Victims (9 page)

“Well, I was in a couple of—you know—barroom fights. Drunk and disorderly. Things like that.”

“Where was that?”

“Down in L.A.”

I nodded, and took my car keys from my pocket. “Okay, that about does it. If you think of anything else—” I handed him a card. “Give me a call.”

“Right.”

“And thanks for the information,” I decided to say. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

A
FTER LEAVING THE HOUSE
on telegraph hill, I called communications from a small Italian restaurant in North Beach. The dispatcher put me through to Friedman, who’d just been in the process of getting Marie Kramer’s unlisted phone number, to call me.

“The gun’s turned up,” he said. “Or, at least, it figures to be the gun. It’s a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. Which fits. It’s a .38 that killed Quade, according to the lab.”

“Where was the gun found?”

“That’s the odd part,” Friedman said. “They found it at the scene. Or, at least, close to the scene. As I understand the layout, there’s a long driveway that goes along the north side of Guest’s house, leading to the garage at the rear, where entrance was effected. Right?”

“Right.”

“And the murderer—Kramer, we assume—killed Quade at the rear of the house, off the garage, then exited onto the driveway through a side door, also toward the rear of the house. From there, he had to go back the way he came, down the driveway to the front sidewalk. Right?”

“Right.”

“Well, he apparently ditched the gun in some shrubbery that’s planted in front of the house, close to the sidewalk.”

“Right where it’d probably be found. Is that what you mean by ‘odd?’”

“That’s what I mean.”

“He was probably rattled. He wanted to get rid of the gun as soon as he could, before he started walking to his car. It’s the normal reaction.”

“The normal reaction,” Friedman countered, “would be to find a garbage can or a sewer grate a half block or so from the crime scene.”

“I don’t think they have garbage cans in Sea Cliff. Maybe they don’t even have sewers.”

He snorted unappreciatively. Friedman seldom enjoyed someone’s else’s quip.

“What’s the lab say about the gun?” I asked.

“Nothing, yet. It’ll take them several hours. They just got it. Incidentally, have you seen the afternoon paper?”

“No.”

“Well, they’re really ballyhooing this one. It figures, of course. Every time Guest farts, it’s news. We’ve had network TV reporters in the lobby downstairs, and they’ve got Guest on tape, I understand. So this thing could be on the six o’clock network news, for God’s sake. And you know what that means.”

I knew what it meant: a call from Chief Dwyer. Several calls from Dwyer, who would be worrying about his image.

“What’d you find out from the kid’s mother?” Friedman asked.

In detail, in sequence, I summarized the entire interrogation, including my conversations with John Kramer and Bruce Durkin. When I’d finished, Friedman asked, “How old is this kid?”

“Six years old.”

“Is he smart?”

“I think so. Spoiled, but smart.”

“His testimony could tell us a lot. A hell of a lot, maybe.”

“Except that we might not be able to get it without his mother’s permission. Or else a court order.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Let’s see what the D.A. says.”

“There could also be a problem with admissibility of the kid’s evidence in court.”

“How so?” Friedman asked.

“It’s a question of whether the child is competent—whether he comprehends the true nature of the crime, and knows what’s expected of him. I testified two or three years ago in the Sheppard case. Remember? A man murdered his wife. Their children, two of them, were the only witnesses.”

“I remember the case. What happened in court?”

“The defense attorney contended that the children weren’t competent as witnesses. The judge cleared the courtroom and sent the jury out. Then the judge and the two lawyers questioned the kids. And it turned out that the kids simply couldn’t comprehend what was expected from them. They couldn’t comprehend the nature of the crime, or the penalties. They couldn’t stand up to cross examination, either. They were like reeds in the wind. They changed their stories according to what they thought the judge or the lawyers wanted to hear.”

“How old were these kids?” Friedman asked.

“Three and five, I think.”

“That’s a factor. The age of the children. The younger they are, obviously, the less reliable they are. But this kid is six. Not three. Six.”

“I know.”

“And the fact remains,” Friedman insisted, “that John Kramer was, after all, a witness at the scene of a murder. He was an eyewitness, probably the only eyewitness. And he’s six years old. He’s in the first grade. He’s learning to read, if I’m not mistaken. And if he really was with his father every second, before and after the shooting, and if he corroborates Kramer’s story—” Speculatively, his voice trailed off. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then Friedman said, “It’s a fascinating situation, when you think about it. This kid, this six-year-old kid, has his father’s fate in his hands.”

“Except that we might not be able to get to John without his mother’s permission, not without hassling, anyhow. And that means we’ve got to get Guest’s permission for the interrogation, I can promise you that. Marie Kramer does whatever her daddy tells her. She’s too—too befuddled to do anything else.”

“And both of them hate Kramer,” Friedman mused. “So why should they let the kid be interrogated, especially if they have reason to think his testimony would help Kramer?”

Thinking about the possibilities, I didn’t reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman standing close beside the phone booth, frowning. I turned away from her.

“And even if we should get their permission,” Friedman went on, “and we interviewed the kid, the D. A. might not be able to use the testimony in court. Assuming, that is, that he’d
want
to use the testimony, after he heard it.” As he spoke, I could plainly hear the titillation in his voice. This was exactly the kind of complicated riddle that most intrigued Friedman.

“Do you have anything else?” I asked finally.

“Yes,” he answered, almost absently. “I’ve got a preliminary lab report from the crime scene. They’ve accounted for all four shots—Guest’s four shots, that is. They found two .45 slugs in the woodwork and walls. They were from Quade’s gun. Which, incidentally, was registered to Quade. And they found two .38 slugs, one inside Quade, lodged in his neck, and the other in the wall. That one was expended, after going through Charlie’s shoulder. From the angle and the position of the bullets, it seems like Charlie was standing just a few feet from the door of his bedroom, and the murderer was standing in the hallway toward the back of the house, about fifteen feet from Charlie.”

The murderer,
he’d said. Not
Kramer.

As if he’d tuned in on my thoughts, Friedman said, “I get the feeling that there’re a few surprises ahead, in this one.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well,” he answered, “first, there’s the discrepancy between how many shots were fired. And then there’s Kramer.”

“What about Kramer?”

“He doesn’t strike me as a murderer.”

“Come on, Pete. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes. You know that.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“I think that Kramer thought Quade was going to kill him, and he acted in self-defense. Or, more like it, he thought that Guest was trying to kill him.”

Another short silence followed. Finally Friedman said, “That kid. We’ve got to talk to that kid.”

I didn’t answer. He knew I’d do my best.

“Well,” Friedman said, “what’s your next move?”

“My next move,” I said, “is to talk to Lester Bennett. Then I’m going home. I plan to be in bed by 8:30.”

“I’ll pull your plug at Communications.”

“Good. I’d appreciate it.”

“But I think we should touch base tomorrow, with all this publicity heat. Even though it’s Sunday. Why don’t you call me in the morning, at home?”

“It’s a deal.” Wearily, I put the receiver on the hook, and smiled apologetically at the impatient woman as I opened the door of the phone booth. Frowning ferociously, she snatched at the door, pulling it away from my hand.

F
RIEDMAN HAD ONCE OBSERVED
that San Francisco was the only city in the country where a private investigator like Lester Bennett could operate. It was a point well taken. For years, Bennett worked as an interior decorator, not very successfully. To make ends meet, he began taking part time assignments from Foley and Brand, who specialized in the seamy side of private investigation: divorces and custody cases. Soon afterward, Bennett closed his decorating studio and opened his own agency, working the same unsavory side of the street. His specialty was child stealing, and he was an instant success. In less than five years, he’d opened branch offices in New York, Los Angeles, and Dallas.

Bennett was in his early forties, slim as a ballet dancer, and just as precious. He had the face of a malicious satyr, accented by a beard trimmed to a satanic point. He lived in a large, elegant apartment on the top floor of the Golden Gateway, one of the city’s newest concrete and glass architectural marvels.

As I pressed the button beside Bennett’s Spanish-carved door, I heard the sound of music and laughter coming from inside the apartment. A moment later the door opened. A young man dressed in black velvet slacks and a bright yellow silk shirt stood in the doorway. The shirt was unbuttoned almost to his waist, revealing several gold chains glittering on a hairy, bleached-blond chest.

“Yes?” He looked me quickly up and down, obviously not impressed with what he saw.

As I identified myself, I saw Bennett coming toward the door.

“Hello, Lieutenant. Care for a drink? It’s Saturday, you know. Cocktail time.”

As the young man in the velvet slacks flounced away, Bennett grasped my forearm, drawing me inside. He was smiling, obviously pleased that I’d come. I thought I knew why. I would be his unwitting floorshow, a source of snide, snickering amusement.

“I want to talk to you,” I said. “Privately.”

His satyr’s smile widened. “Certainly. Just let me get a refill, will you? Are you sure—” Invitingly, he lifted his empty champagne glass.

“No, thanks.”

A girl dressed neck to ankle in skintight silver lame filled his glass, then Bennett took me into a small room furnished as an office.

“Let me guess,” he said, sitting behind the desk and gesturing me to a chair with a graceful wave of his arm. “It’s Charlie Quade. Right?”

“It’s Charlie Quade and Gordon Kramer.”

“The murderer and his victim.” He sipped his champagne, looking at me over the rim of the glass. He was dressed in designer jeans and a khaki bush jacket that looked as if he’d actually worn it on safari. A silk scarf was knotted at his throat.

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know you didn’t, Frank.” Playfully, he smiled. “May I call you Frank?”

Without realizing that I had said it, I answered shortly, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

He shrugged; a languid lifting of his slim, expressive shoulders. “Suit yourself. I was trying to be friendly. Does that bother you?”

“A little.”

He snickered. Then, deadpan, elaborately resigned to my boorishness, he began to talk, speaking in an exaggerated monotone, mimicking himself on a tape recorded report.

“Gordon Kramer called me about six months ago. He told me what he wanted done. At the time, I didn’t connect Marie Kramer with Alexander Guest. I told Kramer I’d get back to him. I contacted my New York office, and told them to check Kramer out.”

“Did he check out?”

“Financially, he checked out. And the divorce checked out. That’s about as far as the New York office went, which was a pity.”

“A pity?”

He sighed, glancing pointedly to the door and the sounds of his party. “Why don’t you let me run it down for you? Then we can play interrogation.”

“Go ahead.” I realized that I’d wanted to say, ‘Go ahead, asshole.’ I also realized that the longer I talked to Bennett, the sleazier I felt.

“While New York was checking Kramer out,” he said, “we started doing some preliminary work here, in San Francisco. Charlie Quade was working for me part time, and—”

“Charlie—?” I caught myself, ill-temperedly gesturing for him to continue.

“Charlie did the ground work, out here. Of course, he found out who the subject was—Guest’s grandson. He also discovered that the subject was probably the only person in the world that Guest cared about. So, obviously, I sent back Kramer’s retainer. I mean, I’m not about to get downwind of Alexander Guest, now—am I?” His delicate little smile was primly self-satisfied. He sipped more champagne, and went on.

“The next step was obvious. I’ll deny I ever did it, of course. But the only smart thing to do after I kissed off a fat fee was to turn virtue to my advantage, if possible. So I got an appointment with the great man himself—finally—and I told him the story. And I’m happy to report that virtue was rewarded. Guest called me a couple of days later, and told me he was grateful for the warning, and said that he needed a man for a confidential assignment. I decided to send Charlie around to him. Not that Charlie was any genius. But, obviously, when I pulled him off the Kramer case, I felt I owed him something.”

“What was the job that Guest wanted done? Body-guarding?”

“I don’t know,” Bennett answered. “I didn’t want to know, for obvious reasons.”

“What obvious reasons?”

He sighed, impatient with my obtuseness. “Guest hinted that the assignment involved Kramer. He said that he wanted to ‘insure John’s future,’ as he put it. And, after all, I’ve got a reputation to protect. Kramer
was
my original client, wasn’t he? So, if the original client’s target—Guest—wants to come back on the client, then I don’t want to be involved. At least, not officially.” He teased me with a smug little smile. “Did you follow all that?”

“You did get involved, though. You gave him Quade.”