Hire a Hangman by Collin Wilcox Read Free Book Online Page A

nostrils thinned, the mouth hardened. “What d’you mean, ‘personal reasons’?”
    “I mean enemies.”
    “Enemies?”
    “Whenever someone’s killed, we look for two things—motive and opportunity. So, we’re trying to find someone with a motive for killing Dr. Hanchett. Usually, in a killing like this—a street killing—it’s either a fight or else it’s robbery. Sure, there’re the nuts, the random killers who kill for kicks, or because their voices tell them to do it. And it’s possible that your husband’s killer was one of those. But my hunch is whoever killed your husband did it for a reason.”
    “What kind of a reason?”
    “Usually it’s either gain or revenge. Or jealousy, one of those three.” He decided to smile, to make a gesture of invitation. “Take your pick. Please. We need all the help we can get.”
    “Lieutenant …” She let a hard, deliberate moment pass. “I really don’t have time for guessing games. And I don’t have the patience, either. Not this morning.”
    “Sure. I understand.” Briskly he withdrew a notebook from an inside pocket. “This won’t take long, Mrs. Hanchett. I’ve already been to BMC, and I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of Dr. Hanchett’s, uh, professional situation. So now, if I can get a rundown on his personal life—his relatives, his family situation—then I’ll be on my way.” Expectantly he clicked his ballpoint pen, at the same time experimenting with another smile.
    “What is it you want, exactly?” Her voice was cold, impersonal. But something stirred in the depths of her eyes. Was it caution? Concern?
    Concern for what? Why?
    “I’d like vital statistics. From his driver’s license I know he was fifty-two years old, and I know he lived at this address. But that’s all I know. And I need more. Lots more.”
    “He was married before,” she said, reciting now. “And so was I. His first wife’s name is Fiona. She lives on Washington Street, not too far from here, in fact. They have a son. John. He lives with his mother.”
    “Is that Fiona Hanchett?”
    She nodded. “Yes. She never remarried.”
    “What’s your name—your given name?”
    “It’s Barbara.” She hesitated, then decided to say, “Barbara Gregg Hanchett.”
    “How long have—were—you married to Dr. Hanchett?”
    “Almost four years. It’ll be—” She broke off, bit her lip. “It would’ve been four years in two months—November.”
    “You were married before. Could I have your first husband’s name?”
    Instantly she bristled. Hastings recognized that mannerism: the upper-class matron harassed by a mere civil servant.
    “Why do you want my first husband’s name?”
    Tactically, his response was textbook-clear: never answer a hostile question.
    “Have you ever seen a transcript of a murder trial, Mrs. Hanchett?”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “A transcript can run to thousands of pages, the most minute detail. That’s what this business is all about, Mrs. Hanchett. Details.”
    Jaw set grimly, eyes bright with rigidly suppressed anger, voice edged with bitterness and scorn, she said, “His name is Edward Gregg. He’s remarried, and lives on Cherry Street. He’s a lawyer. A very rich, very successful lawyer. He’s forty-five years old, and—” Contemptuously, she shrugged. “And I’m forty-three, if that’s the kind of detail you’re looking for. We—Edward and I—have a daughter named Paula who’s a model and lives in North Beach.” About to say more, she frowned, then fell into a brooding, patrician silence.
    Calling for a calm, cool response: “Thank you, Mrs. Hanchett.” He flipped a notebook page, made a final entry, flipped the notebook closed, returned it to his pocket, the businesslike policeman doing his job. “That’s very helpful.”
    “Good.” Sitting in her chair, chin lifted, back arched, legs elegantly crossed, a finishing-school posture, she nodded, a slight, stiff-necked inclination of her