Victims (4 page)

“You’re wondering why I put John there, in view of the fact that he might be kidnapped. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir. I’d think he’d have been safer here on the second floor.”

“That’s probably true. But there’s more to life than security, Lieutenant. That’s John’s room. It’s part of his identity, perhaps a very important part. And I don’t propose that he begin his life by surrendering his freedom to the possibility of danger. Did you see his room, look inside?”

“Just a glance.”

“Well, as you’ll see, it’s decorated for him. He’s comfortable there. It’s
his
room. And, after all, Quade was there, on guard. And, in addition—” He swiveled in his chair, and pointed to an elaborate communications panel set into the wall beside his desk. The brushed satin-chrome knobs and green-glowing dials and digital displays looked incongruous against the bedroom’s old-English paneling. “There’re three microphones, in John’s room. There’s a speaker, too. I can hear a pin drop, in that room. Or so I thought.”

“Did you hear anything tonight?”

“I’m not really sure,” he answered. “Something woke me up, certainly. I was awake, in any case, before I heard the shots. So I assume I heard something. But, unfortunately, I’m rather a heavy sleeper.”

“Do you have electronic security? A burglar alarm system?”

“Of course.”

“Is it wired to this panel?”

“This panel and others. There’re several panels throughout the house. And, in addition, the burglar alarm activates a loud bell, naturally.”

“Did the alarm sound tonight?”

“No,” he answered. “At least, not that I heard.”

“Did you set the alarm system before you went to bed?”

“I never set it. Fred—my driver—sets it when he’s here. And Quade sets it, too, when he’s here.”

“So you aren’t sure whether the alarm was set tonight.”

He waved an impatient, long-suffering hand. “No, I’m not sure, Lieutenant. And, obviously, Quade can’t tell us, can he?”

I wrote ‘Alarm Set?’ in my notebook, then asked him to continue.

“As soon as I got John settled,” he said, “I turned out the lights, and locked up, and came up here, to my bedroom. I got into bed, and read until about 11:30, I’d say, at which time I turned out the lights. The next thing I knew, I was awake. And I remember feeling a sense of foreboding, that something was wrong. Probably I’d heard something from John’s room—voices, perhaps. But it certainly wasn’t anything specific. I remember looking at the clock. The time was just a little after one o’clock—five minutes after, perhaps. I sat up in bed, and listened. I thought I heard something—some very faint sound, from downstairs, or possibly from the garage. So I got out of bed, and went to the window—” He gestured to the huge plate glass window, with its spectacular view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Slow-moving auto headlights traversed the bridge: animated jewels, inching through the darkness.

“From there,” he said, “you can see the garage, and most of the driveway.” He paused, looking at me expectantly. As a lawyer, he knew what I should do now. So I got to my feet and went to the window. Standing close to the glass and looking down at the sharpest possible angle, I could see most of the large garage, with its three overhead doors and its single small access door. I could only see about half of the driveway, front to back; the other half, closest to the house, was cut off by the ledge of the bedroom window. I could see almost all of the concrete apron that connected the driveway to the garage. As I returned to my chair, Guest continued.

“I stood there for perhaps a minute. I didn’t see anything, or hear anything. So I went back to my bed. I’d just gotten under the covers, and was settling myself, when—” He sharply shook his head, as if the memory of what happened next caused him physical pain. “When I heard shots. I—I guess I was frozen for a few seconds. Then I heard voices from outside, on the driveway. So I went to the window, just in time to catch a glimpse of Kramer—and John. He had John by the hand, and he was pulling him, half running, toward the sidewalk, in front of the house.”

“Would you mind showing me exactly where you stood, and where Kramer stood on the driveway, when you first saw him?”

“Certainly not.” He rose to his feet, and walked to the window. His movements were vigorous and decisive, as if he’d regained his earlier vigor. “I stood here, and the two of them were there—” He pointed down to the driveway—“just about even with the rear of that white station wagon, there.”

“Was there enough light for you to recognize Kramer? The area’s brightly lit now. What about earlier, when you saw him?”

“There was less light than there is now, obviously. But it was enough. There’s always an outside light burning, plus the streetlamp, just at the end of the driveway. Besides—obviously—both of them were known to me.” Impatiently, he shook his head. “No, there’s no question. None at all.”

As we returned to our chairs I asked, “What happened then?”

“They disappeared from my view,” he answered. “Then, just a few seconds later, I heard a car start, out on the street. Obviously it was Kramer, escaping with John.”

“What happened next?”

“I got my gun, and I went downstairs.”

“What kind of a gun do you have, Mr. Guest?”

“It’s a .357 Magnum.”

“May I see it?”

“Certainly.” He pushed himself back from the table, opened a drawer and took out a revolver. He handled it carefully and confidently, as if he’d had experience with firearms. I swung out the cylinder and saw five unfired cartridges in the chambers. The hammer had been resting on an empty chamber, standard procedure in law enforcement and the military. I sniffed the barrel, swung the cylinder back into place and handed the gun to Guest. He replaced it in the drawer without comment.

“You got your gun,” I prompted.

“Yes. Then I went downstairs—very apprehensively, I don’t mind telling you. And I found Quade lying in the hallway.”

“Describe how you found him—what you saw.”

“Well, he was lying in the back hallway, the one that leads from the two bedrooms to the garage.” Guest looked at me. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?”

“I’d like to hear your description.”

A small smile touched the corners of his mouth. It was a humorless smile, a knowing smile. “The policeman at work,” he said.

I didn’t reply, didn’t return his smile.

Still amused, his manner became patronizingly supercilious as he said, “I must say, I didn’t expect to be questioned as if I were a suspect. Not in my own bedroom.”

I’d often been forced to endure the hostility of important, affluent citizens who resented being interrogated. I’d discovered that silence and a steady, noncommittal stare were the only responses that worked. As his sardonic smile faded, we sat silently, our eyes locked. Then, speaking with icy calm, he said, “I found him facedown. It was obvious that he was dead. His gun—a Colt .45 automatic—was lying about four feet from his right hand.”

“Did you touch him?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know he was dead?”

“I didn’t know for certain, not then. However, I was in the Marine Corps during the Second World War. I was a platoon leader on Okinawa and Saipan. I know a dead man when I see one. I know how they look, and I know how they smell. And I know a Colt .45 when I see one, too. That’s the sidearm I carried, in the Marines. I could still field strip one. Blindfolded.” With his cold gray eyes still boring hard into mine, he let a moment of uncompromising silence pass. Then, still icy-calm, he said, “I didn’t linger over the body for long. Not initially. I’d noticed that both the door to the garage and the driveway were ajar, and I wanted to reconnoiter. I looked outside—cautiously. I didn’t see anyone. So I went back into the kitchen, and called you—the police. And you know the rest.” He let a subtly sarcastic beat pass, then added, “Hopefully.”

Ignoring the barb, I asked, “Were the lights on in the hallway when you first arrived on the scene?”

He shook his head. “No. There were no lights on anywhere. But there was enough light coming from the hallway window to let me see Quade on the floor—enough light for me to recognize him, and to be pretty certain he was dead.”

“Did you turn the lights on?”

“Not immediately. First I reconnoitered, as I said. When I was satisfied Kramer was gone—really gone—I turned on the light and examined Quade. Then I went to the phone.”

“Did you leave the hallway light on?”

“I’m not sure. After all, I was rattled, to say the least. But I imagine I left it on.”

I nodded, glancing over my notes. “If you’d care to do it, Mr. Guest, I’d be interested in hearing your theory.”

“My theory?”

“What do you think happened? Why? In what sequence?”

“Well—” He shrugged. “I think it’s pretty obvious, what happened. Kramer was probably staking out the house, as you people say. He was probably parked on the street, watching. About one o’clock, he decided to make his move. He came down the driveway to the garage, and entered the garage through the service door. From the garage, he went through another door to the rear hallway of the house. He went into John’s room and got the boy up and dressed. That’s the point at which I woke up—probably when the intercom picked up their voices. They went out into the hallway and turned right, past Quade’s door. At that point, Quade probably awakened. Shots were fired, and Quade went down. Kramer and John escaped through the side door that leads to the driveway. That’s when I saw them. They got into a car, and drove away, probably to the airport.”

“You’ve said several times that you think they drove directly to the airport. Why? A man and a boy in an airport at 2
A.M.
would be pretty conspicuous, it seems to me.”

“True. As a murder suspect, Kramer would be conspicuous, traveling with a child in the wee hours. But he hadn’t intended to commit murder. He’d only intended to steal John, there’s no doubt about that. And, as you well know, the police don’t go after a father stealing his own son. It just doesn’t happen, at least, not without a court order. So Kramer wouldn’t have worried about being conspicuous. Not until it was too late. Concealment wouldn’t have been part of his original plan. And, obviously, he wouldn’t have been able to make contingency plans while he was escaping. He’d simply have run—blindly. He’d either drive to an airport, it seems to me, or he’d drive out of town. We can’t cover the roads. It’s too late for that. But we
can
cover the airports.”

I nodded, conceding the point. Then: “You say you have a burglar alarm, which Quade was supposed to have set. Why didn’t you check to see whether it was set before you went to bed?”

“I don’t know. I just didn’t do it. And, frankly, if I had checked, I might not’ve known whether it was set or not, I’m afraid. I’m one of those men who don’t get along with machines—or electronics. All those circuits, and lights, and switches—” He shook his head. “They’re too much for me.”

“Assuming that the alarm was set, how could Kramer have gotten in without tripping the alarm?”

“I’m afraid,” he said ruefully, “that it was probably very simple. My two servants are notorious for locking themselves out of the house. It used to be a source of constant irritation. The solution was to stash two keys, one for the door leading into the garage from the driveway, the other leading from the garage to the house. If Kramer knew of those two keys, he’d have had no problem.”

“Do you think he did know about them?”

“I don’t know. But Marie knew about them, and so did John. Kramer could conceivably have found out from either of them.”

“I’d think, if you were worried about John being stolen, that you’d have moved those two keys.”

He shrugged. “Obviously, now, I wish I had. However, I’ve always made it a rule not to dwell on what might have been. It’s a waste of time and energy.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I looked at my notes again. “You say that Kramer and John appeared on the driveway just after the shots were fired.”

“That’s correct.”

“How long after?”

He shrugged, irritated. It was obvious that Guest didn’t like to be pinned down, questioned too closely. “I’m not sure. Twenty, thirty seconds, perhaps. No more.”

“The timing would have squared with the time frame you’re suggesting, in other words.”

He frowned. “Time frame?”

“The shots were fired, and Kramer appeared at such a time that made it logical to assume he’d fired the shots.”

He nodded decisively. “Absolutely. No question.”

“How many shots were fired?”

“There were four shots.”

“Are you sure? Were you awake enough to be sure?”

“Lieutenant, I’ve already told you—” Exasperated, he shook his head, once more the arrogant, supercilious celebrity, forced to waste his valuable time answering a civil servant’s plodding questions. “I was awake—fully awake—when the shots were fired. And there were four shots.
Four
.”

“Did they come all together?”

“No. There was one shot. Then maybe two seconds elapsed. Then the other three shots followed. And then—”

His telephone rang. He lifted the receiver, listened for a moment, then passed the phone to me. “It’s the police dispatcher,” he said.

“Lieutenant Hastings.”

“Yessir. This is Cassiday.”

“Hello, Cassiday. What is it?”

“On the A.P.B. you authorized on Gordon Kramer, a white male, age thirty-six, believed to be traveling with John Kramer, male, six years old.”

“Have they been picked up?”

“Yessir. They’re in custody over in Oakland. They were picked up at the airport, there, about twenty minutes ago.”

“Y
OU LOOK TERRIBLE,” FRIEDMAN
said.

“I had about three hours sleep last night. At the most.”

He slipped the cellophane wrapper from his morning cigar, made a tight ball between his thumb and forefinger and sailed the ball into my wastebasket. Even though his fingers were thick and stubby, Friedman used his hands with remarkable delicacy.

“Give me the rundown on Charlie Quade, will you?” Friedman asked. “Canelli was going to oblige me, but I didn’t feel strong enough to sit through it. I didn’t get much sleep either, last night.”