Hire a Hangman by Collin Wilcox

reaction, Hastings said, “I’ve just been talking to Jason Pfiefer.”
    The line between the eyebrows deepened; puzzlement clouded Vance’s eyes. Was it genuine?
    “Jason Pfiefer is Carla Pfiefer’s husband. He’s a doctor at BMC. Carla Pfiefer was Hanchett’s girlfriend. His lover. He was leaving her place last night when he was killed.”
    Vance frowned, changing his pose to face Hastings fully. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
    “I already told you—I’m investigating Hanchett’s death.”
    “So?”
    “So—” Hastings decided on a flat statement of fact. “So Pfiefer is Carla’s husband—and you’re Barbara Hanchett’s lover. It’s two triangles, you might say.”
    “But—” In mute protest, Vance began shaking his head. “But you sound like you’re saying that I—that Barbara—”
    Still speaking quietly, matter-of-factly, Hastings explained, “It’s a question of motive, Mr. Vance. We’ve pretty much ruled out a street killing—a robbery that went wrong, for instance. We think the murder was planned—that someone wanted Hanchett dead. So that means there’s a motive. Premeditation, in other words. And generally, when we’re looking for a motive, we think of things like jealousy. The unwritten law, in other words.”
    “If it’s the unwritten law, then you should be talking to Jason Pfiefer.”
    “I told you, I’ve already talked to him.”
    “Ah.” Vance nodded mockingly. “So now it’s my turn.”
    Hastings decided to smile.
    “So what’s my motive, exactly?” Now Vance seemed to be enjoying their little game.
    “You and the victim’s wife could have the same motive. It’s another classic one, after all—right behind the unwritten law.” Hastings watched him for a moment. “The wife and her lover get rid of her husband so they can live happily ever after—especially if there’s a lot of insurance money. And in this case, there’d be an added plus for Barbara. She’d make her husband pay for his philandering.”
    Suddenly Vance laughed—a harsh, hostile laugh. “Jesus. You’re not serious, are you?”
    Hastings’s answering smile was polite. “Oh, I’m very serious, Mr. Vance. How about you? Are you serious? About Barbara Hanchett, I mean. About your relationship.”
    “That,” Vance said, “is none of your business, Lieutenant. None.”
    “Well, then …” As if the interrogation were almost ended, Hastings shifted forward in his chair. “Why don’t we get down to cases? Why don’t I ask you where you were last night between nine o’clock and eleven?”
    Vance’s smile turned to smugness. “Last night was Monday, Lieutenant. That was my racquetball night. There was a problem with the water pipes last night—a broken pipe, I guess. We didn’t get on the court until ten o’clock. By the time I’d showered and had a drink, it was midnight.”
    11:15 PM
    “Let’s go to bed,” Ann said. “You look tired.”
    Hastings smiled, pressed the TV wand’s Off button. “I was thinking you looked tired.”
    Her answering smile was wan. Now she sighed. It was a heavily burdened sigh. Something was bothering her.
    Facing a dark TV screen, they were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. He moved closer, touched her knee, let his hand linger on her thigh. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a much-worn, much-loved fisherman’s sweater. Why, Hastings wondered, did the flesh beneath faded jeans arouse him more than the same firm flesh of the thigh encased in nylon?
    “So what’s wrong?” he asked.
    The wan smile twisted bitterly. Hastings knew that smile. Victor Haywood, Ann’s ex-husband, had called. Haywood was a society psychiatrist with a passion for Porsches and a penchant for picking at the wounds their divorce had inflicted on Ann.
    “It’s Victor,” he said. “Isn’t it?”
    “Isn’t it always?” Dispiritedly, she shook her head. “God, does it show that much?”
    “To me,” he said, “it shows.” He moved