Victims (2 page)

I smiled. Alexander Guest didn’t mince words—and didn’t miss anything, either. “He does know his job,” I said. “No question.”

“The man you want,” Guest said, “is Gordon Kramer. He’s thirty-six years old. Dark hair, dark eyes. Medium build. Regular features. He’ll be well dressed. And, most important, he’ll be traveling with a young boy, age six. If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d put out an all points bulletin for Gordon Kramer. Right now. In particular, you should get the airports covered. Immediately. Because I can guarantee—absolutely guarantee—that, right this minute, he’ll be trying to get on an airplane, bound for New York.”

“Are you prepared to give us a signed statement that you’re accusing Gordon Kramer of murder, Mr. Guest?”

“Absolutely.”

“Did you see him do it? Were you an actual witness?”

“No, not an eyewitness,” he answered impatiently. “But I know he did it, and when you get here, I’ll give you details. But, for now, you’d better get it on the radio, Lieutenant. It’s been more than an hour since the murder was committed. He could be at the boarding gate now. And, to be perfectly frank, thinking down the line, it won’t look very good for you if the record shows that you didn’t act on the information I’m giving you.”

My first reaction was a flash of momentary anger. Whenever anyone threatened me with his “influence,” my first reaction was to let him try. But I’d learned, the hard way, that people like Alexander Guest could do a lot of damage. So I let a long, deliberate beat pass while I tried to sort it out. Guest was a lawyer, therefore an officer of the court. If he wrote out a complaint, in front of witnesses, I would protect myself from a charge of false arrest because of insufficient evidence. If I took proper precautions, I couldn’t lose, doing as he asked.

“Well?” he demanded, his voice harshly sarcastic. “What’s the problem, Lieutenant? Haven’t you the authority to have him picked up?”

“Yessir, I have.” I let another deliberate silence pass, then said, “After I talk to you, I’ll talk to Inspector Canelli. I’ll order him to witness you writing out your statement. He’ll have a third party witness it, too. Then I’ll tell Canelli to put out the A.P.B., on my authority.”

“That’ll be fine. You’re a cautious man, Lieutenant. That’s commendable.”

“Thanks,” I answered wearily, at the same time reaching for a scratch pad and pencil. “Where’re you located, Mr. Guest?”

“I’m in Sea Cliff. 270 El Camino Del Mar.”

I wrote it down, then asked, “This Gordon Kramer—is there a connection between him and you?”

I heard a sharp, bitter exhalation. “There was a connection. He used to be my son-in-law.”

“And the boy. Who’s he?”

“The boy,” he answered, “is John Kramer. My grandson.”

T
HE GUEST MANSION WAS
Tudor style, three stories high, built of brick and cut stone, with a slate roof, lead-paned windows, and heroic chimneys. A magnificent round medallion stained glass window was set above the front portico, illuminated from within. The premises were entirely surrounded by a wrought iron fence topped by small, sharp fleur-de-lis. A driveway led along the right side of the building to a large garage built to resemble an old English timber-and-stucco carriage house. No gate secured the entrance to the driveway, and the pedestrian gate across the flagstone walkway leading to the mansion’s entryway opened to the touch. As I walked through the gate I wondered whether the gate was equipped with a warning buzzer that sounded inside the house.

I didn’t recognize the uniformed patrolman stationed at the front door, but he saluted, called me by name and opened the massive carved oak door for me. As I entered, I saw the patrolman’s attention shift to the street. The white coroner’s van was backing into the driveway beside the house. A coroner’s station wagon followed, with two men inside. Checking my watch, I calculated that it had probably taken them an hour and a half to respond, about average for a Friday night. At the curb, I counted three black-and-white police units and two unmarked inspector’s cars.

Canelli was waiting for me in the foyer. Sitting in an enormous carved wooden armchair that could have come from a throne room, Canelli looked lumpy and ill at ease. He was wearing run-over shoes, shapeless brown corduroy slacks, and a nylon windbreaker that bulged tight across his stomach.

“Hi, Lieutenant.” On his feet, he came toward me. He looked and acted like he’d gone out to buy a six-pack of beer, got caught in a time warp and somehow wandered into the entryway of an English manor house. Obviously, he was awed by his surroundings. His voice was hushed, his eyes round with wonder. As I clipped my plastic identification badge to the lapel of my sports jacket I asked, “How many men have we got on the scene?”

“I’m the only one from our squad,” he answered. “There’re five uniformed men securing the premises—four patrolmen and Sergeant MacFarland.”

“Did you get Alexander Guest’s complaint?”

“Yessir.” From an inside pocket he withdrew an unsealed envelope containing a single sheet of stationery. Beneath his letterhead, in his own handwriting, Guest stated that he believed Gordon Kramer had murdered Charles Quade inside the Guesthouse and would so depose. He further stated that Quade had been employed by him to guard said premises. Both Canelli and Sergeant MacFarland had witnessed the statement.

“Good.” I put the envelope in my own pocket. “How long has the A.P.B. been on the air?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Do you have any kind of a time frame for the crime?”

He took a notebook from another pocket, frowned as he thumbed the pages backward and forward, and finally found the entry he wanted. “As near as I can tell, several shots were fired—three shots, at least—just a little after 1:00
A.M
. Like, maybe five minutes after. Guest called 911, and the first black-and-white unit was on the scene at about 1:25. They verified the crime and called Dispatch. The dispatcher called Homicide. I was the only one catching. I got here about ten minutes to two. By that time another black-and-white was on the scene, and the premises were secure. I took a look at the victim. At first I didn’t recognize him. That’s because he was on his face, see. Then I talked to Guest. Or, more like it, he talked to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that—”

A hallway door opened, revealing John MacFarland, a big, amiable, powerfully built man in his middle fifties, with a ruddy face seamed by twenty years spent riding a motorcycle.

“Hello, Frank.”

“Hello, Johnny. How’ve you been?”

“No complaints.” He smiled. “I’m a grandfather. Just a week ago. Sally had a baby boy.”

“I know. Kennedy told me. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. The coroner’s team is here. They want to know whether they can move the body.”

“No, they can’t. The lab technicians aren’t on the scene yet.” Inquiringly, I looked at Canelli. He spread his hands and shook his head.

“I called them as soon as I got here, Lieutenant. But it’s Friday night, you know. They’re out on another call: a wino, dead in a church, if you can believe that. I was just going to tell you.”

“Then I don’t want anyone within ten feet of the body,” I said, speaking to MacFarland. “This one, we’ve got to do right. Just exactly right.”

MacFarland nodded and turned away, closing the hallway door as he went.

“Where were we?” I asked Canelli.

“I was telling you about Guest.”

“Where is he, by the way?”

Canelli gestured to a carved oak staircase that curved gracefully up from the central entry hall to the mansion’s second floor. “He’s in his bedroom, at the top of those stairs. He says for you to go up and see him.”

“Over the phone, he seemed pretty sure of his facts, pretty convinced he had everything figured out. Is that the way he seemed to you?”

“Well—” Canelli frowned as he pressed a forefinger to his pursed lips. “He kind of comes on strong, I guess you’d say. I mean, he’s a dynamic personality, no question. But the way it looked to me, he sort of—you know—sized me up, and decided that I wasn’t—you know—an officer, or anything. So then he made it pretty plain, see, that he didn’t intend to waste his time talking to just anyone.”

“Did he accuse Gordon Kramer of the crime when he first talked to you—when you first arrived?”

Canelli shook his head. “No, sir. Not right at first. He said that he knew who did it, though. Then he said that he’d make his statement at the proper time, to the proper person. That’s when I decided to call you.” As he said it, he looked at me with his soft, anxious brown eyes, obviously still wondering whether he’d done the right thing, calling me. Canelli was the only cop I’d ever known who could constantly get his feelings hurt.

“You were right to phone me, Canelli. No question.”

“Oh, Jeez, Lieutenant. I’m sure glad you’re not—”

“Come on. Let’s take a look at the body. Where is it?”

“Here—back here.” He led the way down a wood-paneled hallway and opened an elegantly carved oak door. I was prepared for the smell of violent death: excrement and the sickly sweet stench of drying blood mingling in an odor a policeman never forgets, an odor that constantly lingers in the senses, is never completely purged.

I was facing another hallway, this one narrower, less elaborate, leading straight to the back of the house. Two interior doors were on my left, both of them ajar. To my right, another shorter hallway led to an outside door, also ajar. Through the window of the outside door, bathed in the glare of police floodlights, I saw the coroner’s van parked on a large concrete apron that served a three-car garage.

“It’s ahead,” Canelli said. “There’s another hallway that goes off to your right, back there. That’s where he is.”

“You stay here. I’ll just take a quick look. You didn’t touch him, did you?”

“No. I don’t think Guest did, either. But I’m not real sure.”

Nodding, I walked slowly forward. The first room to my left was a small bedroom, darkened. The second room on the left was larger, also a bedroom. The hallway light was enough to reveal a clutter of children’s toys through the half-opened door. Ahead, the hallway made a right angle turn to the right. As I approached the corner, I saw a hand, clenched in death’s final agony. Another slow, reluctant step revealed a bare forearm. Then I could see it all: Charlie Quade, sprawled facedown on the parquet wood floor. He’d gotten balder since I’d last seen him, and fatter. He was barefooted, and wore only his undershorts and a tee shirt. He’d bled a lot. Squatting for a closer look, I saw why: One bullet had gone through his neck just below the ear, probably rupturing the jugular vein. The other bullet appeared to have struck him in the shoulder or high on the chest. His eyes were open, staring at my foot. His mouth was open, too. His white, pudgy legs were drawn up close to his body; his torso was twisted. He’d probably suffered before he died. A lot.

I saw a Colt .45 automatic lying about a foot from his hand. I remembered that gun. For their off-duty weapons, most officers choose the smallest, least conspicuous gun possible, usually a short-barreled revolver, easily concealed. Not Charlie. Off duty, he carried the big Colt .45 thrust in his belt, on display. He’d always been a show-off: a blustering, bad-tempered braggart. Guns, money, cars, women—Charlie flashed them all.

Straightening, I looked down the short hallway that led to what seemed to be an outside door, half open. But no light from the driveway came through the door’s small eye-level window.

“Does this door lead to the garage?” I called out.

“That’s right,” Canelli answered.

I looked a last time at Charlie Quade, then joined Canelli, standing exactly where I’d left him. I pointed to the first bedroom door. “Was Charlie sleeping in there?”

“I guesso.” He pointed to the second door. “That’s the boy’s room, I know. Guest’s grandson, as nearly as I can make out.”

We were standing within a few feet of the outside door that opened on the floodlit concrete apron of the garage. Over Canelli’s shoulder I saw the crime lab’s van pull to a stop beside the coroner’s wagon. I pointed. “There’s the crime lab. Finally. You stay with them until they’re finished—until they’ve got everything they want. And I mean everything. I want you to keep looking over their shoulders. Clear?” I looked him in the eye, hard.

“Yessir.” He nodded diligently. “That’s clear.”

“When you’re satisfied—good and satisfied—you can authorize the removal of the body, on my authority. If you’ve got any questions I’ll be upstairs, talking to Guest.”

He nodded again. “Yessir.”

“I want everyone—
everyone
—to realize that this isn’t the Tenderloin. And Alexander Guest isn’t their friendly local pimp. Charlie Quade was apparently working for Guest. Which automatically makes this whole thing important. If we make any mistakes, Guest could make us pay. Through the nose.”

Canelli started to smile, then decided to frown earnestly as he nodded vigorous agreement.

T
HE WALLS BESIDE THE
curving central staircase were hung with large, elaborately framed oil paintings, most of them landscapes. At the top of the staircase, I stood facing yet another English style oak door. From behind the door I heard the sound of someone talking. I stepped closer, listened for a moment, then knocked.

“Yes?” It was a loud, authoritative voice, unmistakably Alexander Guest’s.

“It’s Lieutenant Hastings, Mr. Guest. Frank Hastings. Homicide.”

“Come in.”

Like the rest of the mansion, the master bedroom reproduced an English manor house, with paneled walls, high ceilings, parquet floors and gracefully carved decorative woodwork. Even the huge, strictly American plate glass window that commanded a spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge was framed in carved wood, with small, square stained glass panes bordering the plate glass.

Alexander Guest sat behind an ornate leather-topped table with carved lion-claw legs. The table served as a luxurious desk. He waved me to a nearby armchair, then half turned away from me, continuing to talk into the phone.

“Yes, yes.” Impatiently he gesticulated with his free hand, as if he were angry with the caller for not comprehending. “There’s a ranking officer here now—finally.” As he said it, he glanced at me sharply. Plainly, Alexander Guest resented the time he’d been compelled to spend with underlings before I arrived on the scene. “He’s just come into the room, in fact. I’ll—what?” Obviously still exasperated, gnawing his lower lip and shaking his head, he paused, gracelessly enduring whatever the other person was saying. Finally, speaking with exaggerated patience, as if he were dealing with an uncomprehending child, or an inattentive adult, he said, “Marie, I’ve told you what I want you to do. I want you to stay where you are. I want you and Durkin to stay together, in the same room. Durkin will protect you. That’s his job, to protect you. There’s an officer here now, as I said, someone with authority. I’m sure he’ll approve a guard for you, as soon as he knows the details. In the meantime, though, you stay there, with Durkin. It’s odds on, certainly, that Gordon’s trying to get away. He might’ve succeeded by now, for all we know. So I don’t think you’re in danger. But, still, there’s no point in—What?” He listened for another ill-tempered moment, then apparently broke in, saying, “Marie, I’ve got to go. The sooner I talk to Lieutenant Hastings, the sooner things will fall into place. You just do as I tell you. I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.” Abruptly, he cradled the phone and turned to face me.