Murder's Shield
Page 14
“Men,” Remo said, “go home. Forget McGurk and forget me and forget the Men of the Shield. Just remember, when you get to thinking that your job is tough, that, of course, it is. That’s why America picked its best men to be cops. That’s why so many people are proud of you. Go home. “
He started to speak again, but Chiun had stepped quietly inside the door and now raised an index finger to his mouth, as if to shush Remo.
Softly, Remo said again, his voice slowly trailing off, “Go home.”
And then he jumped from the stage and strode purposefully up the aisle, past the rows of men on each side. He paused with Chiun at the door and looked back.
From the audience, men were tossing badges toward the stage, where they hit, or bounced near, McGurk’s body.
Remo turned and walked through the doors.
“You did well, my son,” Chiun said.
“Yeah. And I make me sick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WHEN REMO TELEPHONED IN, he gave Smith the full report. O’Toole’s death. The cops who had been sent to ambush Remo and had died. McGurk’s suicide.
“How the hell are we going to explain all that?” Smith asked.
“Look,” Remo said angrily. “You wanted this thing broken up. It’s broken up. How you pick up the loose ends is your business. Send a special team from the Attorney General’s office to investigate and later bring in a whitewash of the whole thing.”
“And what about the members of the Men of the Shield? The assassination teams?”
“Forget them,” Remo said. “They’re just cops who made a mistake.”
“I want their names,” Smith said. “They’re killers.”
“So am I. You can have them the day after you come for me.”
“That day may come,” Smith said.
“Que sera, sera,” Remo said and hung up.
End of report.
But he still had not told Smith everything, and an hour later he was on a plane to Miami, to see if there was one last loose end he had personally failed to tie up.
Smith had triggered it when he had talked about the computer efficiency of a nationwide killing operation manned by only forty people. O’Toole had mentioned it when he talked of his reasons for launching the Men of the Shield. McGurk had lent weight to it once when he described Janet O’Toole as “the brains of the operation.”
Remo had to find out if it was true. Had Janet O’Toole, the computer expert, been part and parcel of the plan to kill, because of her insane hatred of all men? He had to find out because if she was, neatness demanded that she be taken care of.
He found her at the Inca Motel, a dismaying straggle of buildings and pools with varying pollution counts. She was sipping a tall drink at midnight near an outside pool when Remo arrived.
He stood outside the glare of the ring of lights and watched her, sprawled languorously in a beach chair.
The busboy brought a drink up to her and while he stood there with it in his hand, she stretched like a cat, arching her back, thrusting her breasts upward toward the boy.
Finally, she took the drink, but as the boy was walking away, she froze him in mid-stride by calling imperiously:
“Boy!”
“Yes, ma’m?”
“Come here,” she said. The boy was in his early twenties, blond and tan and good-looking. He stopped at her feet looking down at her, and she pulled up her knees, spreading her legs slightly, and asked him softly, “Why have you been staring at me?”
She wore a tiny two-piece bikini and the youth stammered and said,“Well… I… I didn’t… I… ”
“Don’t lie,” she said. “You did. Is there something I have that other women don’t have?” Before he could answer, she said, “I’m tired of your insolence. I’m going to my room. I want you there in five minutes and you’d better be prepared to explain your behavior.”
She set her glass on the pool deck, stood up and walked away gracefully on high spiked heels.
Remo waved the boy to him.
“What’s with her?” he asked.
The youth grinned. “She’s a sex fiend, Mister. It’s how she gets her kicks. She’s been here only a couple of hours and she’s balled half the staff. First she chews them out, and then drags us to the room and… well, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Remo said, then leaned forward and gave the youth a hundred-dollar bill.
Janet O’Toole was naked when the knock on the door came a few minutes later. She turned off her light and pulled the door open slightly.
A male figure stood there. He said softly, “I’ve come to apologize.”
“Come in, you evil-minded child, you. I’m going to have to punish you, you know.”
She took the man’s hand and pulled him into the room. A moment later, their bodies were locked together.
But in her brief career as courtesan, it had never been like this. The man brought her to heights, higher and higher, until she felt like skin-covered jelly.
She reached a peak and the voice whispered in her ear, “Your father’s dead.”
“Who cares? Don’t stop.”
“So’s McGurk.”
“Keep going. The hell with McGurk.”
“The Men of the Shield are disbanded.”
“So what? Just another bullshit organization anyway. Keep it coming.”
He did.
When Remo got up later, she was sleeping, her mouth opened slightly, her breath still coming fast and shallow.
He flipped on the dresser light and looked at her. No, he decided, she wasn’t a killer, just a computer operator. The only way she’d ever try to kill a man was in bed, in a fashion allowed by law.
Remo stood at the small dresser, took paper and pen from the center drawer, and wrote a quick note.
Dear Janet:
Sorry, but you’re too much woman for me.
Remo.
He left the note on her bare breasts, and went out into the Miami heat.
About the Authors
WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, New Jersey. He worked in journalism, editing, and politics. After many of his political colleagues were arrested, Murphy took it as a sign that he needed to find a new career and The Destroyer series was born. Murphy has five children Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin, and a few grandchildren. He has been an adjunct professor at Moravian College, Bethlehem, PA, and has also run workshops and lectured at many other schools and universities. His hobbies are golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America and has been a member of the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, the American Crime Writers League, and the Screenwriters Guild.
RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations, before creating The Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made recently into a film. The New York Times book review section called him “a brilliant professional. “
Also by Warren Murphy
The Destroyer Series (#1-25)
Created, The Destroyer
Death Check
Chinese Puzzle
Mafia Fix
Dr. Quake
Death Therapy
Union Bust
Summit Chase
Murder’s Shield
Terror Squad
Kill or Cure
Slave Safari
Acid Rock
Judgment Day
Murder Ward
Oil Slick
Last War Dance
Funny Money
Holy Terror
Assassin’s Playoff
Deadly Seeds
Brain Drain
Child’s Play
King’s Curse
Sweet Dreams
The Trace Series
Trace
> And 47 Miles of Rope
When Elephants Forget
Pigs Get Fat
Once a Mutt
Too Old a Cat
Getting up with Fleas
Copyright
This digital edition of Murder's Shield (v 1.0) was published in 2013 by Gere Donovan Press.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2013 by Warren Murphy
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Errata
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