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

impeccably coiffed head.
    All of it making an irresistible target.
    Holding her gaze, Hastings let a beat pass. Then, quietly, he said, “Did Inspector Canelli tell you the, uh, circumstances surrounding your husband’s death?”
    “Circumstances?”
    “It happened a little after ten P.M. , in the eleven-hundred block of Green Street. That’s on Russian Hill, between Hyde and Leavenworth.”
    She made no response. But, deep behind her violet eyes, something shifted. He’d touched another nerve. Or was it the same nerve?
    “Would you like to hear the details?” Hastings asked. “Or would you rather not? Your choice.” Aware that whichever way she answered he could only win, he was also aware of the smugness he felt. Friedman’s favorite targets were the rich and the famous. Sometimes Hastings could understand why.
    “Do you mean that—” Watching him attentively, she broke off. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, tighter. “Do you mean that you know how it happened? Why it happened?”
    “We’ve got two witnesses. There’re probably others, there usually are. It can take time for witnesses to come forward. But we have a good idea of Dr. Hanchett’s movements right up to the time the shots were fired.”
    “And?” As she spoke, she held her finishing-school pose. If it was a performance, it was flawless: the lady of the castle, composed, ready to receive tidings that would daunt a lesser person.
    The only possible response was the truth. “Well, he—Dr. Hanchett—spent approximately two hours in the company of a woman named Carla Pfiefer, who lives at eleven-forty-eight Green Street.” Covertly watchful, he let a second pass. Her face remained rigid. Another second. Then it began: raw, elemental hatred, clouding the eyes, twitching at each corner of the beautifully drawn mouth, constricting the muscles of the throat. Her voice dropped to a low, clotted whisper:
    “So you know about it—about them?”
    Silently, he nodded.
    “She’s not the first, you know. She’s just the latest.”
    “I know.”
    “You’ve talked to her, then.”
    “Yes. Last night. Today or tomorrow, I’ll probably talk to her again.”
    “What’d she say? What’d she tell you?”
    “I—ah—I don’t think I should get into that, Mrs. Hanchett. It’s—”
    “Did she talk about me? That’s all I want to know—whether you talked about me.”
    “No,” he answered quietly. “No, we didn’t talk about you.”
    She was breathing more deeply now, round, taut breasts thrusting against the cashmere softness of her sweater. Her chin was still raised, her posture still disdainfully stiff. But she’d lost control of her mouth, and her eyes were balefully fixed. Finally: “Was it a man? Was the killer a man?”
    “We don’t know that.” He looked at her attentively. “Why?”
    “Because her husband,” she said, biting off each word, “is insanely jealous of her, that’s why.”
    Until he could keep his voice level, his expression neutral, Hastings made no response. Then: “Her husband works at BMC. He’s a doctor. Is that correct?”
    “Yes. A surgeon.”
    “Has he ever made any threats against Dr. Hanchett?”
    For a long moment she sat rigid, each hand clamped on the arms of her chair. Finally, after carefully clearing her throat and once more elevating her flawless chin, she said, “That’s up to you to find out. You find the murderer, Lieutenant. I’ll bury my husband.”
    10:55 AM
    “Please, Jonathan, don’t scratch. It only makes it worse, when you scratch.”
    “But it itches.”
    “I know it itches. But if you scratch, it’ll get infected. Remember what the doctor said.”
    “Have you ever had poison oak?”
    “No, I never have.” Wearily, Jane Ryder smiled down at her son. Should she send him to school tomorrow? School had only been in session for seven days, since Labor Day. If she let him—
    “Has Dad ever had poison oak?”
    “Yes. He told you that last night.”
    “I think