The Killing Man mh-12

by Mickey Spillane

  Pat had an unmarked car and we drove up Sixth Avenue to the Fifties, parked in a public garage and went into the side entrance of the half-block-wide building. The elevator took us up to the ninth floor and we turned left to the frosted glass doors marked SUTTERLIN ASSOCIATES, ARCHITECTS.

  Inside, a glass booth surrounded the receptionist, and when Pat spoke to her through the cutout in the window, she told us to wait, spoke into the phone, and a minute later a young guy in a business suit with the body language of the State Department came out, ushered us down the hallway and knocked on an unlabeled door, waited for the buzzer to click it open and waved us in.

  Bennett Bradley and Ferguson were there already, Bradley behind his desk and Ferguson pacing beside him, ignoring three chairs already positioned. There was no handshaking, just perfunctory nods, and we all sat down at once.

  Bradley didn't waste any time. He leaned forward on his desk, his fingers clasped together, the expression on his face as if his shorts were too tight. "Gentlemen," he started, "before we begin, I want it understood that this meeting, and what is said here, is strictly confidential. Three of us represent government agencies and understand that position, so to you, Mr. Hammer, I want to make myself clear. Is that understood?"

  I said, "I hear you."

  "Good. I believe Mr. Ferguson has something to say."

  The CIA agent shifted in his chair to face Pat. He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope I recognized right away. "Captain Chambers, I have an item here that was routed through our office for identification."

  He dumped the tooth I had found into the palm of his hand.

  Pat's face hardened and he said tightly, "I was supposed to get a report in my office."

  "Let's simplify things," Ferguson said. This time he looked at me. "I understand you found this."

  I hedged a little. "I came by it, yes."

  "How?"

  "Let's say I'm in the business of looking for clues. I was a victim of a crime of aggravated nature and made it my business to look for my assailants. That is what is called a clue."

  "I don't need sarcasm, Mr. Hammer."

  "None intended," I said soberly. The hardness eased out of Pat's face.

  "You assumed this came from the mouth of an assailant?"

  "Something did. This was the only thing that could have."

  "And you took it right to Captain Chambers."

  "Correct." I knew what was coming and got there first. "The mugging on me wasn't any street crime, so don't let's beat that dead horse. This went down as a very knowledgeable venture by people who knew all the ropes. They had teamwork, knew drug handling, didn't bother to confiscate my money or weapon . . . hell, they even wore spook shoes that could handle any surface efficiently and quietly."

  "You are referring, of course, to the CIA?"

  Pat spoke up and said, "That's where the identification finally came from then, didn't it?"

  Ferguson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Yes." When he had gathered his thoughts, he went on: "The recipient of that partial had the work done at a government facility after he lost it on a CIA operation. It was listed in his file and recorded on the computers."

  "Who was he?" Pat asked.

  When Ferguson didn't answer immediately, I said, "Want me to leave the room?"

  A touch of scorn was in Ferguson's voice. "I don't think that would make any difference at this point, would it, Captain Chambers?"

  "You said it in the beginning, pal. He's in this pretty damn deep and if he wants to make anything public he can do it. Just remember that he's still a good guy."

  "Well put. All right, the partial belonged to an agent named Harry Bern. He was an old hand who came into the agency in 1961. He had a military background, was well rated but considered a little reckless out on assignments. When there was all that fury about extremes in our covert operations, certain agents considered touchy were released. He was one of them."

  Pat said, "I suppose you checked his passport?"

  Ferguson seemed surprised at that. To him cops weren't expected to think that far ahead. "He made numerous trips abroad. Apparently he's in this country now."

  "Apparently," I muttered. "And he's not alone."

  This time Ferguson squirmed in his chair again. "Another one we released was his partner, Gary Fells. They came in together and they went out together. They had almost identical background and personality profiles."

  For the first time Bradley let out a hrumph to get our attention and when he had it, said, "Their quizzing you, Mr. Hammer, as to the whereabouts of Penta is what brings the State Department's interest into the picture."

  "You can't locate either of these guys?" I asked.

  "Remaining invisible if they have to is one of their specialties."

  "Good training."

  "Should be. They were in the first cadre General Rudy Skubal commanded."

  Neither Pat nor I showed any change of expression, but we both knew what the other was thinking. General Skubal wasn't new to me at all. A long time ago he had tried to recruit me into his organization, even going to the trouble of having Pat put some pressure on me. Old Skubie, I was thinking, who took himself and the other tigers, as he called them, deep behind enemy lines for twenty-two months, a wild bunch of trained fighters fluent in Slavic languages, who raised complete hell with enemy communications until they rejoined with American units after the Normandy landing.

  Most of those tigers went into frontline field work with the CIA in its early days and became shadow legends with government spooks.

  "Where do we go from here?" Pat asked.

  Bradley unclasped his fingers and made a steeple of them. "Nowhere. That is, you don't. As of now, the police department is being removed from the case. Of course, Captain Chambers, you know what that entails, don't you?"

  Pat nodded, saying nothing.

  "As for you, Mr. Hammer, your total silence is required. Not requested, but demanded. There will be no more investigating the Penta affair or your assailants since this all will be in the hands of federal agencies. The nature of this case is so sensitive that the fewer involved the easier it will be to process. Now, are there any further questions?"

  I said, "Is looking into the murder of Anthony DiCica any part of the Penta business?"

  Bradley unsteepled his fingers and gave a shrug. "I can't see what DiCica has to do with it, Mr. Hammer. Penta was after you."

  "Thanks a bunch," I said. "Since I'm to be the quiet target then, do I get any cover?"

  "I may sound callous, Mr. Hammer," Bradley told me, "but you've already made your sentiments very clear. You prefer to remain unguarded. Now, just to make sure we all understand your position, do you or do you not prefer a guard? I ask this because in your way, you too are a professional and licensed to carry firearms."

  "Just let me take my chances, Mr. Bradley. I get nervous when people are watching me."

  "So be it," he said and stood up. The meeting was over.

  When Pat and I got to the street, he said, "You got to go anywhere?"

  "No, but I'll walk you to the garage."

  "Sure, then maybe you can tell me about that bit with DiCica."

  "Come on, Pat, we're both thinking the same thing. It could have been DiCica he was really after and anything else was a sham. What have you got on the guy?"

  We had stopped on the corner and Pat checked his watch. "I'm going off duty. How about a beer?"

  "How can you go off duty? It's afternoon."

  "I'm the boss, that's how."

  "Fine, a beer sounds great and Ernie's Little Place is right here. You ever been in Ernie's?"

  "No."

  "Good. Neither have I."

  Over the beer Pat told me about Anthony DiCica. He had a listing of all his arrests, convictions that were a laugh, and the victims he was suspected of killing. Every dead guy was involved in the mob scene and two of them were really big time. Those two were hit simultaneously while they ate in a small Italian
restaurant. It was suspected by the police that it was more than a social dinner. It was a business affair and the killer, after shooting both parties in the head twice, made off with an envelope that had been seen on the table by a waiter. Following the hit there had been an ominous quiet in the city for a week, then several more persons in the organization either died or were mysteriously missing before a truce seemed to be declared. It was two weeks later that Anthony DiCica's head collided with a pipe in a street brawl.

  "Let's make a script out of this, Pat."

  "Okay," he agreed. "Our boy Anthony went a little bit further when he hit those mob guys. He knew they were plotting against his employer and grabbed the papers. When he saw what he had, he knew he was in a position of power, but didn't quite know how to handle it, so hid it somewhere." He paused. "Now your turn."

  "The mobs turned on themselves thinking of a double cross somewhere, then realized what had happened and cooled it. It took a couple of weeks to locate our Anthony, but they went a little overboard in bringing him in and cracked his skull. After that he was no good to anybody. They still needed his goods and had to wait for him to come out of the memory loss before they could move . . ."

  Pat lifted his beer and made a silent toast. "We really took his place apart, you know."

  "No, I didn't know. What did you find?"

  "Zilch. There were no hiding places at all. We even tried the cellar area. If he had anything at all, it's someplace else."

  "Now what?"

  "We wait the way we usually do," he told me.

  I grinned at him. "Balls. When are you going to ask me?"

  He grinned back and said, "Okay, wise guy, when are you going to see General Skubal?"

  "Soon. Since you're off this case I go alone, but there's no reason why we can't have a few talks together later, is there?"

  "None at all."

  "And I'm not investigating the Penta affair at all. Just seeing an old friend. Right?"

  "Right."

  "And the next time old Bradley boy demands I do something, I think I'll rap him in the kisser with a civilian citizen hook."

  "Good thinking. You know where Skubal is?"

  "I have his address in my office. I'll get it tonight."

  We finished our beers and when Pat left I made two calls looking for Petey before I found him in his office at the paper. He told me to come on over. He sounded excited.

  Until I saw his office, I hadn't realized Petey Benson's status at the newspaper. Most of the working reporters had a desk with a console in the quiet bedlam of the main section, but Petey had his own room, not a compartment, with a door that closed and his own bank of filing cabinets.

  "Man," I said. "I thought you did all your work out of barrooms."

  "That's all eyewash for the peasantry."

  "You've ruined your image, pal."

  "Nope. Been around too damn long to do that. What you see here is seniority at work. Plus sheer expertise, of course. Technology and computer chips rule the system these days and he who has the most gadgets wins. Wait till you see what I've come up with."

  I tossed my hat on an old Smith-Corona typewriter and pulled a chair up next to Petey. "You have a work-up already?"

  He nodded. "We're lucky we're dealing in areas that have good terminal systems. You know anything about computers?"

  "Very little."

  "Okay, let me brief you a little. In backtracking DiCica, I was able to get into records of public information, had some friends on the other end do a little legwork and between the FOI Act and the power of the press, we've got some history on Mr. Anthony DiCica. Ready?"

  "Hit it."

  Petey's fingers moved over the keyboard and the console came alive. "Where do you want to start?"

  "All right, we'll go for basics." Then he brought Anthony Ugo DiCica up in green electronic reality. Born January 2, 1940, of Maria Louisa and Victorio DiCica in Brooklyn, New York. Victorio was a cabinet maker by trade, a World War II veteran honorably discharged in 1945. Maria DiCica had two stillbirths There were no other children. Anthony graduated Erasmus Hall High School, June 1958, worked one year in Victorio's cabinet shop, then left and was arrested for the first time a year and one week later."

  "How do you like it, so far?" Petey asked me.

  "He made the streets pretty early. Pat's got his rap sheet, so skip that part and stay with the personal stuff."

  Petey hit the keys again. "His father was killed in a holdup shortly afterward, as you see. Now, here's an excerpt from the News about the murder of a man suspected of having killed Victorio. He was even wearing Victorio's watch. Anthony was picked up and questioned, but released for lack of evidence. However, the word was that Anthony found the guy and hit him."

  "He discovered his profession, didn't he?"

  "More than that," Pete said, "he found a patron. Juan Torres."

  I knew the name, and it hit me with force. "Now we're into the heavy cocaine scene."

  "You'd better believe it," he agreed. "You know where Torres stood with the organization?"

  "He was a damned lightweight for a long time, I remember that. Something happened that pushed him right up the ladder."

  Pete nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "He'd just disappear for months at a time and when he showed up he was a little bit bigger. We finally figured out. Juan Torres was a finder. You know what that is?"

  I shook my head.

  "He's got family scattered all through Mexico and South America. A million cousins, you know? He's got that touch, and where there's a coke source he taps into it. He was a nobody, a nothing, but maybe that's how he made it work. The way prices are on the street, no operation was too small to tap into. Torres got the leads, made the deals and the organization moved him up. Oh, he was a damned good finder, all right. He was right inside the Medellin cartel when it first started."

  Reaching across me, Petey picked four printed photos off his desk and handed them to me. In each one Juan Torres and Anthony DiCica were in close conversation against different backgrounds, obviously very familiar with each other. Here DiCica was dressed in expensive outfits, jewelry showing on both hands.

  Again Petey keyed the board and brought up bills of sale and records of deeds to two houses. "DiCica was the sole support of his mother. She still lives in the Flatbush house enjoying an income from two dry-cleaning establishments he bought for her years ago."

  "What about the other one?"

  "A two-family place. Both rentals of long standing. The house was in his name, the rentals went to his mother. In the terms of his will she inherits the houses."

  "Does Maria know what happened to her son?"

  "Here's a copy of a report on her. When Anthony was in that trauma following the beating, she assumed he would die. She collected his belongings and only saw him once after that when he was released. He didn't even know her. All he remembered was something his papa had made, she said." He erased the screen and brought up another report, a letter from the medical supervisor in the hospital that attended to Anthony. He concluded that DiCica had absolutely no memory of his previous life, his mental faculties were severely impaired in certain areas, but he was capable of leading a satisfactory, if minimal, existence.

  "What are you saving for me?" I asked him.

  "Somebody else was keeping a watch on both those houses," he told me. "Look at this." Two minor items from the Brooklyn Eagle appeared. The home of Mrs. Maria DiCica had been burglarized, but nothing seemed to have been taken. The elderly lady and her live-in housekeeper had been locked in the pantry while the ransacking went on. The dateline was two days after Anthony had been admitted to the hospital.

  One day later a minor squib reported an attempted robbery of another house, where the residents downstairs were trussed up and gagged while the robbers prowled through the premises before doing the same thing to the upstairs apartment where the residents were away.

  "Both those houses belonged to DiCica," Petey said. "However, since nothing wa
s reported stolen, they were after something else entirely. Now," he said with emphasis, "check this one out."

  The headline was bigger this time, under a partially blurred photograph of a pair of frightened old ladies. For the second time in a month their home had been entered and this time the women had been bound, their mouths taped shut, and kept unceremoniously on the kitchen floor while the intruders went about systematically tearing their house apart. Apparently they found nothing. Neighbors reported that street speculation assumed the DiCica woman to have a hoard of cash in the house since the ladies lived so frugally.

  Before I could say anything, Petey keyed the console and grinned. "Don't ask me how I got this." It was a copy of a bank statement. The amount was over three hundred thousand dollars, all in the name of Maria DiCica. Deposits were regular and automatic from several sources. "Our boy Anthony had set his old mother up in fine fashion. So, what were the houses being burglarized for and who did it?" He sat back and looked at me. "Or should I ask?"

  "I can give you an off-the-record opinion, Petey, but that will have to do for now."

  "Good enough."

  "DiCica had some devastating information on the mob. He hid it somewhere before he was clobbered."

  With a look of finality, Petey shut the console down. "End of case. It died with Anthony."

  "The hell it did," I said. "Somebody in the organization thinks DiCica suddenly remembered and dropped his secret on me."

  "Brother!"

  "So if it dies, it'll die with me."

  "Only you're not dead yet?"

  "Not by a long damn sight."

  "But they got pressure on you, I take it?"

  I nodded. "The bastards as much as said it was my ass if I don't produce."

  "Shake you up?"

  "I've been in the business too long, kiddo. I just get more cautious and keep my .45 on half cock."

  He watched me frowning, grouping his thoughts. "That mutilation of DiCica could have been a message to you then."

  "It's beginning to look like it," I said.

  "What do you do now?"

  "See how far I can go before I touch a tripwire."