A three-column headline at the top of the page read: PRIVATE DETECTIVE ACCUSED IN BIZARRE HORNBACK MURDER.
The news story underneath said that Mrs. Edna Hornback, wife of the deceased, believed I was to blame for her husband’s death. She hadn’t come right out and told the reporter that she thought I had actually committed the murder, but the inference was there. The inference was also there that I was suppressing knowledge of the whereabouts of the more than one hundred thousand dollars allegedly stolen by Hornback from their interior design firm. Mrs. Hornback and her attorney, Ralph Jordan, were preparing a criminal-negligence suit against me, and she was quoted as saying, “I’m convinced a court trial will prove this man to be a menace to the people of San Francisco.”
The rest of the story rehashed my account of Hornback’s mysterious disappearance from Twin Peaks and the eventual discovery of his body in Golden Gate Park, and included a statement from Inspector Klein, who was in charge of the police investigation, to the effect that absolutely no evidence had been found linking me to the crime and that I was not under suspicion. There was also a summary of my involvement in what the reporter called “several sensationalistic homicide cases” in the past. The final paragraph allowed as how my record as a police officer and a private detective appeared to be exemplary, and that I had never before been accused of wrongdoing, but nobody was going to pay much attention to that. The damage had been done; I would look guilty as hell in too many cynical eyes.
I stormed back to the office, wadded up the paper, and hurled it at the wastebasket. Then, seething, I call Kayabalian back. “All right,” I said. “I read the goddamn story.”
“Take it easy,” he said. “It’s not quite as bad as it might seem.”
“Isn’t it? That crazy bitch might have put me ‹‹
out of business. Who’s going to put their trust in me after a thing like this?”
“You’re not guilty of anything illegal or unethical. We’ll prove that. And we’ll get a public retraction.”
“By then it’ll be too late.”
“No, it won’t. I’ve already begun preparing a countersuit for harassment and slander. I’ll file it as soon as she and Jordan file theirs.”
I said, “Why the hell did she go to the newspapers with this? I thought she wanted to give me an opportunity to prove my innocence to her.”
“She changed her mind. Or her attorney changed it for her. I called Jordan as soon as I read the story; he said Mrs. Hornback tried to reach you several times yesterday, and when she couldn’t she called the police. They told her you’d gone out of town on another case, so she decided you weren’t interested in following her terms. That’s when she went public with her accusations.”
She must have talked to Klein, I thought; I’d told him, when I rang up the Hall before leaving yesterday morning, that I was going away to serve a subpoena for a client. Damn him. Damn her. I sat there with a stranglehold on the receiver and wished it was Mrs. Hornback’s neck instead.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked. “Just sit back and wait and let her drag my name through the mud whenever she feels like it?”
“There’s not much else you can do,” Kayabalian said. “I warned Jordan he and his client were skating on thin ice; I think he knows that, and I think he’ll keep her under wraps.”
“What about the newspapers? I’ve got two calls from reporters on my answering machine already.”
“Don’t duck them. Prepare a statement denying Mrs. Hornback’s charges and mentioning the countersuit. Stand on your record.”
“Yeah,” I said. “All right.”
“And don’t bad-mouth her or call her insane when you talk to the press. That wouldn’t help your position any.”
“All right.”
“And whatever you do, don’t contact her. From now on, under any circumstances, avoid her like the plague.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, she is the plague.”
As soon as we rang off I called the Hall of Justice and asked for Eberhardt. But he was out somewhere on a case and wasn’t expected back until late afternoon. I left a message for him that I would be in my office until five o’clock. Klein was off duty, but I got through to another inspector I knew; he said, predictably, that nothing new had turned up in the Hornback investigation.
My next call was to Bates and Carpenter. Kerry wasn’t in, either. Still out to lunch, her secretary said. I restrained an impluse to ask if it was another business lunch with Jim Carpenter; in stead I left the same message for her that I had left for Eberhardt.
Calling the Chronicle and Examiner reporters was something I did not want to do, not yet; I would need to prepare a statement first. So I dialed Adam Brister’s number. He was at his desk, and he listened attentively while I told him what had happened at Xanadu. After which he expressed the proper shock and dismay, but without any real sense of caring; the important thing to him was that the papers had been served on Lauren Speers and he stood to make a bundle out of her alleged negligence. He did express a professional curiosity in my own pending negligence suit- like everyone else in the city, no doubt, he had read the Chronicle story that morning-but it faded when I told him I already had legal representation. If he couldn’t make a buck out of a given situation, he had no more than a superficial interest in it. Lawyers. He and Ralph Jordan would have made a good team.
I put a sheet of paper into my portable and began to type out my statement to the press. I was three sentences into it when the phone ran. George Hickox. And the first thing he said was, “Mr. Mollenhauer and I read about your … difficulties in the paper this morning.”
Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. The first backlash-the first alienated client.
I said, “Those charges are patently false, Mr.
Hickox. I’ve never done anything illegal or unethical.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “Mr. Mollenhauer, however, expressed some misgivings. Not about your honesty, — about the negative publicity.”
I’ll bet, I thought. “I see. And I suppose he’s changed his mind about wanting me to guard his daughter’s wedding gifts on Saturday.”
“He did indicate that it might be prudent if another detective took your place, yes.”
“All right. If that’s the way he feels-”
“Nevertheless,” Hickox said, “the job is still yours. I took it upon myself to speak up in your behalf.”
“You did? Why?”
“You struck me as honest, reliable, and competent,” he said. “And I’ve always thought it unfair for a man to be judged in the newspapers.”
Hickox was the last person I would have expected to champion the cause of someone like me. Or, for that matter, to worry about whether or not a person was being judged in the newspapers. Maybe I had misjudged him; maybe underneath that stiff-necked exterior he was a decent sort after all.
I said, “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mr. Hickox.”
“Yes. Well, I also explained to Mr. Mollenhauer that it was a bit late to make arrangements with another detective. And that he and I and a few others in the immediate family were the only ones who would know you were on the premises; it’s hardly likely that you’ll run into any of the other guests.” ‘
I smiled a little, cynically. Now that was more in keeping with my original conception of the man. So much for Hickox as a sweet guy overflowing with the milk of human kindness. He was what he was. Hell, weren’t we all?
“You and Mr. Mollenhauer won’t regret your decision,” I said. “I’ll be there at two o’clock on Saturday, as promised-”
“One o’clock,” he said.
“Pardon? I thought you told me it was two.”