The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  He grabbed the girl’s wrist and pulled her with him into the living room, where he opened the door and peered out. Satisfied no one was there, he stepped out of the suite, taking her along.

  A short distance down the corridor was the door that led into the stairway. Continuing to hold her arm, he walked to the door and opened it. Then he pushed her past him onto the landing and kicked her in the ass as hard as he could. She let out a shriek and tumbled headfirst down the flight of stairs.

  For several seconds, he could hear her bumping and banging on the treads, and after that there was silence.

  Mongo stepped back and slammed the door. He knew that in compliance with fire and security rules, the doors from the stairway on each floor had one-way locks, so they could only be opened from the corridors. Even if she survived the fall, she wouldn’t be able to get back in. She’d have to go down to the ground floor and make a big appearance, stark-ass naked. Serve her right, the bitch.

  Returning to the suite, he emptied her handbag onto the dresser. Then he gathered the handbag and her clothing and carried them out onto the balcony. The predawn sky was turning gray, but the multicolored lights of Vegas were still shining brightly and traffic was streaming through the streets.

  First, he slung the handbag over the rail. Next, he threw the other things as well, watching as the breeze caught them and sent them sailing. He returned to the bedroom and got back into bed.

  Face it, he told himself. I was just too damn careless. Maybe I’m losing my grip.

  As tired as he was, he couldn’t get back to sleep. He tossed and turned and finally got up and went into the living room, where he poured himself a fresh drink.

  Sitting on the sofa, he sipped the whiskey. He was still seething when the phone rang.

  Jesus, now what? He let several more rings go by, and then he picked up. “Yeah?”

  The voice on the other end had that hollow mechanical sound, as if it were coming from a machine. “Get back here,” it said.

  “You got something for me?”

  “Not at the moment. But if something comes up, I don’t want to have to chase you around Vegas. So come on back.”

  For a moment Mongo was tempted to tell him to stick it up his ass. But then he thought better of it. “Yeah, okay.”

  There was a click, and then the dial tone.

  Mongo put the phone down. He got up and went into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, turning on the cold water full blast.

  13.

  Manhattan assistant district attorney David Beilin stood at his desk, silhouetted against a window that gave a view of an airshaft. He was tall and thin, and his gray flannel suit hung loosely from his bony shoulders. His paralegal, a middle-aged black woman, was taking notes.

  Vaughn Harriman, the ADA’s supervisor, sat off to one side. Gray templed and somber, he was high up in the Investigation Division. For him to be here told you that of all the thousands of active cases in the docket, this one was right at the top of the pile.

  Arrayed before Beilin were a number of cops from the Delure task force, among them Dan Hogan and Charley Coyle, along with other members of Hogan’s Homicide crew. Jeb Barker and Joe Spinelli were also on hand, as were detectives who’d been drawn from various precinct squads.

  As for the ADA, Barker had never heard of him before this. But there were more than five hundred prosecutors in the Manhattan district attorney’s office, so that wasn’t surprising. Beilin had to be pretty sharp, to be given an assignment as important as this one.

  “I hope you men understand,” Beilin began, “how much attention is focused on this case. The media are howling that there’s been no progress in the investigation, and the public’s demanding action. Catherine Delure was a celebrity, and people want to see her murder solved as soon as possible. So does the district attorney, and so do the mayor and our congressmen and senators. The governor has also weighed in. Do you guys realize that?”

  Barker exhaled. What the hell did Beilin think, that the cops weren’t aware of the shitstorm the case had kicked up? Or that there was no pressure on the cops? The PC was demanding action, and so were all the other top brass. There was a fire under everybody.

  “And do you know why there’s so much heat?” Beilin went on. “It’s not just because the victim was famous. It’s also because this is an election year.” He paused to let that sink in. “So what have you got for us?”

  “We’ve developed a mountain of leads,” Hogan said, “and we’re hoping to get a break soon. We’ve put out an APB with a good composite of the perp, and the FBI is looking for matching MOs. We’re also combing our files and hunting for thieves that fit the description, and we’re working street contacts. We have to follow up on every tip, but that takes time.”

  “NDIS give you anything?” That was the national DNA database that contained more than eight million offender profiles.

  “No, it didn’t. The CSI couldn’t get any of the guy’s DNA in the hotel.”

  “How many men do you have on the case?”

  “A hundred and ten detectives. And I’ve been asking the chief to assign more.”

  “What about suspects? You said you had leads.”

  Coyle said, “We’ve interviewed dozens of people, but no luck so far. Either they don’t fit, or they have a solid alibi.”

  “I’ve seen the security tape,” Beilin said. “Not very clear.”

  “That’s why we made the composite,” Hogan said.

  “I’ve seen that too. At least it’s better than the tape. But I wasn’t able to speak to the principal witnesses, the secretary and the bodyguard. They both left town and went back to California. Although according to the DD5s, you got nothing really substantial from them. Is that right?”

  “Just their help making the composite. They also explained how the guy conned his way into Delure’s suite.”

  “What did Forensics give you? Anything useful?”

  “Only one thing. There was a hair in the bedroom they said came from a wig. It was reddish blond, the color of the perp’s hair. So probably it came from him.”

  “If he was wearing a wig, he could take it off afterward. And that would undermine the accuracy of your composite, wouldn’t it?”

  “It might. But the witnesses said the face in the drawing looks just like him. So we’re making another version that shows him with no hair. We’ll send that one out too. Also we’re getting information on wig makers and retailers.”

  “I read the pathologist’s report on the post,” Beilin said. “According to him, the killer shot each woman with a two-inch-long fléchette.”

  “That’s correct,” Hogan said. “Fléchette is French for little arrow.”

  Barker rolled his eyes.

  “How could he shoot such a thing?” Beilin asked. “Wouldn’t it take a pretty big gun? And wouldn’t it make a lot of noise? Yet nobody heard a gunshot. And the bodyguard frisked the guy before he let him in.”

  “He must’ve had the weapon hidden someplace,” Coyle said. “Strapped to his leg or something. And a silencer would cut down the noise.”

  Hogan said, “Our ballistics people are still trying to figure out what it was, but so far they haven’t come up with the answer.”

  The ADA looked past Hogan and Coyle at the detectives who were standing shoulder to shoulder in the crowded office. “Anybody have anything to add?”

  Barker said, “A lot of us have been checking pawnshops and known fences, trying to find out how the killer disposed of the jewelry. That’s what my partner and I have been doing. But I think we may be on the wrong track.”

  Beilin frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning the perp might not have tried to unload the jewels at all. In fact, robbery might not have been the primary motive. He might have deliberately targeted Delure. Stealing the jewelry could have been an afterthought, or e
lse a way of covering his true objective.”

  “You have anything to back that up?”

  “Not at this point. But I certainly think we should be looking into Delure’s personal life, especially her contacts in Los Angeles.”

  “I’m way ahead of you there,” Hogan said. “I already called the chief of detectives in LA. He agreed to run a check on possible suspects, both jewel thieves and people who might have a grudge of some kind against either Delure or her manager.”

  Barker felt rising frustration. “You call that an investigation? Making a phone call?”

  Hogan’s face turned beet red. “I call it covering all angles, Barker.”

  “So you made contact,” Beilin said. “And LA agreed to cooperate­.”

  “Exactly.” Hogan shot a fierce glance at Barker.

  “Very good,” Beilin said. “I’ll be interested to know if they come up with anything.”

  Barker couldn’t believe it. He opened his mouth, and then he thought of Frank Kelly’s advice. Do not blow your cork. He clenched his teeth.

  Beilin’s gaze swung back to him. “You said you were checking on disposition of the victim’s jewelry. Do you have an accurate description of what the various pieces were, and what they were worth?”

  “No. Delure’s secretary made up a list, but most of it was just guesses. We also got another list from the insurance company that issued her a policy. That one wasn’t complete, either.”

  Spinelli said, “Also the descriptions of the pieces were too general. Nothing specific that would tie them to the victim.”

  “Even so, did you distribute copies of the lists?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Okay, be sure to give me copies as well. Judging from what you have, can you estimate the overall value?”

  Barker shrugged. “Somewhere around a million dollars.”

  “If that’s true,” Beilin said, “it tends to contradict your conjecture about his motive. A million dollars’ worth of jewels would be a strong lure for a robber.”

  “Damn right it would,” Hogan said. “Strong enough for him to kill two people. He knew what he was after. The secretary said Delure always traveled with a lot of jewelry.”

  “How would the thief have known that?”

  “She liked to show the stuff off. Every time she went out in public she wore diamonds and emeralds and so on. All he’d have to do was see her in a TV interview. Or in a photo by a paparazzo. ”

  “So what do we have on him? What have the descriptions and the videotape told us?”

  Coyle said, “We know he’s fairly young. He’s tall and wears nice clothes. Speaks well. And he’s got a friendly personality.”

  “He’s also very ballsy,” Hogan added. “Willing to take chances. Knowing that much about him, we’d expect someone to come up with a suspect.” He shot another glance at Barker.

  It was harder, this time, for Barker to stay cool. So now he and Spinelli hadn’t been doing their job? Hogan was an expert at offloading responsibility.

  “What it comes down to,” Beilin said, “is that we’ve made very little progress. Anybody care to dispute that?”

  There was some muttering in the room, and shuffling of feet. But none of the detectives made a protest against the ADA’s remark. And then for the first time since the meeting began, Beilin’s supervisor spoke up.

  “What’s needed here,” Harriman said, “is a break in the case. It doesn’t matter whether it comes from a tip, or from tracing some of the victim’s jewelry, or from some other development.”

  He paused. “But I can tell you this. I’ve talked with Chief Morrison. And you can be sure that he won’t hesitate to shake up the department. If none of you can do the job, he’ll assign someone who can. So don’t be surprised if he calls in a whole new team.”

  14.

  “How did the meeting go?” Kelly asked.

  “It stunk,” Barker said.

  “Why, what happened?”

  Barker gave him a quick rundown on what had transpired in the ADA’s office.

  Kelly tilted back in his chair. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

  “Maybe not to you, but this guy Harriman said if we don’t get a break soon, the chief’ll dump us all and put somebody else on it.”

  “Uh-huh. You always hear that when the pressure’s on to clear a big case. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “It’s not only that,” Barker said. “I’ve had it up to here with Hogan. He keeps insisting the motive was robbery, and he won’t even consider any other possibility. He’s got the ADA convinced, too.”

  “He’s just covering his ass. Robbery is the only thing he can point to as a motive, so he has to play it out.”

  “That might be. But it’s no way to run the case.”

  “Maybe not. But that’s the way it is. You got anything else?”

  “Yeah, I do. After I went to Delure’s funeral, I spent time with her brother at the family’s house in Connecticut. He told me she was in some kind of trouble. And to prove it, he gave me this.”

  Barker took the letter from his blazer pocket and handed it to Kelly. “Delure sent it to him from Los Angeles, a couple weeks before she came to New York.”

  The lieutenant read through it. When he finished, he put the letter down on his desk and looked at Barker. “Her brother tell you what she was getting at? What she’d seen that was illegal, and why that put her in danger?”

  “He didn’t know any more than what the letter says. But it’s clear to me that this bears out my theory. The murder was not part of a jewel robbery. It was a hit.”

  “Might have been, at that.”

  “Might have been? Come on, Lieu.”

  “Okay, there’s a chance it was. Did you show the letter to Beilin? Or Hogan?”

  “No. I figured I had to get more evidence first. Otherwise Hogan would just fuck it up.”

  “How do you propose to get more evidence?”

  “I want to go to LA and run it down. That’s where this thing must have originated. How else would the perp have known so much about Delure’s trip to promote her movie? How would he know who her PR contact was at the studio, or that she’d be staying at the Sherry-Netherland?”

  “I don’t know. But if that’s what you want to do, you better talk to Hogan.”

  “He’d never agree. Better if I just went.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “You’d be asking for a whole lot of trouble. Keep in mind, you’re on loan to Homicide. As long as you are, you answer to Hogan. And whether you like it or not, giving him that letter would be proper procedure.”

  Barker waited a moment. Then he said, “Let me ask you something, Lieu. Suppose I cleared the case. We’d both get the credit, right? Not just me, but you too, because you’re my boss. You’re the one who supervises my work, and all Hogan did was obstruct us. You’d make captain, wouldn’t you?”

  Kelly laughed. “Don’t try to con me, young man.”

  “But you would, wouldn’t you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then wouldn’t it be worth it to let me have a crack at it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Because there’s an even better chance I’d get busted all the way down to clerk.”

  “All right, so how about this. I go out there, and maybe I clear the case, and maybe I don’t. But either way, it was just me going off on my own and you didn’t know anything about it.”

  Kelly seemed to consider that idea. “What about Spinelli?”

  “Joe stays here, in Hogan’s dog-and-pony.”

  Another moment went by, and Barker wondered whether Kelly might be thinking about showing his old partner’s son that he too had cajones.

  The lieutenant was silent for few more seconds. Then he sighed and said, �
�All right, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll authorize you to draw expense money. After that you’re on your own.”

  15.

  The following morning Barker drove to the American Airlines terminal at JFK and left his car in long-term parking. At the desk he presented his ID and was cleared to take his pistol aboard. Then he checked in for Flight 1, departing New York at 8:40 a.m. He had one carry-on bag.

  His seat was in coach. It was narrow and cramped his legs, and the passenger next to him was a fat woman who smelled of sweat and cheap perfume. The flight attendants were lazy, and the food they served was inedible. On top of all that, the flight was a half hour late, and the 747 did not touch down at LAX until noon West Coast time. Barker had never been so glad to get off an airplane.

  At the Hertz counter, he rented a Ford Taurus. He drove north on the freeway, and as always traffic was heavy, worse even than in New York. At the Sunset Boulevard exit, he left the freeway and drove east.

  He knew LA fairly well, having visited a number of times years earlier, when he was in the Marine Corps and based at Camp Pendleton. It wasn’t a bad town, he thought, especially if you could be there in the wintertime when most other cities were ass-deep in snow.

  His reservation was at the Sunset Inn Hotel in West Hollywood. For relatively cheap lodging, the hotel wasn’t bad, either. There was a gym and a pool, and with luck he might have time to enjoy both of them.

  At check-in, the clerk was a striking young Asian woman with almond eyes and a wide smile. Her name tag said she was Lia. As he began filling out the registration form he heard a commotion and turned around.

  Coming into the lobby were five young guys who were scruffy and unshaven and had hair down past their shoulders. Tattoos covered their bare arms, and one of them had a likeness of a large black spider on his cheek. Another was wearing a T-shirt that said oh shit! in large letters.

  For a moment Barker wondered whether he was in Greenwich Village rather than LA. The men were horsing around and jabbering in a strange patois that sounded vaguely like English. Lia leaned close and whispered that they were a band from London and were on tour.