Victims Read Free Page B

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.

THREE
    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