The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “How’d you get here so fast?” Barker asked him.

  Spinelli was shorter than Barker by several inches. He looked up and grinned. “Subway. You drove?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The mayor frowns on people like you. But welcome to the circus.” He waved a hand at the swarm in the room. “You ever see one like this?”

  Barker hadn’t. Both male and female detectives were present, and the NYPD’s finest were doing everything they shouldn’t—walking about and touching various objects—as if they too were googly-eyed movie fans. One guy was smoking, which was strictly forbidden by the regs. What was next, picking up souvenirs?

  “They’re over here,” Spinelli said. He led the way to the far side of the room, where detectives were watching an assistant medical examiner make a preliminary check of the victims.

  Catherine Delure’s body was sprawled in a chair, next to a table. Her head was thrown back, her face pale and contorted in an expression of agony. The ME had opened her blood-drenched dress and her bra, revealing a blue hole in the flesh between her ample breasts.

  The second female was on the floor, half sitting against the wall. Unlike Delure, that one was short, fat, and homely. But her features wore the same look of shock and pain. Her blouse was unbuttoned, exposing a similar type of wound in the center of her chest.

  Barker noticed there was no blood spatter on the wall behind the victims. That was odd, he thought. Especially considering the size of the bullet holes in the two women.

  The ME was a young guy wearing latex gloves and peering owl-like through thick glasses as he photographed the bodies with a tiny digital camera. When he finished he got out an iPhone and punched the buttons, apparently making notes, or perhaps sending them. Detectives were tossing out questions but he paid no attention, continuing to fiddle with his gadget.

  One of the detectives was Dan Hogan, the lieutenant who headed Manhattan Homicide. He was balding and had a nose like a prow. Ordinarily, someone of his rank would not take direct charge at a crime scene. But this was no ordinary crime.

  Hogan obviously didn’t like having his questions ignored. “Must’ve been high caliber,” he said. “At least a .357, maybe bigger. Right, Doc?”

  The ME scowled. “You know I’m not supposed to say anything here. Autopsy will tell you, and you’ll get a complete report from the pathologist.”

  Hogan’s voice rose. “Hey, I’m running an investigation. I need all the information you can give me, and I need it now.”

  Letting everybody know who’s in charge, Barker thought.

  “So let’s have an answer,” Hogan said.

  “Okay,” the ME said. “All I can tell you is they were shot. But I have no idea what caliber the weapon might have been.”

  “What about the exit wounds?”

  “There aren’t any. And that’s all I’m gonna say.”

  Hogan reddened. “Jesus Christ.”

  But the ME had gone back to pushing buttons on the iPhone.

  The Crime Scene Unit arrived, its members carrying equipment cases. The unit’s chief was a sergeant who complained that the site had been badly compromised. He shooed people out of the room so that the forensics crew could start combing it for fingerprints and fibers and take photos. Hogan grumbled, but he and the others left.

  In the foyer, Barker drew Spinelli aside. “The second victim was her manager?”

  “Yeah, name’s Penny Ellis.”

  “I understand there were witnesses.”

  “Three people saw the perp and talked to him: a hotel security guy, Delure’s secretary, and a bodyguard. But nobody saw the shootings. Apparently, the hotel guy didn’t know anything, but the other two might. They’re in adjoining rooms. Secretary is Dana Laramie. Bodyguard’s Chuck Diggs.”

  “You question them?”

  “No, Hogan did. He gave me a stiff-arm, said I should stick with the robbery.”

  “And?”

  “The perp cleaned out her jewelry box. The secretary wasn’t too sure what was in it. Box is in the bedroom.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Barker went back into the living room, Spinelli following, and from there into the bedroom. The CSI sergeant wore an expression of disapproval, but he didn’t try to stop them.

  The bedroom was littered with articles of women’s clothing, some of them draped over chairs, others lying on the king-size bed. A rollaway table covered with a white cloth bore a vase filled with spring flowers and an array of soiled breakfast dishes.

  The jewelry box was on a dresser. It was about eighteen inches square and made of dark brown leather. A tray had been taken out of it and tossed aside, and both the tray and the box appeared to be empty.

  “You could put a lot of stuff in that thing,” Spinelli said. “But look at this.” He pointed to the interior of the box, which was lined with tan suede.

  Barker looked and saw that one object remained. It was a gold ring set with sapphires.

  “So he was in a hurry,” Spinelli said. “Killed the two of them, and then he grabbed the jewelry and hauled ass.”

  A handbag was also on the tabletop, black leather adorned with a gold logo of interlocking Cs. The flap was unfastened. Barker took out a ballpoint and lifted the flap with it.

  The handbag was filled with an assortment that included a lipstick and a compact and a small hairbrush and a few other odds and ends. Nothing unusual about the contents, except that one thing seemed to be missing.

  “No wallet,” he said.

  Spinelli shrugged. “Maybe in one of the drawers. Or maybe the guy got that too.”

  The two men rifled through the drawers and found nothing but more pieces of clothing.

  “You can comb the room later,” Barker said. “Right now I want to talk with the witnesses.”

  Spinelli’s eyebrows rose. “Think you ought to let Hogan know?”

  “Yeah, I’ll ask him for permission. After I talk to them.”

  The pair left the suite and went to an adjoining room. A young woman was sitting in a chair, dabbing her nose with a tissue. Her eyes were red from crying.

  Barker was mildly surprised. He realized he’d been expecting her to be on the flashy side, but instead she was low-key, dark haired and wearing a blue cardigan and a gray skirt. Even with the red-rimmed eyes, she had a lot going for her.

  “I’m Detective Barker,” he said. “You were Miss Delure’s secretary?”

  “Yes.”

  “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’ve already told the other detective everything I could.”

  “Yes, but tell me.”

  “I don’t know whether I . . .” She shuddered, and then with an effort got hold of herself. “All right. I’ll give you any help I can.”

  “Go through it from the beginning, if you would, please. From the time you got to New York.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. Delure and the others had arrived two nights ago, she said. They stayed in, and ordered room service for dinner. Miss Delure wanted to go to bed early, so she’d look her best for a number of interviews that had been scheduled. Yesterday, she had been a guest on the Today Show, and later on Good Morning America. Also there were a couple of magazine interviews, which were done at the hotel.

  “Dinner in again last night?” Barker asked.

  “No. She and Penny joined Terry Falcon and Len Zarkov for dinner at the Four Seasons.”

  “They’re also in the movie?”

  “Terry is. He’s the male lead. Zarkov’s the producer.”

  “Did the bodyguard go with them?”

  “He rode with them in the limo to the restaurant, but he wouldn’t have been at their table for dinner.”

  “They go anywhere else afterward?”

  “I don’t believe so. They were back here by eleven.”


  “And what happened this morning?”

  “A man called me from the lobby. Said his name was Jack Thompson and he was from WNEW Radio and was here for an interview. I didn’t have it on the schedule, but he said it’d been arranged by Sandra Rosen at Galaxy Films in LA.” She paused.

  “And?”

  Laramie looked as though she was about to cry again, but she pulled herself up once more. “And then I spoke to Penny, who said it would be okay. So I told him to come up.” Her lip trembled. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Tall, with curly reddish-blond hair and a mustache. I think his eyes were blue. He was well dressed, had on a tan suit. And he was carrying an attaché case.”

  “Did you see what was in the case?”

  “No, but Chuck did. Apparently there was nothing unusual.”

  “Notice anything else about him?”

  “Just that he was friendly and sort of casual. Seemed very sure of himself.”

  “Joe,” Barker said, “get Diggs in here, will you?”

  Spinelli left the room, and Laramie pulled a tissue from a box on a nearby table and blew her nose.

  “Sorry to put you through this,” Barker said.

  “It’s okay. I just . . . never should have let him in.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. Instead, try to concentrate. Any small detail might help. So if anything occurs to you, let me know.”

  “I will.”

  Spinelli was back, and with him was a hulk of a man whose shoulders threatened to burst the seams of his sport jacket.

  “Chuck Diggs,” the big man said, and thrust out his hand.

  Barker shook it. “Detective Barker. You were Miss Delure’s bodyguard?”

  “Yes, and I want you to know I’m goddamn mad about how that guy conned us. Wish I could get my hands on the son of a bitch.”

  “You notice anything suspicious or odd about him?”

  “No, or I never would have let him in.”

  “Did you talk to him when he came into the suite?”

  “Just to ask him for his ID. He gave me his business card and showed me his driver’s license.”

  “Was it a New York license?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “Where is the business card? Do you have it?”

  “No, the other detective took it.”

  “Lieutenant Hogan?”

  “Right.”

  “After you looked at the man’s ID, did you frisk him for a weapon?”

  “Absolutely. I patted him down top to bottom. Even his legs. He was completely clean. I made sure of it.”

  “And you looked into his attaché case?”

  “Yeah, I did. Nothing in it but a tape recorder and some paper and pens.”

  “You check out the tape recorder?”

  Diggs’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. There wasn’t anything unusual about it.”

  “While he was in the other room with Miss Delure and Miss Ellis, did either of you hear any strange noises?”

  Laramie shook her head, and Diggs said, “Didn’t hear a thing. He must’ve used a silencer. Although Christ only knows how he could have hidden the gun. Like I said, I went over every inch of him.”

  “How long was he in there?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “When did you discover Delure and Ellis had been attacked?”

  “Not until about an hour afterward,” Diggs said. “Maybe a little longer.”

  “When the man came out of the living room,” Laramie said, “he told us Miss Delure wanted to take a nap and not to disturb her for a while. Then after some time went by, I knocked on the door and got no answer. So I opened it, and oh God.”

  “I knew as soon as I looked at them they were both dead,” Diggs said.

  “What did you do then?”

  “I had the hotel security guy come in, and he called down for help. Told them to get the police over here fast.”

  Barker turned to Spinelli. “You got questions?”

  “Yeah, I do,” the detective said. “How long had you two worked for Miss Delure?”

  Laramie said, “I was hired a little over a year ago.”

  “And you?” Spinelli asked Diggs.

  “I’ve been on board seven months.”

  Barker said, “How much jewelry was in that box in the bedroom?”

  “Quite a bit,” Laramie said. “Rings, necklaces, watches, and so on. Miss Delure always took a lot of things with her whenever she traveled.”

  “Could you make out an inventory?”

  “I could try, I suppose. Although I don’t know how accurate it would be.”

  “Do your best. We’ll get it from you later. And another thing: Was Miss Delure married?”

  “Divorced. Her ex-husband is Ron Apperson. He owns an investment company in Beverly Hills.”

  “Kids?”

  “No.”

  “When did they split up?”

  “A couple of years ago. They weren’t married very long.”

  “Was the divorce amicable?”

  “Yes, as far as I know.”

  “Did they stay in touch afterward?”

  “I suppose so. I know they talked on the phone once in a while. And they had lunch a few weeks back.”

  “Any other family?”

  “Her father lives in Connecticut. In Greenwich, where she grew up. He’s in poor health, and she wanted to go out there and see him while she was here.”

  “There was a brother, too,” Diggs put in. “Here in New York.”

  “His name is Roger Delaney,” Laramie said. “Delaney was Miss Delure’s real name. Her brother runs the family business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Something to do with mining. The company is called Delaney Industries.”

  “Okay, that’s enough for the moment,” Barker said. “But there’ll be more questions for you as time goes on.” He dug out his wallet and handed a card to each of them. “If you think of anything that could help us, anything at all, be sure to call.”

  Both said they would.

  “Good. Come on, Joe.”

  4.

  The next stop was the observation center, in the bowels of the hotel. It was a large room, with one wall covered by TV monitors that showed every public area in the building. The monitors were controlled by a visibly nervous older man who was sitting at a console. A tag on his jacket said he was Walter Krachik.

  This space was also swarming with detectives. Barker recognized several of them. One was a sergeant named Charley Coyle, who worked under Hogan in Homicide.

  Hogan was talking with a guy who was apparently in charge of security for the hotel. Another security man, the one who’d encountered the shooter at the door of Delure’s suite, was standing off to one side. When Barker introduced Spinelli and himself, the man said his name was Ed Dougherty and that he was an ex-cop.

  “I was in the job twenty-five years,” Dougherty said. “Came to work here right after I retired.”

  “You spoke to the perp?”

  “Yeah, but just to ask what he wanted. He said he was from WNEW and he had an appointment. When I asked the bodyguard, he said to let him in. After a while he came out of the suite and got into an elevator, and that was it.”

  “Did he seem tense, or in a hurry, when he left?”

  “No, the opposite. He was laid-back, almost like what I’d call jaunty. Told me to have a nice day.”

  Barker nodded his head toward the monitors. “The cameras pick him up?”

  “Yeah, two of them. One in the lobby and the other when he went from the elevator to the suite. Got him leaving, too.”

  “Let’s see what he looks like,” Barker said. He and Spinelli stepped over t
o the console, and Barker asked the operator to show the tapes.

  Hogan shot a suspicious glance at Barker. “You won’t get much. I already had them run a couple of times.”

  Barker ignored him. He told the operator to go ahead.

  “Watch the number seven monitor,” Krachik said. “That shows him in the lobby.”

  The camera’s perspective was from above, and there was no sound track. The tape revealed a man carrying an attaché case entering through the front doors and walking past other people to one of the hotel’s house phones. He picked up the phone and spoke into it, hung up, and went into an elevator.

  Hogan had a point, Barker thought. The images on the monitor were in black and white, and slightly blurred. He could make out the man’s form well enough, but not much in the way of details. Dana Laramie had said the intruder had curly reddish-blond hair, but if she hadn’t told him that, Barker wouldn’t have known it from looking at the grainy picture.

  He had Krachik run the footage four times. The subject was tall and trim and carried a case, but the tape showed nothing more definitive than that.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see the next one.”

  The operator punched up the tape on an adjoining monitor. The images had the same lack of clarity as the others and revealed no additional details. The elevator door opened; then the man stepped out and made his way along the corridor to the door of the suite. There he spoke to Dougherty for a moment. The door opened, revealing Chuck Diggs, who stepped aside to permit the man to enter. The door then closed.

  So maybe Hogan had it right, Barker thought. Not much help from this stuff.

  But the next tape contained a tantalizing detail. The intruder left the suite and walked past Dougherty toward the elevator. As he did, he glanced up at the camera and grinned. Barker still couldn’t see his features clearly, although the flash of white teeth was unmistakable. The man got into the elevator and the doors drew shut.

  “You see that?” Spinelli said. “He was telling us ‘fuck you.’ The nerve of that creep.”