Kill Fee, page 20
The super swallowed audibly. "Gawd."
"Where's the thirty-eight?" Eberhart muttered.
"Where's what?" Costello called back over his shoulder, on his way to phone the Lieutenant.
"He bought ammo for a thirty-eight. It's not here."
The men from the Crime Lab showed up and the roomy apartment was suddenly very crowded. Eberhart thanked the super for his help and told him he could go. On his way out, the super said, "Will you look at that—he's had a lock put on the hall closet!"
Without a word the locksmith got to work.
Pluto had turned the walk-in closet into a file room. Three four-door file cabinets and a small table with a reading lamp took up most of the space. All three file cabinets had combination locks. "Oh good," the locksmith smiled, and had all three open in no time flat.
Again using his handkerchief, Eberhart opened the drawer labeled "S–T." The drawer held only six file folders, but all six were fat ones. One of them was marked Sussman, Gerald.
Eberhart couldn't examine the files until they were dusted for prints, but he figured he could make a list of all the names on the folders. He pulled out a notebook and opened the "A–B" drawer.
The first name he saw was Ansbacher, Edward.
Ansbacher? Pluto had killed Captain Ansbacher? With a zip gun?
Eberhart didn't understand that. Why Ansbacher? Who profited? Who paid the killer's fee? And why did Pluto use such a clumsy weapon when he had so many sophisticated and well-cared-for handguns right there in the apartment? Eberhart shook his head; he'd have to think about it later.
He went through Pluto's file drawers in alphabetical order, finding some unfamiliar names, some familiar ones. Herman, John—the Canadian opera singer. Malucci, Rose—Roscoe's grandmother.
Murtaugh, James Timothy.
Forgetting all about fingerprints Eberhart pulled out Murtaugh's file. Inside were photographs, newspaper clippings, typed and dated lists of the times the Murtaughs did certain things, Ellie's school schedule, names, addresses. Eberhart felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when he came across a snapshot of himself talking to Lieutenant Murtaugh in the street. Pluto had gotten close enough to them to take their picture and they hadn't even seen him? Good god. Telephoto lens, maybe. Either that, or the man didn't have a nerve in his body.
And now he was going after Lieutenant Murtaugh? Eberhart didn't understand that, either. Say Pluto eliminated Murtaugh. Someone else would just be appointed to take the Lieutenant's place; the investigation wouldn't stop. That couldn't be it.
Something Eberhart had thought peculiar at the time. Just a couple of days ago Lieutenant Murtaugh had assigned two police officers to guard Ellie and had sent all three of them out of town. Nobody else saw anything odd about that, considering how dangerous a man it was they were hunting. But nobody else had worked as closely with Lieutenant Murtaugh as Eberhart. The Lieutenant's forcing his wife to run and hide without some specific reason just didn't ring true.
Eberhart looked at the file again.
Lieutenant Murtaugh had heard from Pluto—that had to be it. But why, how? The only time Pluto got in touch with someone was when he wanted to collect his fee . . . Ansbacher? Pluto was collecting from Lieutenant Murtaugh for Ansbacher's murder? Was that it? And the fee —this time was it something other than money? And Ellie, hiding somewhere under guard—Pluto must have threatened her to get the Lieutenant to pay. Aw god, no. Not Lieutenant Murtaugh! But the Lieutenant had to have heard from Pluto or he wouldn't all of a sudden have thought Ellie was in danger. He'd heard from Pluto, and he wasn't telling anybody.
He wasn't telling anybody.
Sergeant Eberhart stood there a long time, trying to decide what to do.
He felt a rawness in his throat, a tickle in the nasal passages. Hell of a time to come down with something.
When he was a boy, his father had refused to take any medication for anything: a burly weekend ballplayer who loved to boast: Naw, I'll just throw it off. Thanks, dad o' mine; as a consequence he and brother Desmond had gone through one cold after another, catching every bug his father had ever "thrown off." Murtaugh took a couple of aspirin at the drinking fountain; anything stronger might make him sleepy.
Maybe it was psychosomatic.
Murtaugh looked into the squad room; everything seemed okay. He'd sent Eberhart out to check on a possible identification one of the legmen had turned up. He'd arranged for the other special assignees from the Deputy Commissioner to be out too, following up one lead or another. All except Jacoby, the juniormost member of the team. The baby.
Time to make his move. "Jacoby! Come in here."
The young investigator hurried into Murtaugh's office, his eyebrows asking questions.
"Sit down, Jacoby. Got something to write with? All right, now listen carefully. I just got an anonymous call—man said he was paying off Pluto today. One hundred thousand dollars, just like the rest of them."
Jacoby's eyes were saucers. "Who . . . anonymous, you said?"
Murtaugh nodded. "He said if we could catch Pluto and recover his money for him, then he'd come forward and identify himself. He gave me a code word so I'd know him. He's playing it safe—doesn't want to antagonize Pluto in case we blow it."
"Where's the drop?"
"On the Circle Line sightseeing boat, the one that makes a three-hour cruise around Manhattan? Our anonymous caller said he was instructed to take the boat that leaves at ten-thirty this morning—probably their busiest trip of the day."
Jacoby looked at his watch. "It's a quarter to ten now."
"I know. The boat departs from Pier Eighty-three, foot of West Forty-third Street. I'm going there now. What I want you to do is get on the phone and see how many of the men you can round up. Plainclothesmen only—no uniformed officers." Murtaugh was counting on the shortness of time here. "But don't spend more than twenty minutes on it. Then get out to Pier Eighty-three yourself —I've got to have at least one man. Get going."
"Right." Jacoby was up and gone.
The Lieutenant smiled in nervous satisfaction; Jacoby still had a lot to learn. Sergeant Eberhart would have asked a few pertinent questions first, such as: where on the boat was the money to be stashed?
Murtaugh put on his jacket and left, missing by fifteen minutes Costello's call with the news that Pluto's apartment had been found.
Librarian or schoolteacher, Pluto thought. ''What is it you do back in Grand Rapids?'' he said aloud.
"I operate a chain of garages," she answered surprisingly. "My brother and I were co-owners, but he died last year. So now I run things by myself."
"Must be a big job for one person."
"It is, but I enjoy it. It's something I'm used to."
They were still docked at Pier Eighty-three. The woman didn't look like a small-scale business tycoon, standing there by the rail of the excursion boat. She did look like an out-of-towner, a middle-aged tourist here to see the sights in the big city. Some gray in her hair, brand new clothes purchased just for her vacation trip.
And she was alone. As long as she was willing to talk to Pluto, then he was part of a couple instead of the single man Lieutenant Murtaugh was undoubtedly trying to spot at that very moment. A woman with a child would have been better, but all the children on the boat seemed to have come equipped with two parents instead of just one.
The garage lady from Grand Rapids was fidgeting; she kept looking at the few people still milling about on the pier. "Shouldn't we have left by now?"
"Five more minutes."
One of the people still on the pier was Lieutenant James Timothy Murtaugh. Who was obviously waiting for somebody. Murtaugh had come aboard for a quick check around. Now he was back on the pier waiting for his straight man to show up. Murtaugh had promised Pluto it would not be Sergeant Eberhart but a less experienced man.
"Where are you from?" the garage lady asked tentatively.
"Deer Falls, North Dakota," Pluto said.
She nodded. "I didn't think you were a New Yorker." She smiled at him, feeling safer.
Pluto speculated over the thinking process Murtaugh must have gone through to come up with his plan. He would have to convince his superiors that the dreaded free-lance killer known as Pluto was dead, dead, indubitably dead; and that he had died in such a way that his body could never be recovered. How to make a corpse disappear—even a police lieutenant would have to give that one some thought. Fire and explosions always left traces. There were no volcanoes or quicksand in Manhattan. Meat-grinders and acid vats were easily accessible only in Vincent Price movies, and a one-way rocket to the planet Mercury wasn't even on the drawing board yet. Earth, air, fire, and water—Lieutenant Murtaugh had opted for water.
The middle-aged lady at Pluto's side was chattering away, making small talk. Pluto was grateful. He answered an occasional question, asked one or two himself, kept the conversation going.
There he was: the patsy. Murtaugh's straight man had shown up, his semi-witness. Pluto thought he looked very young; it shouldn't be too hard to get the drop on him. Murtaugh had wanted Pluto to come up and hit the patsy from behind at a time he was being distracted by Murtaugh himself. But Pluto had very quickly rewritten that part of the script; he had no intention of revealing himself to Murtaugh. The Lieutenant's plan was to claim he'd struggled with Pluto and Pluto had gone overboard—such melodramatics! But Pluto had agreed, once Murtaugh had given in on the point of the semi-witness. Pluto's attack on the young officer was necessary to give credence to Murtaugh's story.
Then Pluto was to slide one of his guns under the unconscious officer for Murtaugh to find, a gun that could be connected to a recent killing. Murtaugh had said that would serve as evidence that the man who'd gone overboard was indeed Pluto. Pluto had thought about it a while and then had agreed to that too. He had confidence in his own ability to spot a trap if there was one. He'd selected the Ruger .38, the gun that had killed the thieving landscape architect William Parminter, among others; it was untraceable because it had been stolen instead of bought.
In spite of himself, Pluto felt a flutter of excitement. He'd never allowed an adversary to get this close before. As far as he could tell, there were no other police on board; Sergeant Eberhart certainly was nowhere in sight. Pluto had looked for Sergeant Eberhart very carefully. So far, it looked as if Murtaugh were keeping his side of the bargain. If all went well, Pluto would see to it that the Lieutenant didn't go home to face a shotgun blast after all.
"At last!" the garage lady said. "We were supposed to leave five—oh, look. Somebody running for the boat."
Pluto looked, and then looked again. The "somebody" was Sergeant Eberhart—running like crazy, gripping the handles of a bright red Gimbels shopping bag flapping at his side.
He made the boat.
When Murtaugh first learned that Pluto had probably changed his appearance, he was astonished to see how many slightly overweight men with dark hair there were in New York; every fourth or fifth man he passed on the street seemed to fit that general description. So he wasn't particularly surprised when a dozen or so turned up on the excursion boat. Some wore glasses, some had mustaches, all had companions. There was no way he and Jacoby could watch them all; he'd have to rely on the script as written.
Jacoby, when he finally arrived, was excited. "They've found his apartment!" he blurted out. "Costello called in just before I left. Filing cabinets full of evidence, Costello says."
"Slow down—start at the beginning."
Jacoby repeated in detail everything Costello had told him about Pluto's home base. "And oh yeah—Sergeant Eberhart sent word he has two files he needs to talk to you about immediately."
"Which ones?"
"He didn't say. I told Costello you got a tip Pluto'd be on this boat—but Lieutenant, Costello's the only one I talked to. He'll tell Eberhart, but I couldn't get hold of anybody else. Not enough time. Can we hold the boat? Until Costello or Eberhart gets here?"
"No, that would tip him off—we don't want to spook him now that we've finally got this close. You and I'll have to take him by ourselves." Murtaugh checked his watch; Pluto had had enough time to spot them and familiarize himself with Jacoby's appearance. "Come on, let's get on."
Once on board Murtaugh took Jacoby on a quick tour of the boat. They were climbing down a companionway from the top deck when the boat pulled away from the wharf. Murtaugh's heart was in his throat. The news about Pluto's apartment should have left him jumping for joy—but why couldn't Costello's call have come just a few minutes later? After Jacoby had left. Jacoby had told Costello about the excursion boat and Costello would report to Eberhart. And Murtaugh didn't want Eberhart knowing anything about the upcoming little drama until it was over and done with.
"How long did you say this trip takes?" Jacoby asked.
"Three hours."
Timing was so important. Murtaugh had told Pluto the fake struggle would have to take place at the exact moment the boat was passing Battery Park, rounding the southern tip of Manhattan to start its way upriver. The rivers themselves could be dragged and sounded—but not New York Bay. There was too much water, too much area for the Harbor Patrol to cover. It was a good place to lose a corpse; no one would really expect Pluto's body to be recovered, Murtaugh had told him.
Pluto bought it. He had agreed to Murtaugh's plan.
Murtaugh had tried to think of everything; he'd even included something in his plan for Pluto to reject so the killer would feel he was controlling the situation. The crucial point had been whether Pluto would agree to leave a gun by Jacoby or not; once he said yes, Murtaugh knew his plan had a real chance of succeeding. Pluto was so sure he could outsmart any opponent; Murtaugh had counted on that ego to bring him to agree. Murtaugh was sorry about the lump Jacoby was going to have to take; he didn't like putting anyone in danger, even when that danger was slight. But he had to have somebody to act as unintentional bait, to help maneuver Pluto into position. Sergeant Eberhart was too sharp; he'd never let Pluto sneak up behind him. Jacoby was the other extreme—of all the men under Murtaugh's command, Jacoby was the least qualified to help bring in a killer.
The "struggle" was scheduled to take place on the New Jersey side of the boat; the tourists would be on the New York side, gawking. He picked out his spot and stationed Jacoby there, telling him it was near the deck locker where Murtaugh's fictional anonymous caller had said Pluto's payoff money would be stashed. Murtaugh had told Pluto he himself would be on the other side with the tourists until Pluto had taken care of Jacoby and planted his gun, but in truth he didn't plan to be far away. There weren't many places to hide on an excursion boat, but he'd found a small concession storage area nearby that would do nicely. Then once Pluto had disarmed himself . . . .
Murtaugh checked his watch again; enough time for one more quick scout around. He left Jacoby standing by the starboard rail, trying to look like a tourist fascinated by the New Jersey river bank.
"I have a confession to make," the garage lady from Grand Rapids said uncomfortably. "I don't own a chain of garages. I don't even own one garage. I work in a garage. I'm a bookkeeper."
Pluto looked at her in surprise. "Then why the fairy tale?"
She sighed. "Women my age who travel alone—well, you've got to understand we're simply treated better when people think we have money. The little courtesies, friendly treatment on the part of clerks and waiters—you'd be surprised how fast it all disappears once people learn you work for a living just like everybody else. So I lie a little."
How extraordinary. Pluto asked, "By 'people' do you mean men-people?"
"It's women, too, but the problem is mostly men. There's a certain kind of man who seems to live on boats like this one or in hotel lobbies and the like. The kind of man that's always on the lookout for well-to-do widows. They're very attentive until they find out you've had to save for two years to make the trip. But until then they can be quite helpful, you know, in a strange place."
Pluto was delighted. "And you think that I . . . ? "
"Oh no, no, I don't," she said, distressed. "It's because I don't think you're one of those men that I'm telling you. My saying I owned a chain of garages—well, that was just habit, I'm afraid. Little excursions like this boat trip are always so much more pleasant if you have someone to talk to, don't you think? That's all I had in mind."
"But at first you did think—"
"Well, I couldn't be sure—"
Pluto laughed out loud. "Dear lady, I am immensely flattered. I've been mistaken for many things in my time, but never before for a gigolo. Hush now—don't say a word! I like the feeling." He laughed again. The lady smiled uncertainly.
They heard the tour director's voice over the loudspeaker direct their attention to the World Trade Center. That was Pluto's cue; Battery Park, coming up.
He stood up. "I could use a cup of coffee. How about you? Shall I bring you one?" When his companion didn't answer, he said, "Perhaps a soft drink? Lemonade?"
"Black coffee," she sighed, suddenly listless.
"I'll be right back."
"Sure you will," she said expressionlessly.
She thinks I'm walking out because she doesn't have money. Pluto stood looking down at her, thinking fast: something he could use here?
Lieutenant Murtaugh might be playing straight, might be trying to pull a fast one. Sergeant Eberhart certainly hadn't tried to slip aboard unseen—what a flamboyant entrance, with that great red shopping bag flapping with every step! But something was not going as planned; Eberhart wasn't supposed to be there at all. It occurred to Pluto that it might not be a bad idea to take a human shield along with him.
"Why don't you come with me?" he said to the lady from Grand Rapids. "We'll have to go to the other side of the boat, that's where the concession counter is—but I don't think we'll miss much. We can always watch from the back—oh dear, they don't like you to say 'front' and 'back' on boats, do they? We can watch from the stern, that's better. Let us go fetch our coffee and then remove ourselves to the stern of this noble vessel and watch from there. What do you say?"
