“WHERE TO, LIEUTENANT?” CANELLI slammed his door and started the engine.
“Thirteen seventy-six Sea Cliff Avenue.”
“Right.” Canelli shifted to reverse, gave the car too much gas and killed the engine. He shot me a sheepish glance as he restarted the engine—after prolonged starter-grinding. I sighed, looking away. Canelli was at perpetual odds with almost everything mechanical. He’d been my driver for six months, a fact that provided Friedman with endless material for lunch-table humor. Why, Friedman wondered, would I pick a driver who had difficulty backing out of a parking stall? How, Friedman asked, could I listen to Canelli’s perpetually bemused platitudes?
My defense was always the same—a counterattack. Why had Friedman tapped Canelli for inspector, a little more than a year ago? Simple, came the inevitable rebuttal. Canelli neither looked like a detective nor acted like a detective nor thought like a detective. Therefore, Canelli had been in constant demand as an undercover man, a role that allowed him to sometimes accomplish miracles, otherwise known as Canelli’s luck. Success hadn’t changed Canelli. At twenty-eight years old, he weighed a suety two hundred forty pounds and waddled when he walked. His suits always bagged and he never creased his hat in the same style twice. For eight years he’d been engaged to the same girl, and he still blushed whenever someone asked about her. On the job his expression alternated between puzzlement, surprise and a deep, lip-chewing concentration. Canelli was the only cop I’d ever known who could get his feelings hurt.
“Is this that old woman?” Canelli asked, elaborately checking traffic before venturing out of the garage and into the traffic stream.
“That’s right,” I answered. “Her name is Flora Esterbrook Gaines.”
“That’s some name,” Canelli observed. “I hear she’s rich.”
“Yes.”
We drove for a few blocks in silence. Then, tentatively, Canelli said, “I, ah, hear you collared some weirdo last night, Lieutenant.”
Again I sighed. Canelli was probing. He had, no doubt, been primed by the other members of the homicide squad to discover why Sonny Blake was under wraps, not to be questioned by anyone except Friedman or myself. Of course, already the squad members would have guessed at the same connection Friedman suspected. But, by training, a detective doesn’t like to guess.
We drove for a few more blocks without talking. Finally Canelli frowned. Transparently pretending to be struck by a random thought, he asked, “How’re you doing with that Nancy Frazer thing, Lieutenant? I mean, when’s it coming to trial?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “it’s scheduled for trial in a couple of months.” I paused, eyed him silently for a moment, then said, “Any more questions?”
He glanced at me quickly before shrugging his beefy shoulders. “It’s just that I never got that Frazer thing straight,” he said, returning his eyes to the road. “I mean, it all happened before I made inspector, you know. It must’ve been, lessee—” He elaborately wrinkled his brow. “It must’ve been two years ago now. Mustn’t it?”
“Just about two years,” I answered. Then, curious to know what he’d actually discovered, I said, “What’d you hear about the Frazer thing, Canelli?”
“Well—” Again he shrugged, diffidently flip-flopping his hand. “I just heard that there was this shoot-out, and Nancy Frazer got shot by accident. But I never really knew much about it. Plus, there was never much said in the squad room. So I figured that …” Having talked himself into a corner, he frowned heavily, concentrating on the road ahead.
“You figured that the lid was on.”
Uncomfortably, he nodded. “Something like that, I guess.”
“And the characters in the squad room want to know what’s happening. Is that it?”
“Well, jeeze, Lieutenant, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m prying, or anything.”
I allowed a long, sadistic moment of heavily laden silence to pass before I said, “Actually, the story’s very simple, Canelli. Would you like to hear about it?”
“Well, jeeze, Lieutenant, like I said, I wouldn’t want you to think that …”
“What happened, three officers and myself—two cars—were chasing a suspect’s car down Geary Boulevard. It was almost exactly two years ago. We were just setting up a blockade when the suspect suddenly pulled over to the curb. In fact, he collided with a muni bus. He got out of his car and started running. It was about four P.M., and the sidewalks were crowded. The suspect had a gun, but at first he didn’t fire. He just ran. I was teamed with Culligan on foot. The two other officers drove on ahead, trying to head the suspect off at Geary and Arguello. But suddenly the suspect started firing. We scattered, taking cover. The suspect fired twice. We fired a total of five shots. Two officers fired twice, Culligan fired once. I didn’t fire. After our five shots, the suspect threw down his gun and gave up. No sweat. Except—” I sighed, suddenly surrendering to the memory of that moment, still so clear in my memory. “Except that one of our bullets caught a bystander. Nancy Frazer. It lodged in her spine and paralyzed her.”
“But how come they’re hauling you into court, Lieutenant? If you didn’t fire your gun, I don’t see how—”
“There was no way of determining whose gun fired the crucial shot. It was a ricochet and the bullet was ruined. So since I was in command, I’m the one they’re suing. Me, and the city of San Francisco.”
“But they can’t make it stick, Lieutenant. No way.”
I shrugged. “We won’t know that until the jury comes in, Canelli. But the plaintiffs are charging negligence. We didn’t take proper precautions, they say.”
“Well, crap on them.”
I ruefully smiled. “Thanks, Canelli. You’re a big help.”
He looked at me doubtfully, frowned, then asked, “What happened next, Lieutenant?”
“A civil suit was filed on behalf of Nancy Frazer and her son, James Biggs. Biggs was seventeen at the time, and away at school. They waited six months to determine whether she’d be permanently paralyzed. Then they filed.”
“What about the husband? Didn’t he want a piece of the pie?”
“Apparently not. His name is Chester Frazer. He’s her third husband, and he’s got enough money, apparently.”
“It figures,” Canelli said morosely. “So what happened then, Lieutenant? I know she died about six months ago.”
“The victim apparently started to drink after the shooting. Maybe she drank before; I don’t know. Anyhow, about six months ago she died of a barbiturate overdose—a bad reaction between liquor and drugs. Which is, of course, very common.”
“I heard that James Biggs had something to do with her death.”
“She probably got the extra barbiturate from him—enough to kill herself. If he provided that barbiturate, knowing that she’d use it to kill herself, then he’s involved in her death. Which means that, regardless of whether he’s indicted, he’s undoubtedly lost any claim of damages against us.”
“So that’s good. You’re a winner, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe. But, like I say, you never know until the jury comes in. However, this son is very strange—very neurotic. I’ve never actually talked to him—I’m forbidden to talk to him, in fact. But I understand, from Lieutenant Friedman, that he’s a nut. I also understand that he’s out to get me. So I’m—”
“Why can’t you talk to him?”
“Because it would appear as if we’re harassing him, according to the city attorney. I gather that Biggs’s lawyers are going to contend that Biggs is a victim of a kind of municipal conspiracy.”
“Municipal conspiracy?” He braked the car and turned through the ornate flagstone pillars that marked the entrance to Sea Cliff.
“The coroner’s jury ruled that her death was probable suicide. That’s going to make it hard for Biggs to collect, whether or not he supplied her with an overdose. So Biggs’s lawyer is claiming that the verdict was a put-up job. And, if we give Biggs a hard time, it might look to the jury like the lawyer has a point. First the coroner’s jury, then us.”
“Yeah,” Canelli answered slowly, “I see what you mean. Still, if we could prove that Biggs killed his mother, then you’d really be a winner, Lieutenant. Two for the price of one, you might say.”
“Never mind the bargains, Canelli. I’ll settle for a straight deal. One for one.” I pointed ahead. “There it is. That big Spanish-style house, across the street.”
“Jeeze,” Canelli marveled, pulling to the curb. “That’s some place. That’s really some place.”
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