize that his, ah, affair with you might have caused him trouble?”

“Dominic was used to trouble. That was his business.”

I hesitated. Then, abruptly, I asked, “Do you have any idea why he was killed, Mrs. Hanson?”

She raised her eyes to mine, looked at me for a long, silent moment and then shook her head.

“I’ve no idea. Beyond what I read in the papers.”

“How did it actually happen, that you were the one to discover him?”

Her answer came almost too quickly, as if she’d been prepared for the question—almost as if her answer might have been overrehearsed.

“I always met Dominic at the beachhouse Sunday nights, when Johnny was visiting me. Johnny would usually leave about six thirty, for school. As soon as he’d left I’d change my clothes and pack a bag and then drive out to the beachhouse.”

“Does your son have his own car?”

“Yes. He—Dom had just bought it for him. A Mustang.”

“Does your son spend every weekend with you?”

“No. He—” She bit her lip. “He usually visits me every second or third weekend.”

“Is he here this weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Was he visiting you three weeks ago? When Dominic was killed?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “What time did you actually get to the beachhouse, Mrs. Hanson?”

“It was quarter after eight. Maybe a little later.”

“What time did you leave here?”

“About seven thirty. It’s a forty-five-minute drive on Sunday nights.”

“And what did you find at the beachhouse? From the outside, was there anything unusual?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I parked the car in the carport and took my suitcase and walked around to the front door, just as I always did. It wasn’t until then that I realized anything was wrong.”

“How do you mean?”

“The door was standing open.”

“I see. What happened then?”

“Well, I—I just went inside. And …” She blinked. Her hands, I noticed, were once more twisting in her lap. Her body was rigid, and her chin was tilted painfully upward.

“And then I saw him,” she finished. “He was lying in the center of the living room. He was …” Again she blinked, rapidly. “He was staring up at the ceiling. Dead.”

“Did the police say how long he’d been dead when you found him?”

“Less than an hour, they said.”

“He’d been shot, is that right?”

“Yes. In the—the chest. Three times.”

“Did all of the bullets strike him? I mean, did the police find any bullets that missed—went wild?”

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Did any of the neighbors hear shots?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you any idea who called the police?”

“No. I don’t think the police know, either.”

“Did Dominic mention any enemies?”

“No. Never.”

“Did he seem worried, just before he was murdered?”

“No. In fact, he’d closed a deal the day before that netted him almost forty thousand dollars. We were going to drive to Malibu that night and celebrate.”

“And you don’t have any idea who might’ve killed him?”

She shook her head. “No, Mr. Drake, I don’t.” She was more relaxed now. She’d told her story. Obviously, she had nothing more to tell. And, just as obviously, she was telling the truth, with nothing to hide. She saw herself and her life with a painful clarity—just as she saw Dominic and their affair with the same uncompromising clarity, almost masochistically. Watching her simply sit staring at me, waiting for my next questions, I wondered whether Faith Hanson might enjoy suffering. I wondered how many of her wealthy, successful, aggressive men may have mistreated her, either emotionally or physically.

I decided to put the theory to the test.

“Did Dominic ever mention his family to you, Mrs. Hanson?”

Momentarily she closed her eyes, as if braced for a blow. But her answer was steady.

“Yes, he did. Several times.”

“Did he ever tell you that, when his wife moved out, she put away certain letters that might have sent Dominic to prison?”

She shook her head. “No, he never told me that.”

“But he did talk to you about his wife.”

“Yes.”

“And he had two children, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever talk about them?”

“He talked about his girl, Charlene. Often.”

“Was he fond of her, would you say?”

“Yes, he was. They fought a lot, probably because they were so similar. But he loved her. It was obvious.”

“Did she love him?”

She shrugged. “If you’ll define ‘love’ for me, Mr. Drake, I’ll answer the question.”

I smiled. “I withdraw the question. How old is Charlene?”

“Twenty-six, I believe.” She thought about it, then nodded. “Yes, she’s twenty-six.”

“Does she live here?”

“She lives in Los Angeles.”

“Is she married?”

Momentarily she hesitated before shaking her head.

“Is she a pretty girl?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Then why isn’t she married, I wonder.”

Again came the intriguing hesitation. Finally she said, cautiously, “I wouldn’t know.”

“I think you do, Mrs. Hanson.”

She looked at me, then sighed. “Charlene is going around with one of Dominic’s associates. That’s the only thing he ever told me about his—his other business, when he mentioned Larry Sabella in relation to Charlene. Apparently Dominic had forbidden her to have anything to do with Sabella—or with any of those—men.”

“But she defied her father. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Is Sabella married, do you know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t believe so. That would’ve been the last straw, as far as Dominic was concerned.”

“I see.” I decided to shift my ground. “Is Dominic’s other child a son?”

“Yes.”

“How old is he?”

“Angelo is thirty, I think. Maybe thirty-one. He lives in Phoenix.”

“What does he do, in Phoenix?”

“I’m not sure. But I gathered that he might be in the—the same line of work that Dominic was in.”

“He works for the Outfit, you mean?”

She shrugged. She would say no more.

“Did he get along well with his father?”

Slowly she shook her head. “No, I don’t believe they got along very well together. I think—I’m sure, really—that Dominic wanted Angelo to go into some—other line of work.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No.”

“Was Angelo capable, would you say? Intelligent?”

“I’ve never met Angelo,” she answered. “But I’d say, offhand, that he probably isn’t as intelligent as Charlene. Nor as—as fiery. I gather that Angelo is a lot more sullen than his sister. Both of them were problem children as teen-agers. But, of the two, Dominic always thought Charlene was high-spirited. Angelo, apparently, was just mean. He’s even been in prison if I’m not mistaken. For manslaughter. Or at least he was indicted. Dominic never liked to talk about it.”

“What kind of person was Dominic Vennezio, Mrs. Hanson?”

She looked at me, surprised.

“Didn’t you know him?”

“I’d like to hear you describe him.”

She looked at me speculatively. I wondered whether she might be considering some questions of her own. But finally she said, “Dominic was a simple, straightforward man. As long as you didn’t antagonize him, he was just like anyone else. But, once he was crossed, he was a devil. If anyone lied to him or tried to get the best of him, fairly or unfairly, Dominic would do anything to get even. That’s the way he operated in real estate, and I’m sure that in his—other business, he was even more ruthless.”

“Was he intelligent, would you say?”

“He was intelligent enough. He had a good instinct for which people he could trust. And he was very shrewd. It took him a long time to figure out something, but when he finally made a decision it was usually right. And, too, he had a tremendous vitality. When he decided to enjoy himself, he went all the way. He was a high liver and a big spender. He wasn’t ostentatious about it, especially, but he loved the feeling of being able to buy almost anything he wanted. And he did. I remember one time we were in a grocery store, and some children were buying candy. Dominic watched them. One boy bought five sticks of black licorice and left the store. Dominic went over to the candy counter and bought two whole boxes of black licorice. When I asked him why, he couldn’t explain it, except to say that he remembered, as a kid, the thing he’d wanted more than anything else in the whole world was enough money to buy all the black licorice he wanted.”

“Did he eat it?”

She smiled, her first expression of a genuine humor. “He ate a lot of it. And I helped him. I always liked licorice myself.”

I answered her smile, then said, “If you had to guess, Mrs. Hanson, who would you say killed him?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Drake. There was a lot in Dominic’s life that I didn’t know anything about. I’m sure the police think someone in organized crime killed him. Don’t you?”