The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  She didn’t own a desk; the kitchen table provided the surface she usually used. That had always been adequate, because most of the time she’d done her work at Catherine’s house, or while traveling with her, or at a studio, or on location. She emptied the shopping bag onto the table, wondering if she’d find anything that might be considered damaging.

  But first she’d get some mineral water out of the fridge. As she drank it, she thought about Zarkov’s insistence on seeing whatever material she had. She’d already gone through the files on her computer and was reasonably sure none of it could even be called controversial. But she’d check this stuff with care. She refilled her glass and sat at the table.

  Going through the heap of paper was like trying to make sense of a puzzle when you didn’t have all the pieces. But she did her best. Letters, both the ones that had been sent to Catherine and the ones she’d begun and abandoned, as well as the scribbled notes, were put into a stack and set aside. The miscellaneous junk—ticket stubs, store receipts, and the like—she shoved to the far end of the table.

  Next she looked at the snapshots. Some appeared to be of Catherine when she was a teenager. Boys were with her in each shot, smiling and mugging. Probably they’d been taken when Catherine was a student in France.

  But most of the photos were of men. Dana didn’t recognize many of them, but a number were famous actors and other people in the movie business. One shot was of Tony Gregarian, who’d directed Hot Cargo, Catherine’s last movie. In the photo he was standing behind Catherine and had his arms wrapped around her while he leered at the camera.

  It didn’t take much imagination to figure out why Catherine had collected the snapshots, or what her relationship with the subjects had been.

  Of course, Dana had been aware of many of Catherine’s liaisons and affairs. But discretion was part of her job, and she’d done her best to protect her employer’s privacy. She put the photos with the other junk and got down to the more important material, the notes and letters. Those she sorted out as well.

  A few had been sent to Catherine by women friends and were little more than bits of personal news and lines of gossip. But the ones from men were something else. One had been sent by a producer who wanted her to join him at his vacation house in Cabo San Lucas, where they’d spend a few days together. Part of it said, I get hard just thinking about you.

  Another, from an actor who’d been the leading man in one of her films, invited her to sail with him on his yacht. Still another actor proposed that they fly to Monaco, where they could gamble all day and make love all night, or vice versa.

  There was more, but all of it seemed to be variations on the same theme: let’s get together and screw.

  Catherine’s half-finished responses were also more or less alike. In each of them she said she’d think it over and call. Dana guessed she’d then skipped the writing and picked up a telephone and said sure, why not. Certainly that would explain Catherine’s habit of disappearing for a few days every now and then, not letting anyone know where she was or what she was up to.

  Some of her affairs had been more public than others, and the gossip columnists had made the most of those. Dana had also been aware of some of the secret relationships, but much of what she read in the letters was a surprise to her.

  When she finished, she sat back and thought about whether they were the kind of thing Len Zarkov had said could be damaging. Certainly they would be a treasure trove for the media. The supermarket tabloids, magazines such as Vanity Fair, and even supposedly reputable publications, would go ape over them. So would TV programs like 20/20, which pretended to do serious investigative journalism. Seen from that angle, the letters would be worth a great deal of money.

  But damaging to Catherine? They were titillating, even prurient in some cases, and the freaks who got their rocks off on this kind of thing would love reading them. And so would every movie fan in the world.

  And yet their contents could hardly do harm or be grounds for any sort of legal action, as far as Dana could tell. She wasn’t a lawyer, but common sense told her the letters were nothing but correspondence between horny guys and a woman who relished her freedom. And besides, how could anything hurt Catherine now?

  The only things that remained to be examined were the notes. They’d all been written by Catherine, and as Dana glanced through them, she realized it was as if the actress had been talking to herself. The phrases weren’t streams of consciousness; they were too disjointed for that. Some were no longer than a few words. But many seemed charged with excitement.

  And in those there was a common thread that Dana found shocking. “Be careful. Dangerous!” And, “Ask Alex. Highly illegal! Warn Bart.” One said, “Check R!”

  As she read the scribbles, Dana felt a growing suspicion that Len Zarkov had lied to her. Just as she’d suspected when he’d talked to her in New York, he wasn’t out to help protect Catherine’s reputation; he wanted to save his own ass. And what did the scribbled R mean? Did that refer to Catherine’s former husband? Had Ron Apperson been involved somehow?

  Whatever it was, Catherine had discovered it and felt that could cause her trouble.

  Sometimes, Dana thought, you think you know something, and then you find out you’re completely wrong. She wondered whether this was one of those times.

  Absentmindedly she picked up her glass and found it empty. Going back into the kitchen, she poured the last of the mineral water from the bottle and drank that as well.

  What she needed now was fresh air. Needed to get out of here and go for a walk, try to clear her head. She dumped the bottle into the bag containing recyclable materials and rinsed out the glass. Grabbing her bag, she left the apartment.

  17.

  For Barker, the drive from the LAPD headquarters was another thirty-minute run. He noticed that the farther west he drove, the more refined the environment became. High-rise apartment buildings, fancy boutiques and department stores, swanky restaurants. Something like Fifth Avenue in New York, or maybe upper Madison.

  When he reached the address, he saw that it was one of the high-rises on the opposite side of the street. He was in luck finding a parking space, slipping the Ford into one just after a Jaguar sedan left it. He fished for change in his pants pocket, found nothing but a dime and a couple of pennies, and gave up on feeding the meter.

  Now for the wait. It was a common part of police work, and he’d done it more times than he could remember. It also was so boring it made his teeth ache, but there was no other option. He settled down behind the wheel, making himself as comfortable as possible, and kept an eye on the entrance of the building.

  The people going in and out were in step with the upscale style of the neighborhood. Mostly they were female, because this was a weekday and men who lived there would be at work. Even the oldest of the women were chic, wearing fashionable dresses or pants and tops, high heels, and the inevitable dark glasses.

  He’d been there about an hour when a meter maid came along, riding a machine that was like a cross between a moped and a bumper car. She pointed to the meter and said to him, “Time’s expired. Move, or I’ll give you a ticket.”

  Barker slipped the wallet out of his pocket and flashed the tin. At the sight of the gold shield, she rode on.

  He again adjusted his position and, in an attempt to relieve the boredom, turned on the radio. The station was playing old records, which he thought were far better than the dipshit rap that filled the airways these days. Rappers called their output music, even though there was no melody and in what passed for lyrics the alleged artists spewed lines about bitches and hos and offing the po-lice.

  Two more hours went by, and he began to wonder whether he’d be there all day. Or whether this could even turn into an all-nighter. Hell, she might not be there at all. In which event, he could sit in this damn car until he ossified and they’d have to pry him out of it.


  And then there she was. He recognized her at first glance, looking as elegant as any of the women he’d seen since he’d camped there. In fact, more than most of them. She emerged from the building’s lobby and turned right, striding confidently along the busy sidewalk.

  Barker jumped out of the car and ran across the street, dodging traffic and raising his hand to drivers who angrily blew their horns at him. He drew up alongside her and said, “Miss Laramie? Excuse me.”

  She turned and looked at him, and her jaw dropped. For a moment he thought she might try another sprint to get away from him. Instead she said, “Why are you after me? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I know you haven’t,” Barker said. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

  It was obvious that she didn’t believe him. “Talk about what?”

  “The case, of course.” He gestured toward a nearby coffee shop. “Come on, let’s duck in there and I’ll explain.” Before she could protest further, he steered her into the place and they sat at a table.

  “Is this legal?” she said. “You’re a New York policeman, and we’re in LA.”

  He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Of course it’s legal. There’s no law against conversation, as far as I know. And that’s all I’m looking for. So relax, okay?”

  “Relax? You tried to keep me from leaving New York because I was a material witness. And now you followed me out here. I’m supposed to relax?”

  A waitress approached, and Barker asked Dana if she’d like coffee.

  She shrugged resignedly. “I guess so.”

  Barker ordered coffee for both of them, and when he and Laramie were again alone he said to her, “Let me make a few things clear, okay? First, I didn’t follow you out here. I had other reasons for coming to LA. Second, I wasn’t trying to keep you in New York. I had no authority to do that. If we wanted to ask you more questions, it would have been entirely up to you to decide whether or not to answer them.”

  “Is that really true?”

  “Absolutely. You wouldn’t have to talk to any of us, if you didn’t want to. You could just walk away.”

  “Such as now?”

  He grinned. “At least wait until you’ve had your coffee.”

  She didn’t return the smile. “I still don’t know whether to believe you.”

  “Then just listen. I came here because I think the murders may not have been part of a jewel robbery. Instead, the killer might have deliberately targeted Ms. Delure and her manager, and the robbery was to cover his real purpose. If I’m right, the motive most likely had to do with something in your boss’s personal life, most of which was here in LA.”

  The waitress returned, served their coffee, and again left them.

  “I wanted to talk with you,” Barker went on, “because I thought you could probably give me more good information than anyone else.”

  “And you think I’m going to tell you about Catherine’s personal life? Forget it.”

  “Even if it might help solve the case? Don’t you think you owe her that?”

  The last question stopped her. She drank some of her coffee, obviously thinking over what he’d said. She put her cup down. “What is it you want to know? Not that I’m necessarily going to answer.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe she was afraid of something, that she might be in danger?”

  Once again she seemed taken aback. “Why do you think there was anything like that?”

  So I was right, Barker thought. But he was careful not to push too hard.

  “After the funeral,” he said, “I spoke with Roger Delaney and his wife, and he invited me to his father’s house to talk. He said Catherine had told him she’d learned about something that was highly illegal, and she was worried about her safety. In fact, she wrote him a letter saying so. Does that strike a chord with you? And do you have any idea what was troubling her?”

  Dana folded her arms and looked away, and it was apparent to Barker that she was confused. Or perhaps reluctant to take this any further. At last she said, “Suppose I did have an impression along those lines. What would happen if I were to tell you about it?”

  “Depends on what it was. But if I thought it was relevant, I’d try to track it down.”

  “Would I have to be involved?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know whether I should go into it or not.”

  “So I gather. But there is something, isn’t there?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe.”

  “Then let’s have it. Keep in mind that by helping me, you’d be helping Catherine, too.”

  “All right. Earlier today I went to her house and took her personal letters and notes from her desk.”

  “The house is in Beverly Hills?”

  “Yes. On North Crescent.”

  “Did she own any other homes?”

  “One. On Lake Geneva, in Switzerland. But all her correspondence and records were here.”

  “Why did you take them?”

  “Because Len Zarkov had told me there might be some things that would hurt her reputation if they got out. He said he and his lawyer wanted me to give them anything I found, so they could protect her. But when I read her notes, I could see that what he wanted to protect was himself.”

  “Did the notes contain any details?”

  “No. But one of them suggested to me that her ex-husband might be mixed up in whatever had frightened her.”

  “The ex-husband is Ron Apperson.”

  “Yes.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “Not very well. They were divorced before I went to work for Catherine. I’ve only seen him a few times. And except for answering the phone when he called, I hardly ever spoke to him. Catherine stayed in touch with him though.”

  “How did you get your job, by the way?”

  “I was teaching sociology at UCLA and felt bogged down. I wanted to do something more stimulating and exciting, and I was especially interested in the movie business. In fact, I was gathering material for a book about the history of Hollywood. But what I really wanted was to go to work in the industry. A friend knew Catherine and told me she was looking for a personal secretary. The friend put me in touch, and we hit it off from the first meeting.”

  “How was she to work for?”

  “Terrific. Always treated me very well. She knew I was learning as much as I could about the business, and that I’d move on when another opportunity presented itself. But that was okay. In fact, she encouraged me to learn. I really thought a great deal of her.”

  “About those notes. I’d like to read them.”

  “I guess that would be all right. But not the letters. They were from her men friends and were more, uh, personal.”

  “Sure. Just be sure to take good care of them. At some point, it might be necessary to look into the people who wrote them.”

  “I understand.”

  “Are all those things at your place?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Then if you don’t mind, we’ll go there.”

  18.

  There wasn’t much, he thought. Just a few hastily written words that confirmed what Dana had told him. But they were enough to make him all the more sure that he was onto something, that his suspicion was correct. The man who’d gone to the Sherry-Netherland had very likely been on a mission to kill Catherine Delure. And maybe her manager as well.

  Barker sat back and said, “Would you have any idea what this trouble might be about, and why she was afraid?”

  “No. None.”

  They were in Dana’s kitchen. She’d brewed more coffee for them, and Barker was on his second cup.

  He picked up one of the scraps of paper. “This says, ‘Warn Bart.’ Who’s Bart?”

  “That’s personal.”

 
“Meaning what, that he was one of her lovers?”

  “I told you, I don’t want to go into her relationships.”

  “I’m not asking you to. But I want to know who the guy is, and why she felt she had to warn him. Warn him about what?”

  “His name is Bart Hopkins. He was a friend of hers who made a fortune by investing in computer software companies. Catherine told me he owned more than a million shares of Microsoft, and he bought a big chunk of Google when it issued an IPO a few years back. So he has plenty of money, and like a lot of people he wanted to get into the movie business. He wanted to meet Len Zarkov. I imagine she was warning him not to get involved in movies.”

  “Or warning him about Zarkov?”

  “I don’t know. But that’s possible.”

  “How much contact have you had with Zarkov?”

  “I’d see him occasionally when he visited the set of one of Catherine’s pictures. Or once in a while in some social setting, or at a function that was promoting a movie. He gives parties all the time when he’s in LA, and a couple of times Catherine took me along. That was about it. But then after the murders he offered to arrange for me and Diggs to fly back to LA in a studio plane. He was the one who told me the authorities would force me to stay in New York. And he kept urging me to give him her personal letters and notes, stuff like this.” She waved a hand at the pile of papers on the table. “He said he and his lawyer would look it over and pull out anything that would be hurtful to Catherine’s reputation.”

  “And that’s all he said to you?”

  “No. The last time I saw him was in the bar at the Regency, after the funeral. He offered me a job as his assistant. Said I’d be making a lot more money working for him, and that it was a great way for me to step up in the business, as he put it.”