Kill Fee, page 19
"What makes you so sure? How are you going to force me to cooperate? Come on, Pluto, this is where you slip the threat in, isn't it? What do you think you're going to do to me?"
"Dear me. That has an almost masochistic ring to it, Lieutenant. Actually, I'm not planning to do anything to you at all. Not to you. Actually . . . it was Ellie I was thinking of."
Murtaugh's mouth went dry.
"She'll be a lot easier to get to than you, don't you see," Pluto went on conversationally, "even if you give her police protection. Besides, policemen themselves are more or less used to the idea of danger, but school administrators are not. What I mean to say is, if I threatened you I probably wouldn't get anywhere. But if you think Ellie is in danger—and you know she is if I say she is—well, then you're more likely to cooperate. Am I right, Lieutenant?"
Murtaugh made a strangled sound.
"I'll take that as an affirmative. You do understand, don't you, that I have no compunction at all about crippling her for life, or blinding her, or doing something equally nasty? I'm a very good shot, Lieutenant. I won't kill her—I don't want to lose my hold on you. But no matter what happens to her, just remember she'll always have something more to lose. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Murtaugh said tightly.
"Good. Then I can count on your cooperation?"
"I . . . I need some time to think."
"Of course you do," Pluto purred. "You need time to think of ways to 'get' me and protect Ellie . . . and time to see that nothing like that is going to work. How can you protect Ellie the rest of her life? Even if you both start life over elsewhere under new identities, you won't ever be sure I'll never find you, will you? And what a dreadful thing to do to Ellie! She'd have to give up her work, her friends, the life she's built for herself—and spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder. A11 because of you. Do you think she'll love you for that? Seems to me that would put a strain on any marriage. But you need time to think all these things through for yourself. I'll call tomorrow night," he concluded. "Remember one thing, Lieutenant. I always collect."
The phone went dead in Murtaugh's hand.
He sat in a daze, holding the receiver until the cut-in signal reminded him to hang up. So that was it. Pluto would go after Ellie instead of Murtaugh himself. He'd go after her with intent to maim, to blind, to shoot out her kneecaps—and he'd succeed. Promising police protection to a witness was one thing; but when it was someone close who needed protecting, Murtaugh thought, the weaknesses of their protective system became glaringly obvious.
Murtaugh wasn't the first cop whose family had been threatened and he wouldn't be the last. But knowing that didn't make it any easier. He was shaken to realize he wasn't sure what Ellie would do when she learned he'd put her in danger. She'd be outraged, he knew—but she'd eventually forgive him. She would, wouldn't she? He honestly didn't know, nor could he imagine how he would feel if their positions were reversed. Ellie was no yes-dear wife who accepted whatever came her way. Perhaps he should try to keep her in the dark as long as he could.
Murtaugh had enough objectivity left to realize he was going through the very same thing every other one of Pluto's clients must have gone through. The fear, the questioning . . . the slowly growing conviction that there was, after all, only one real way out. Murtaugh allowed himself the sinful indulgence of supposing how things would go if he agreed to Pluto's terms: Eberhart might be a problem, but there was bound to be some way of diverting him. The new men Turnbull sent wouldn't question Murtaugh's orders; they'd not be familiar enough with the investigation. The only real obstacle Murtaugh could foresee was the difficulty of justifying his ultimate failure to catch Pluto. The Commissioner had made it clear, both through Turnbull and in person, that Murtaugh's was an or-else assignment. Catch Pluto or else.
If he gave in to Pluto's demands in order to protect Ellie, how could he protect himself from the departmental wrath that was sure to follow? He was in a no-win situation—god damn that Pluto! No matter what Murtaugh did, he was bound to come out on the short end of the stick! Now wait a minute, wait a minute, he told himself—Don't give up so fast. One thing was certain: the Commissioner would have his head on a platter if he didn't find a solution to the Pluto problem. Unless . . . unless Pluto would agree to move his operation out of New York? That would make a difference, if the killings stopped. Yes—perhaps an agreement was possible, a compromise of some sort. Dump our garbage in some other city. Then Murtaugh could make a case (semi-truthfully) that Pluto had been frightened off by the police investigation.
How tempting it was! Look at him, sitting there thinking about going through with it. Now Murtaugh understood Pluto's other clients a little better. How easy it was—just to give in and let things slide, take care of themselves. No more hassle, no more danger. Murtaugh thought of himself as a fundamentally honest man, at least an honest cop. But what if that honesty had never really been tested? Pluto's offer was like no other that had come Murtaugh's way. He'd never felt anything but contempt for crooked policemen, parasites dependent on the corrupt strength of others for their survival. It was the only thing that ever made him ashamed of his profession. He'd made no secret of his attitude; after his first few years on the force there'd been no serious attempt to bribe him. He fingered Pluto's bill that he kept in his coat pocket, the blue piece of paper that some voice of caution had kept him from adding to the evergrowing file on Pluto.
Murtaugh suddenly thought of something Sergeant Eberhart had told him, something he'd learned from Leila Hudson. Leila had told Eberhart that Summit magazine was having personnel problems; a lot of the longtime staff were leaving and Leon Walsh was having trouble finding people of equivalent caliber to replace them. It seemed folks were uneasy working for a man who was known to have paid off a killer—even when the payment had been made under extreme duress.
Murtaugh wondered about all the others the police had gotten to admit to paying off Pluto. How did their friends and families and co-workers treat them? Did they all shy away, ostracize the offender? Did they ever stop to consider what Pluto's clients must have gone through before agreeing to the killer's terms? The nausea, the fear . . . the shameful secret elation? Would any of the men Murtaugh worked with try to see his point of view if the truth came out? The answer to that was a resounding no.
But what was any of that compared to Ellie's safety? Nothing, nothing at all. Some choice he had. Ellie in danger—you know she is if I say she is. Some choice.
Murtaugh opened the bedroom door a crack. The only light source in the room was the red digital numbers on the clock-radio—4:01. Murtaugh opened the door a little wider, until the light from the hallway fell on the bed where Ellie was sleeping. She did not look like a child in her sleep. She looked exactly like what she was: a woman in early middle age, tired out from the rigors of keeping on top of a demanding job. Yet she could still surprise Murtaugh by waking him early in the morning, eager for lovemaking once she'd had her rest. How could he tell her of the danger he'd put her in? It wasn't his fault—and yet it was his fault. But if she ever found out he'd not told her . . .
He sat down on the only chair in the bedroom. He sat without moving, watching his wife sleep. Watching, and waiting for daylight.
CHAPTER
15
Pluto was fighting an inappropriate tendency toward nostalgia. He hadn't even left New York yet and he was already beginning to miss the place. A sentimental reaction, one he had no time for. His luggage had gone out to Kennedy yesterday and the one-way ticket to Geneva was in his pocket. All he had to do was concentrate on getting through this little charade Lieutenant Murtaugh had dreamed up and he'd be on his way to Switzerland, free and clear.
But for only four or five years. He'd be back. That wasn't part of the deal, but Lieutenant Murtaugh didn't have to know everything.
The Lieutenant had come up with the one argument Pluto had no answer for. Murtaugh had said that he (Pluto) had used up New York—that he'd worked the town for all he could safely get out of it and now all the machinery of the law was converging on him in a drive that Murtaugh wouldn't be able to divert after much longer. It was a point Murtaugh had borne down on hard: he could cover for Pluto only as long as he was in charge of the investigation. But if Pluto kept up his killing ways, Murtaugh wouldn't stay in charge very long.
Pluto had reluctantly admitted the Lieutenant was right; it was a conclusion he'd pretty much come to on his own. When Murtaugh suggested he take his operation to Philadelphia or Detroit, Pluto had murmured something about seeking a warmer climate and let the Lieutenant think he'd be heading toward Miami, perhaps Los Angeles. Dropping red herrings was second nature to Pluto.
Of course, he could just skip the cops-and-robbers playlet Murtaugh had come up with and get on his airplane and go. But there was a distinct advantage to being listed as dead on the NYPD records. No one ever went looking for a dead man. It certainly would make things easier when he came back, in four or five years. Who'd be expecting him? He could call himself Pluto Junior then—ha. Son of Pluto. Plutoson. But first things first. Today he had to see if Murtaugh was on the up and up. Because if he wasn't . . . well, Pluto had warned him he always collected.
What Murtaugh had proposed was such a perfect setup for a double-cross! Or a triple-cross, if it came to that. It was also a scenario that would work the way it was supposed to if it was played absolutely straight. And that, of course, depended solely upon Lieutenant James Timothy Murtaugh. Jim Tim. Pluto unaccountably felt a new stab of homesickness. It's only a few years.
Pluto shifted his weight, trying to find a more comfortable position in his rental car; so little leg room! He was parked across the street from the entrance to Murtaugh's apartment building, in the exact same spot where he'd parked two days earlier. That was the morning after the first time he'd spoken to the Lieutenant, the time he'd made all his threatening noises. The following morning he'd seen Ellie come scurrying out the door, escorted by good old Jim Tim and a man Pluto didn't know carrying a suitcase. The three of them had climbed into a sedan driven by a woman Pluto didn't know—and Ellie Murtaugh, her husband, and her two police guards had driven swiftly away. Pluto wondered idly where the Lieutenant was sending her. It didn't matter; just so long as she was out of the way.
That was two days ago. Then yesterday the Lieutenant had come up with his plan.
Ah, at last. Lieutenant Murtaugh's car came nosing up the ramp from the indoor parking area beneath the apartment building. Pluto glanced at his watch: still three minutes shy of seven A.M. The Lieutenant was putting in long hours these days.
Twenty minutes later Pluto let himself into the Murtaugh apartment; it had taken him a while to find the right combination of picks for the downstairs locks plus the four locks on the apartment door. Once inside, he put the canvas case he was carrying on the sofa and his tool kit on the end table. He measured the width of the front door: thirty-six inches exactly. Next, a kitchen chair to stand on. He drilled a small hole in the ceiling two feet in from the three-foot-wide front door, making a face as he did; Pluto hated messing with plaster, such dirty stuff. When he'd finished that he drilled another hole, this one right through the carpet directly under the hole in the ceiling. A tiny eyebolt buried in the carpeting, a small pulley in the ceiling. Then he rigged a vertical trip wire that would be triggered the next time the door was opened. Crude, but it had the virtue of being undetectable from the other side of the door.
Pluto dragged a heavy armchair into position and piled books (mostly Ellie's) into the seat. Then he opened the canvas bag he'd placed on the sofa and took out the shotgun. He fussed with chair and books until he'd fashioned a stable cradle for the firearm. Pluto didn't care much for shotguns. He'd stolen this one a few years ago just to try it out in his work. No good. Too big and clumsy to carry around easily; and the one time he'd used it, the scatter shot had only wounded, not killed. Lots of blood and mess, ugh; he'd had to finish the job with the Beretta he'd taken along as backup.
But for his present purposes the shotgun was exactly right. He made sure the two barrels were aimed low, knee-level. He didn't want to kill Murtaugh; no satisfaction in that. He did want to cripple the Lieutenant for life—if Murtaugh's plan was indeed a trap. But if Murtaugh played straight with him, Pluto would simply let the other man know what was waiting for him at home. Pluto fussed with the positioning some more and was finally satisfied. Some of the shot might go high enough to damage the Lieutenant's manhood. Too bad, Pluto sniffed. It all depended on the Lieutenant himself.
Pluto had never had any intention of hurting Ellie Murtaugh. If he did harm her, Pluto thought, Lieutenant Murtaugh would suffer horrible waves of guilt—at first. But that feeling would pass, perhaps even turn into resentment. Murtaugh was basically a decent sort and would resist longer than most men, but eventually he would start to rationalize away his part in his wife's tragedy and go on with his life as usual. But if he himself were forced to spend the rest of his days in a wheelchair—ah, that was quite different! So Pluto had to make sure it wouldn't be Murtaugh's wife who opened that door. The Lieutenant had responded to Pluto's threats against Ellie with heartening predictability; Pavlov would have loved him.
Pluto ran the wire through the trigger guard of the shotgun, testing the tension carefully before anchoring the wire to another eyebolt. His original plan had been to get Ellie out of the way and then rig the shotgun to fire into the floor—as a warning, to show Murtaugh that Pluto could get to him anywhere. Pluto had allowed all along for the fact that the Lieutenant would take more convincing than his usual clients. But then Murtaugh had offered him a deal, a scheme to convince the city of New York that Pluto had gone to his Eternal Rest, how sad. The shotgun then quickly transformed itself into an instrument of retaliation, a little surprise awaiting the Lieutenant if he was so foolish as to think he could double-cross Pluto and get away with it.
Connecting balconies ringed every floor of the building, each balcony exactly like every other one. Pluto stepped outside; the balcony was shallow, cramped, covered with New York grit. The only thing the balconies did was enable the landlords to charge a higher rent. With an expression of distaste on his face, Pluto climbed over the divider into the next-door balcony and let himself out through that apartment.
In the hallway he noticed a large ugly smudge of soot on his right knee. Now he'd have to fly all the way to Geneva in dirty trousers.
The building superintendent covered both ears against the whine of the drill. "You sure that warrant covers destruction of property?''
"Yeah, it's okay, don't worry about it," Sergeant Eberhart said with poorly concealed excitement. A police locksmith was working his way methodically down a row of seven locks. Eberhart handed the super the police sketch of Pluto. "Are you absolutely certain this is the guy who lives here?"
"That's him, all right. But he's got himself a fancy-schmancy hairdo now."
"Fancy how?"
"Brown and curly. Don't look natural."
Eberhart turned and grinned at the big man hovering over them. "Good work, Costello. You got 'im."
The big man grinned back. Costello was one of the legmen the Deputy Commissioner had provided, part of the army of canvassers Lieutenant Murtaugh had sent into the area of midtown Manhattan he suspected of being Pluto's home base.
Pluto had leased the apartment under the name of Bell, but undoubtedly that was no more his real name than any of the others he'd used. If nothing else, they should at least get a complete set of prints from the apartment, Eberhart thought. "Where are the Crime Lab people?"
"On their way," Costello said. "They told me they were leaving immediately."
"There you are, Sergeant," the locksmith said, opening the door. "Is that all?"
"No, hang around. We might need you inside."
Inside turned out to be one of those geometric apartments that always made Eberhart uncomfortable. Every piece of furniture looked like a drawing made with protractor and compass. "You look down the hall," he told Costello. The building superintendent had trouble deciding whether to follow Costello or stay with Eberhart; he stayed with Eberhart. The locksmith lounged against the door he'd just opened;
There wasn't much to search in the living room. No desk, not even a table with drawers. "Modular seating pieces" instead of chairs and sofas. Pluto, hooked on the minimalist style of the seventies?
Costello was back. "Got a locked cabinet in here. Sergeant Eberhart, come take a look at this."
Eberhart, the locksmith, and the super followed Costello into Pluto's study. Eberhart whistled; one entire wall was lined with corkboard. "Hell of a bulletin board." He turned to the super. "What did he use it for?"
"Beats me. This the first time I've been here since he moved in."
"There's the locked cabinet," Costello told the locksmith.
Nothing was pinned to the corkboard wall except the pins themselves, a couple hundred of them lined up in two neat rows, one at each end of the wall. Eberhart spotted a typewriter on a small desk. Using his handkerchief, he started opening desk drawers and in the bottom one found what he was looking for: blue note stationery with matching window envelopes. "Costello, tell the Crime Lab to check this typewriter against the bill Pluto sent Roscoe Malucci."
"You think that's the one?"
"I know it is. Look at this blue paper. And Costello, go call Lieutenant Murtaugh and let him know what we got here."
"Sergeant." The locksmith had the cabinet drawer open. The four men stood staring at Pluto's collection of guns. A Colt Government Model .45. A Coonan .357 Magnum. Two nine-millimeter semiautomatics, a Beretta and a Browning HiPower. A Smith and Wesson .22. And what looked like a Czech CZ .75 automatic.
