Read Online Hire a Hangman by Collin Wilcox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Collin Wilcox
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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
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
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