Hire a Hangman by Collin Wilcox Page A

his brand-new Celica.” Friedman’s smile broadened. “Can you imagine the insurance adjuster’s expression?”
    “Was the father inside the car?” Canelli asked.
    “No.”
    As though relieved, Canelli settled back in Hastings’s visitor’s chair. Then, dolefully, Canelli began to shake his head. “Jeez, just think of it. That poor woman. Teresa Bell, I mean, with her kid dead. And now she’ll be locked up, maybe. Sometimes—” Canelli sighed. “Sometimes there’s no justice. None.”
    As Canelli said it, Friedman’s smile faded. For a moment his face remained expressionless. Then, speaking quietly, looking down at his thick hands judiciously folded in his lap, Friedman said, “In this business, Canelli, justice is just a word. Haven’t you figured that one out by now?”
    As always uncertain how he should respond to yet another of Friedman’s homilies, Canelli first shrugged, then shook his head. Finally he ventured an uncertain nod, followed by another shrug. Watching the two of them play their ritual parts in this long-running departmental skit, Hastings was once again struck by the similarities between the two men. Both weighed at least two hundred forty. Both men were swarthy. Their faces were smooth, their lips full, their eyes dark, their hair thick. Canelli’s hair was dark; Friedman’s hair was graying.
    But their personalities differed dramatically. Lieutenant Peter Friedman, senior co-commander of Homicide, seldom revealed his feelings, never allowed himself to be put on the defensive. Hastings had never seen Friedman surprised or disconcerted or visibly frightened. First and last, Friedman kept them guessing.
    “I thought,” Canelli said, “that the witnesses both said it was a man.”
    “They said the assailant wore a cap, or a hat,” Hastings said. “And slacks. Given a combination like that, if the light’s bad, most witnesses will say they saw a man commit a crime, not a woman. They seem to be conditioned to think that—”
    Millie Greenberg, Homicide’s long-suffering receptionist, secretary, stenographer, and amiable object of lust, appeared framed in the aluminum-and-glass rectangle of Hastings’s office door. When Hastings beckoned, Millie entered, deposited a sheaf of papers on the desk, and spoke to Friedman.
    “Lab reports and the coroner’s prelims on the Hanchett homicide.” She smiled at the two lieutenants. “Can I leave? My kid’s nursery school phoned. Donnie’s got the shits, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
    Saying something sympathetic, both lieutenants nodded in unison.
    “Thanks,” she said. “See you tomorrow.” She flipped her right hand, used her left hand to pat Canelli on top of the head, and left the office. After duly studying the admirable action of Millie’s buttocks and thighs, Friedman picked up the papers, slipped on a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses, and began reading the reports while Canelli asked Hastings whether Millie’s divorce was final.
    “I’m not sure,” Hastings answered. “Why? What about you and Gracie? What’s it been now—eleven years—that you’re engaged?”
    “More like twelve,” Canelli admitted sheepishly.
    Knowing that Friedman could listen to their conversation while he read the reports, Hastings said, “So what about Hanchett’s stepdaughter, Paula Gregg? Did you talk to her?” As he asked the question, Hastings experienced a momentary pang of guilt. She’s wild, Fiona Hanchett had said. She’s wild, and she’s dangerous. Meaning that he should have told Friedman, should have cautioned Friedman not to send Canelli alone to interrogate Paula Gregg. But Friedman had been harassed, working the telephones.
    “Boy—” Canelli nodded enthusiastically. “Did I ever talk to her.” Wonderingly, he shook his head. “I’ll tell you, Lieutenant, too bad you weren’t there. I mean, talk about a looker.” Once more, Canelli shook his head. “I’ll tell you, she’s something else. She’s one