Kill Fee, page 8
He was a careful man, whoever he was. He'd probably watched to see if she'd contacted the police when she received his bill—she didn't much care for the thought of that. But he must have been watching her before, both her and Parminter. He'd planned it all so carefully. Parminter had been shot in an elevator. The doors had slid open to reveal the body slumped on the floor; nobody else was in the car. He had been careful about protecting her, too. One murder, arranged to coincide with establishment of Montego Bay alibi.
The call came at eleven o'clock.
"Hallo, is that Carolyn Randolph there?" Pseudo-English accent, an American trying to sound British. "You may call me Pluto. I recently sent you a bill."
"Yes, I have it right here."
"Do you understand the terms?"
"You made yourself quite clear, Pluto."
"Good. I hate misunderstandings. Have you raised any of the money yet?"
"I have all of it. One hundred thousand."
There was a pause. "Well, that was fast work, I must say. Does this mean I don't have to threaten you with dire and calamitous events to get you to pay?"
"That's what it means. I honor my debts—I don't like owing people."
"Excellent! I'm glad we understand each other. Do you have the money where you can get your hands on it tomorrow morning?"
"It's in a safety deposit box."
"What time does your bank open? Nine?"
"Yes, nine."
"You may have to change the money. I want nothing larger than hundred-dollar bills."
"They're all hundreds."
"Then there's no problem. You do know not to try anything clever, don't you? I refer to marking the bills or using sequential serial numbers or whatever technique for tracing money the police favor this year."
"There won't be anything like that—I'm not stupid. Where do you want me to meet you?"
"Alas, Ms Randolph, we don't meet. As sure as I am that the acquaintanceship would prove mutually enjoyable, I find it more prudent to remain merely a voice on the telephone. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Very well. Do you know Carlyle and Piper's excellent establishment?''
"Carlyle and Piper's? Never heard of it. What is it?"
"It's a bookstore dealing rare editions. On Fourth Avenue, between Ninth and Tenth—are you getting this?"
"Yes—go on."
"Across the back wall of the store are shelves with closed storage boxes on them. The boxes hold old and very rare magazines. Look for the one marked The American Gentleman, 1909–1910. It's an extremely large box that either Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Piper bought in a moment of unwarranted optimism. The box contains exactly one thin magazine—plenty of room in there for a hundred-thousand-dollar-sized package. A regular grocery bag should do nicely. I want you to be there when the store opens at ten—not many customers around that early. Now I think it would be best if you said all this back to me. We don't want any slip-ups, do we?"
Carolyn repeated what he'd told her. "It seems awfully public. What if I'm seen?"
"Wait until you see Carlyle and Piper's. One could hide in there for years without being discovered. Now, do you have any questions?"
"Only one. Am I correct in assuming this one hundred thousand is payment in full?"
"Oh absolutely, dear lady. You do your part tomorrow and you'll never hear from me again. One service, one payment. I like to keep things clean, don't you?"
"I do indeed. And Pluto?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
There was a long pause. Then: "Why, you are most welcome! Most welcome indeed!" He was almost burbling. "I must say, Ms Randolph, it has been a real pleasure doing business with you. You don't know how refreshing it is to find someone who doesn't muddy a simple business transaction with all sorts of emotional complications. What a pity we shall never meet! Ah well—it can't be helped. Good-bye!" He hung up.
Carolyn smiled as she replaced the receiver. What a strange man. All business right up to the end, and then he'd practically gushed at her. You'd think no one had ever thanked him before.
Captain Edward Ansbacher climbed out of the patrol car, told the officer who'd driven him he'd take a cab back.
He took a moment to examine the restaurant's façade before he went in. Not bad; expensive-looking. Inside, the maître d'—whom Ansbacher had never seen before in his life—knew who he was. In fact, the whole staff seemed primed; there was a satisfying amount of bowing and scraping. Ansbacher followed the maître d' past tables covered with rich white linen and heavy-looking silverware to a semisecluded alcove on a level three steps above that of the main seating area.
A man was waiting for him—white-haired, expensively tailored, nails manicured. Ansbacher noticed all that as he reached across the table to shake hands.
"Captain Ansbacher, this is a pleasure. I'm Joseph Sutton. Please—sit here."
A waiter had placed a whiskey sour in front of Ansbacher almost before he'd got settled. So, they'd "researched" him, knew his tastes.
"So how is the car?" Sutton asked. "Running nicely?" He pronounced it cah.
"Very nice indeed. Just what Mrs. Ansbacher wanted—the exact model." But then you researched that too, he thought. (Captain Ansbacher never referred to his wife by her own name, or even as "my wife"—she was always and only Mrs. Ansbacher. A conversational mannerism that led some of his less charitable acquaintances to suspect the Captain liked hearing the sound of his own name.)
Ansbacher waited. If Sutton was disappointed because his guest had failed to thank him for the gift of a cah, he hid it well. Ansbacher always avoided saying thank you; it tended to make the other fella think he had a claim on you. But this other fella was chatting amiably about this and that, very smooth. The waiter brought the soup. Ansbacher could wait; he had plenty of time.
The pitch came halfway through the meat course. "Howard Dudek tells me you might be able to help me with a little problem we're having," Sutton said. Dudek was the contact man, the one who'd arranged for the delivery of the car.
The Captain looked across the table at the distinguished-looking man who wanted a favor of him. If he was only a regular businessman who was having a little trouble and just wanted a helping hand—well, that was one thing. But if he was mob-connected, fronting for that sleazy bunch .. .
"What kind of problem?" he asked Sutton.
"It's my brother's boy," Sutton said. "The kid just started his own business a couple of years ago, and I'm afraid he hasn't been as discreet as he ought to have been."
Ansbacher waited.
"Not that he did wrong, mind you," Sutton went on. "But you know kids. Too eager for their own good, always in a hurry. My nephew has a nice little landscaping business, my brother and I throw him some work, you know how it goes."
Ansbacher nodded. He'd done some research of his own; the Sutton brothers owned a construction firm that wasn't exactly scrambling to survive. They made a lot of money and they spent a lot of money. It was the other brother who knew the construction business; this oily-tongued Sutton was the greaser of wheels, the smoother of rough spots. "So what did the kid do?"
"He had some correspondence with a man named William Parminter."
Ah. That was the connection. "And?"
"Let me tell you, it was a blow to all of us when Parminter got killed. My brother and I'd been doing business with the man for years. So of course when he landed the White Hall project we bid on the contract, and we wanted to throw a little business to the kid. So my nephew gets all excited and starts telling Parminter what he's going to do—on paper, no less. We had no idea those designs were stolen."
So far, no problem; Ansbacher couldn't see what they were worried about. "So your nephew jumped the gun a little, so what? Happens all the time."
"Well, you see, the letters mentioned several earlier jobs we'd done for Parminter. The boy was just showing off, trying to prove to Parminter he was part of the team. But he used several ambiguous phrases about our earlier arrangements that might, ah, might be misconstrued. You understand? In themselves, the letters prove nothing—how could they? But they could lead a curious investigator to start prying into Sutton Construction Company's business affairs. Affairs that have nothing at all to do with Parminter's death, I might point out."
Murtaugh, Ansbacher thought darkly.
"One of your investigators has been using his authority to stick his nose into our business," Sutton said. "His name is Lieutenant James T. Murtaugh. We were wondering if he's pursuing this line of inquiry under your direction?"
"He is not," Ansbacher growled.
Sutton allowed a small smile to appear. "Well, then. It is possible that Lieutenant Murtaugh's time could be better spent elsewhere?"
Ansbacher scowled, didn't answer.
"Is there a problem?"
"There could be. Let me think."
Of all his ranking officers, Murtaugh was the only one who ever gave Ansbacher any flak when he pulled him off a case. It had happened a few times before—besides which, Murtaugh was well aware Ansbacher had twice blocked his promotion. Ansbacher was frankly worried that Murtaugh might be reaching his flash point.
The waiter brought dessert and coffee. Say Murtaugh refused to take his dismissal from the Parminter investigation quietly; what could he do? He had no evidence of anything—he couldn't bring any charges against Ansbacher. Murtaugh could transfer out; Ansbacher hoped he would. Or he could start a bad-mouthing campaign against his superior officer. Ansbacher didn't much like the thought of that. He wanted to help Sutton out. The man obviously had no connection with the mob; he was just a businessman caught in a bind. Good family man. But still . . .
"I can pull him off the case," he finally said to Sutton, "but not without a lot of backlash. More backlash, frankly, than I care to have to deal with—it could get out of hand. I'm not sure I can do anything for you, Sutton."
The other man didn't bat an eye. "I understand. You have your problems. But we would all be grateful if you could see your way clear to do this one favor for us. We wouldn't forget. My nephew especially would be grateful. Did I mention he drove past your home last week? He came in just bursting with ideas for landscaping the grounds."
Ansbacher took his time and thought about it. Might not be a bad idea. Mrs. Ansbacher was always complaining about the gardener. She'd probably welcome a little outside help.
"I'll see what I can do," he said.
CHAPTER
7
Lieutenant Murtaugh sat in his car in a no-parking zone in front of Murray Hill Academy, a high-priced private school where Ellie reigned as director. On her down days, Ellie tended to grumble that she was willing to settle for promising the parents only that there'd be no muggers or pushers inside the school, and that their offspring would be able to read and write a little when they graduated. Murtaugh thought even that was aiming rather high.
Ten o'clock. He'd been waiting fifteen minutes when she came through the double doors of Murray Hill Academy in the company of a few of the teaching staff. Ellie was walking heavy: tired. Nobody liked night meetings, but sometimes they were unavoidable. The school's director was the only one who ever had a lieutenant of police waiting to escort her home; he hoped Ellie wouldn't ask him to give lifts to any of the others.
She didn't. She settled herself primly on the passenger side, opened her mouth, and screamed.
''Rough day?" he asked sympathetically.
Ellie hadn't had time to eat, so they stopped at a deli for something to take out. Only when they were home and Ellie had kicked her shoes off and worked her way through half a sandwich did she ask, "Well? Decide what you're going to do?"
He nodded. "I've decided to find out why. Not only this time, but the other times as well. There's got to be something. I'm going to try to keep it under wraps, but if I can't. . . well. But there has to be a reason Ansbacher pulls me off when I'm getting close. I'm going to find out what it is."
"What are your chances?"
"Pretty good, I'd say." Murtaugh had already started the long procedure of calling in every favor owed him, from everyone from the detective who'd replaced him on the Parminter case down to a few beat patrolmen whose minor mistakes Murtaugh had overlooked at one time or another.
"Then what?"
"Depends on what I find. If he's been bought off, I'll bring charges of malfeasance. I have to have damned good evidence before I can do anything like that. But a man can't be on the take for years without leaving some sort of trail."
Ellie wiped mustard from her mouth and shook her head. "Hard to think of Ansbacher as taking bribes. He doesn't seem the type."
Murtaugh laughed wryly. "He's exactly the type. Remember the saying, 'Never do business in the amen corner'? These self-righteous bastards are the most double-dealing of the lot. Ansbacher probably has the whole thing rationalized away to fit in with his personal brand of ethics. What a hypocrite."
"You sound already convinced he is on the take."
"What else could it be? There was something fishy going on between Parminter and the Sutton brothers—they've probably taken the city for a bundle over the years. I'm just beginning to put the pieces together when out of the blue Ansbacher tells me I'm off the case. How would you interpret that? I tried to tell him what was going on, but the man just would not listen. The only thing I can figure is that he already knew what was going on and had been paid to stop me. What else could it be?"
"I don't know. Did he give you a reason?"
"He said he wanted me to concentrate on solving the Sussman murder. Gave me Sergeant Eberhart to help with the leg work—he's down on Eberhart too right now. But he reassigned all the cases that had come to my desk, not just the Parminter investigation. You see what he's doing? He's putting Eberhart and me on a dead-end case where we can't do anything, where we can't interfere with whatever else he might have going. We've been benched, grounded, whatever."
"He's clipped your wings."
"Yeah. I'm supposed to be overseeing the investigation of half a dozen criminal cases, yet he assigns me to investigate personally the one case that everybody knows is going nowhere. Now he wouldn't do that, Ellie, unless he was afraid I'd find something. Well, he's outsmarted himself in a way. Limiting me to the Sussman investigation is going to give me a lot of spare time. I'm going to use it to nail Ansbacher."
Ellie got up from the kitchen table. "This whole thing makes me uneasy. You could be the one that gets nailed, Jim."
"I know," he said. "But I don't see that I have much choice. Ansbacher's as much as warned me my days are numbered." He forced a smile. "Besides, aren't you the one who's always telling me I ought to decide on a course of action?"
She kissed him lightly. "I'm going to take a shower."
Murtaugh sat at the table for a while longer, feeling tireder than he had any right to feel. Eventually he decided a shower was what he needed too. When he stood up, he inadvertently kicked over Ellie's book bag that she'd propped against the table leg and then forgotten. He bent over to pick up the scattered papers and notebooks, and found himself holding a copy of Summit magazine.
He took the magazine to the bedroom with him and leafed through it. He read Leon Walsh's editorial, about the way contemporary America takes its language from advertising instead of from books. It was a familiar argument; Murtaugh had been expecting something more original from Walsh. An off-month, perhaps—the time of Jerry Sussman's murder? He didn't know how long ago the editorial had been written.
When he heard the water stop, he went into the bathroom. "I thought you didn't read Summit any more."
"What?" Ellie was drying herself. "Oh—well, I got interested again, since you were investigating those people. I was curious, too."
"About anything in particular?"
"No, I just wanted to see if the magazine was going to go back to what it used to be. You know, quality material aimed at a limited readership. I think it might be—it's a little early to tell."
"I suppose they're committed to print things months in advance."
"Mmm. Funny thing, Jim, it actually has a murder story in there. Utterly unrealistic premise, but the story's kind of interesting just the same."
"What's it called?"
" 'The Man from Porlock'—I forget who wrote it."
Murtaugh turned to the contents page. "J. J. Kellerman."
"That sounds right. I'm finished here—do you want to take a shower?"
Murtaugh showered quickly and climbed into bed clutching the copy of Summit. Ellie was lying on her stomach, grimly making her way through an article in an educational journal.
"There's no written language anywhere in the world as awful as Educationese," she groaned. "It always makes me move my lips."
Murtaugh patted her bottom absently and turned to "The Man from Porlock." He read casually at first, and then with increasing concentration. By the time he'd finished, he was holding his breath.
Was that it, could that have been how it happened? The story was about the near loss of a radio station instead of a magazine, but other than that it was an almost literal retelling of the Leon Walsh/Jerry Sussman conflict—with a bizarre explanation of the murder tacked on. Crazy. He went back and read again the part about the free-lance killer's first phone call to his "client"—and Murtaugh found himself believing it. But he'd heard Ellie say fiction was supposed to be a transformation of fact, not a literal reporting of it.
"Who's J. J. Kellerman?" he asked.
"Mm?"
"Kellerman—the author of this story. Do you know anything about him?"
"No, I don't think I ever heard of him."
"I don't get the title. 'The Man from Porlock'—Porlock isn't even mentioned in the story. What is it?"
"A little town in England. The title's an allusion to how Samuel Taylor Coleridge came to write 'Kubla Khan' and why the poem was never finished."
Murtaugh raised one eyebrow. "Coleridge isn't mentioned in the story either."
