Kill Fee, page 14
"I know," Murtaugh said quietly. "But she paid Pluto —I'm sure of it. You confronted her with the evidence that she'd had to raise a hundred thousand dollars in a hurry, didn't you? What did she say then?"
"Same as she said to everything else—nothing. She didn't say 'None of your business' or 'Bug off' or anything. She just keeps her mouth closed and her gaze fixed on the wall behind us. She ignores us, Lieutenant. Carolyn Randolph isn't going to tell us a thing."
"Hell. She's the one I wanted the most."
"How about trying for a search warrant? For her home and her office—we might have probable cause. If we could find the bill Pluto sent her—"
Murtaugh cut him off. "Nothing doing there—I already asked. Besides, anybody cool enough to outwait a police interrogation isn't going to leave incriminating evidence lying around where we could find it. Damn. I especially wanted Carolyn Randolph to talk."
Eberhart thought he knew why; there was some hidden connection among Carolyn Randolph and the late William Parminter and Sutton Construction Company and Captain Ansbacher. Not for the first time Eberhart wished Murtaugh would take him into his confidence; he wanted to know exactly what the Lieutenant had on Ansbacher so far. But Murtaugh was keeping him out of it; to protect him, no doubt. Right now, though, the problem was the speak-no-evil Carolyn Randolph. "So what do we do with her?"
"Let her go." Murtaugh sighed. "If the charges against Leon Walsh are dropped, maybe she'll talk to us then."
"I don't think so." Eberhart stood up to go. "She's not like Walsh and Roscoe Malucci, Lieutenant. She knows we got nothing on her without her cooperation."
Murtaugh nodded, waved him out. So forget about the Randolph woman; she wasn't going to help. Better to concentrate on one of the other possibles, somebody like the opera singer, what was his name—Bàccolo, Luigi Bàccolo, that was it.
Although he wasn't any too clear on what he hoped any of them could tell him, Pluto's . . . what? Customers, clients? Murtaugh thought the Walsh arrangement was probably typical, and Pluto never came face to face with the people he billed for one hundred thousand each. Roscoe Malucci was the exception to the procedure, the dumb bunny who'd failed to understand what very real danger he was in. Even then Pluto hadn't shown his face.
The answering service Pluto had been using sent a monthly statement to Nicholas Ramsay at the Knickerbocker Mail Address Service on Fifth Avenue. Both services said that Ramsay had been a customer for only four months. That meant Pluto periodically changed his name, his mailing address, and his telephone number. A careful man.
Pluto. A red-hot devil? No. Not by any stretch of the imagination. This had to be the most cold-blooded son of a bitch ever to walk the streets of Manhattan. The man must be totally without conscience. What other kind of person could impartially survey a conflict between two human beings he didn't even know, dispassionately pick one of them to champion, and then coolly destroy the other one's life? Pluto had had no compunction about shooting down Roscoe Malucci's grandmother, an elderly woman with no defenses, with no idea even that she was in danger. Poor old woman. What chance do the Mrs. Maluccis have against a Pluto?
That was the thing about Pluto that Murtaugh hated the most: Pluto sucker-punched his victims. They had no warning, not even a hint of what was coming. People living together in society had to trust one another to an extent; they had no choice. You had to trust the short-order cook not to sprinkle arsenic on your hamburger because he was mad at the world and wanted to hit back; you had to trust your life to the drivers of the world, taxi drivers and bus drivers and pilots, all of them strangers; you had to trust that the man sitting so close to you in a theater that your elbows touched wouldn't suddenly slip a knife between your ribs. It was a trust that was a little harder come by every year, and someone like Nicholas Pluto Ramsay could wipe out what little was left without half trying. One Pluto equaled several thousand cases of paranoia. He had to be stopped, and he had to be stopped soon.
"Murtaugh!" The word was a shout; Murtaugh looked up to see Captain Ansbacher looming over him. "What do you think you're doing? What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Murtaugh stood up uneasily. "What do you mean, Captain?"
"What do you mean, Captain?" Ansbacher mimicked viciously. "You're not going to try the wide-eyed innocent shtick, are you? Aren't you a little old for that?"
Murtaugh counted to five. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me, Murtaugh. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Who told you to bring Carolyn Randolph in for questioning?"
"Who . . . ? Nobody told me, Captain. I think she paid Pluto for killing William Parminter—after the fact, of course."
"You think. No, Murtaugh, you don't think—that's your trouble. You don't think, and you don't listen. I told you to keep your hands off the Parminter case."
"It's the same killer, both Parminter and Jerry Sussman were killed by the same—"
"There, that's a perfect example of what I'm talking about," Ansbacher interrupted smoothly. "You just don't listen. When was the last time you had your hearing checked, Murtaugh? Maybe you have a physical disability."
Murtaugh fought down the urge to punch this vicious bulldog in the snout, said nothing.
"I pulled you off the Parminter case so you could concentrate on nailing the Sussman killer. Then the minute I'm not looking you're back sticking your nose in the Parminter investigation, meddling in somebody else's case."
"I'm not interfering with the investigation—"
"You hauled Carolyn Randolph in, didn't you? What do you call that? I call it interference."
"Captain—"
"And you didn't report to me what you were doing. There's only one way I can read that, Murtaugh—you were going behind my back. You disobeyed my orders."
"Now just a minute, Captain," Murtaugh said angrily. "This has gone far enough. I was ordered to investigate the murder of Jerry Sussman and that's what I'm doing. I turned up a killer-for-hire named Pluto—is that supposed to be the end of it? We don't have Pluto in custody, we don't even know his real identity. Do I just drop the whole thing because he may be the man other investigators are looking for in other cases? What do you expect me to do?"
"I expect you to obey my orders."
"Do you mean I'm just to stop my investigation or—"
"I mean what I say," Ansbacher said, deliberately vague. "If you can't follow directions—Murtaugh, listen up because this is the last time I'm telling you. You are not to interfere in the Parminter case. You are not to question anyone associated with that case. You're not to bother Carolyn Randolph again."
"How can I follow up on the Sussman case if—"
"You're supposed to be the bright boy around here, you figure it out. But take this as an official warning, Murtaugh. If I find you anywhere near any case other than the Sussman murder, I'm going to have you suspended. Now I can't make it any plainer than that. Do you understand?''
"Yes," Murtaugh said shortly.
Captain Ansbacher lumbered out without another word.
Murtaugh sank back down into his chair, his skin hot and a tight knot in his stomach. He had never, never before in his life been tempted to strike a fellow policeman. But he had come so close—god, if he'd let Ansbacher have it, that would have been the end of his career. Murtaugh wondered if the man had been deliberately baiting him, trying to provoke him into striking out.
He wasted nearly half an hour just cooling down to the point where he could think rationally again. Murtaugh wondered if Pluto had any idea of the extent of the trouble he was causing. He'd probably be pleased if he did know—that one had to have a gargantuan ego to do what he did. But maybe that could work to the police's advantage. Pluto had been supercareful so far, and there was no reason to assume he'd abandon his usual caution now. But he was not omniscient, and that ego might lead him to expose himself in a way he hadn't anticipated. Besides, Murtaugh still had a trick or two up his sleeve.
They now had a greatly improved version of the Identikit picture of Pluto. The people who had come face to face with Nicholas Ramsay were few and far between, but Murtaugh had found one of them. Nobody at the answering service Pluto used remembered talking to him in person, but a young Englishman working at the Knickerbocker Mail Address Service remembered him quite well. "I can always spot an American trying to pass as British," he'd said with a smirk. With the Englishman's suggestions, they'd been able to fill in the original outline so that now it looked more like a real face.
Murtaugh had ''forgotten'' to forward a copy of this new sketch to Captain Ansbacher; he didn't want it splashed all over the newspapers. The city's patrolmen had copies; ordinary citizens almost never fingered suspects for them solely on the basis of sketches in the newspaper. Murtaugh thought it was a bad mistake, letting Pluto in on what they knew.
Behind my back, Ansbacher had said. He wouldn't like it when he found out.
Pluto—so what answering service and mail drop was Pluto using now? Which ones had he used before he went to Backtalk Telephone Answering Service and Knickerbocker Mail Address Service as Nicholas Ramsay? With the new sketch, there was a good chance of getting a fresh line on their killer. Still a lot of leg work to be done. Murtaugh had been planning to ask Ansbacher once again for more men, but there was no point in that now. It was all up to him, to him and Sergeant Eberhart.
Murtaugh stood up resignedly. Better get on with it.
Leila Hudson was the first one out of the courtroom. She was uncomfortable in there, as if she were the one on trial, the target of all those staring eyes. She leaned against the wall of the hallway and wanted something—a cigarette, a drink, something. She'd come down to the Criminal Courts Building on Centre Street for Leon's hearing and was only now realizing the extent of her emotional investment in the outcome.
The charges against Leon Walsh had been dismissed. The prosecutors hadn't exactly strained themselves prosecuting, Leila noticed; they probably had too many real criminals to worry about without wanting to go after half-and-half types like Leon. When the defense attorney introduced the matter of Roscoe Malucci and how his hand had been shot off when he failed to pay the killer, the Assistant District Attorney hadn't made so much as a token objection. Defense and prosecution alike seemed convinced the same man was responsible in both cases. Dave Eberhart had told her the hearing was a test case; the D.A. and the police simply wanted a ruling to establish precedent. With precedent, they'd have a legal guideline for dealing with the other people who'd paid Pluto off. What other people? she'd asked. Dozens of them, Dave had said.
What a monstrous thing. So Leon had been only one of a series of people whom Pluto had "helped out"—to the killer's way of thinking. Poor Leon; how frightened he must have been. Getting caught in a situation like that would strain the resources of anyone. It must have been Roscoe Malucci's missing hand that convinced the judge; that gruesome bit of evidence ruled out the possibility that Leon was exaggerating the potential danger to himself. Yes, Leila thought, that must have been the clincher. The man sitting next to her thought so too, some Englishman with the beginnings of a mustache. The judge had decided Leon Walsh was more sinned against than sinning—he'd actually said that. But whatever had convinced him, Leon was now free.
And Leila was free of Leon. She'd felt the need to see this last bit of trouble through, more out of self-respect than anything else. What kind of person would turn her back on a man she was once married to, at a time his whole life was in danger of collapsing? But the danger had passed, and Leila felt her final responsibility to Leon Walsh was discharged. Leon was truly on his own now. He had no criminal charges hanging over his head and he had no Jerry Sussman interfering with his work. Leon should do all right now. He was deeply in debt—but then who wasn't these days? Leon would have to get out of that hole by himself.
When she'd first arrived at the courthouse, Leila had hoped to slip unobtrusively into the back row and then out again at the end of the session. But the courtroom was much smaller than she'd expected, and Leon had spotted her right off. He'd probably looked for her to rush down front and congratulate him at the conclusion of the hearing, but Leila shrank from that kind of public display. Besides, it was Leon's victory; let him enjoy it.
"Leila." He stood close to her; she hadn't seen him approach.
"Congratulations, Leon," she smiled at him. "I'm happy for you."
"Thank you. And thanks for coming."
Like a funeral, she thought.
Leon himself was strangely calm. "It hasn't really hit me yet," he explained, half-apologetically. "So many things have happened lately—it's all left me kind of numb."
Leila nodded. "But at least your story has a happy ending, Leon. It all worked out right. The police—or I guess I mean the prosecution—somebody could have made it rough for you. But nobody did." She was thinking of "The Man from Porlock"; Lieutenant Murtaugh had testified that the story was what had tipped him off to Pluto's free-lance murders. But no mention was made of the fact that the ostensible author was someone named Kellerman; Murtaugh had simply identified Leon Walsh as the author, to no objection from the defense. Leon's reputation as an editor of integrity had been sort of protected. "They could have shot you down, Leon," Leila said, "but they didn't."
He looked puzzled. "Shot me down?"
She lowered her voice. "I mean the Kellerman business."
"Kellerman?"
He really could be obtuse at times. "I'm talking about the story."
"The story?"
"Leon, do you suffer from echopraxia?"
"Echo—"
"Stop repeating everything I say." She took a deep breath. "Forget it. Just forget I said anything."
"No, I want to know. What about Kellerman?"
All right, if that's the way you want it. "I just meant they could have made a big thing out of your publishing your own fiction under a pen name."
"Is that what you think?" His eyebrows climbed upward. "That I wrote 'The Man from Porlock'? You're wrong, you know. I told Kellerman what had happened to me and he wrote it up."
Oh, Leon! She looked at him sadly, saying nothing. Even his close brush with imprisonment had taught him nothing. Still the transparent liar, still thinking he could fool people.
"Leila, let's not quarrel," he said abruptly. "Let's go somewhere and have a drink. I want to celebrate! Come help me celebrate."
She shook her head. "I'm waiting for someone."
"Oh." A possibility that clearly hadn't occurred to him. "Well. Ah. When will I see you then?"
How easily he assumed they would be seeing each other. "Let's not make any plans," she said.
"I see." An uncomfortable silence grew between them. "If it's your money you're worried about, I'll be making another payment next week," he said sharply.
"Oh, Leon, I'm not worried about the money!"
Just then Dave Eberhart came up to them; he had been a witness in the hearing. "Congratulations," he said to Walsh. "I'm glad the charges were dropped."
"Thank you, uh, Sergeant," Walsh said, obviously not remembering Eberhart's name. "I have to say that sounds a mite peculiar coming from you." Since you're the one who arrested me, he meant.
"Yeah, I know," Eberhart grinned. "But it's such a freaky situation we had to get a court ruling on it. Especially since you didn't call in the police yourself."
"But why me? Why not the Malucci kid?"
"We didn't know about him yet. You were the first."
Walsh started to say something sarcastic but changed his mind. Why bother.
"I'll say this," Sergeant Eberhart went on. "You sure got the cleanest hearing I've seen in a long time. Not muddied up by a lot of extraneous stuff, I mean. You go into any normal trial courtroom and you find the prosecutors and the defense attorneys all doing exactly the same thing. They just snow the judge and the jury with as much picayune detail as they think they can get away with—a real trial is not the clear-cut, one-thing-at-a-time kind of argument you see on television. And if one side says a thing is true and the other side says no, it's not—then more often than not it's just dropped and the issue is never resolved. There are dozens of loose ends like that in every trial. Of course, this was only a preliminary hearing and there wasn't any jury—but it was still the cleanest inquiry I've ever sat through."
"How very interesting," Walsh said dryly.
Eberhart turned to Leila. "The car's five blocks from here. You wait down front while I go get it, okay?"
"Sure," she said. Eberhart waved casually to both of them and left.
Walsh was staring bug-eyed after Eberhart. "That's the one you were waiting for? That cop?"
"He's a very nice cop."
"But he's younger than you are!"
Leila's mouth twisted into a cynical smile. "Shocking, isn't it? We all know it's the woman who's supposed to be younger. Younger, smaller. Less."
"Oh Leila, for crying out loud, act your age. You know better than to—"
"Butt out, Leon." She spoke so harshly that a passerby turned to look. Leila shook her head in dismay; this wasn't how she'd meant it to be. "Leon, I don't want to fight with you. Can't we just say good-bye without making a big thing of it? All I want is for us to—"
But she didn't get to finish saying what she wanted them to do, because Leon Walsh had turned his back on her and walked away.
CHAPTER
12
They were parked on Tenth Street. "A regular garden of delights," Murtaugh coughed, glaring at the small mountain of garbage five feet away. Yellow and blue Chiquita Banana Puree drums topped with plastic bags, a good half of which were split open and spilling their contents on to the sidewalk. ''Jesus, what a place to meet."
"His home turf," Eberhart said apologetically.
"Which ought to be a good reason for meeting somewhere else."
"Yeah, well, he's not too bright."
Murtaugh grunted. "Where'd you get this guy?"
