The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “Sounds like he figured once you were on his payroll you’d keep your mouth shut. No matter what you might have found in your boss’s notes.”

  “I realize that now. And it makes me damned angry. Whatever it was that had Catherine frightened, I wouldn’t be surprised if Zarkov was somehow mixed up in it. And that note that referred to R? Maybe that meant her ex-husband was in it too.”

  “I understand his work is financial?”

  “Yes. He has an office on Sunset Boulevard.”

  “Lots of opportunities in the money business. To stick it to people.”

  “No doubt. But the idea that Catherine and Penny were murdered because they knew about something? I have trouble wrapping my head around that.”

  “I’m not positive about it either. Yet it’s the only thing I’ve found that’s worth following, so far. Tell me, was this all of Ms. Delure’s notes and correspondence?”

  “There are files on my computer. But as soon as I came back here from New York I looked through every one of them. There’s nothing personal in them. Copies of letters from Penny to Catherine’s agent, letters to her lawyer and her accountant, things like that. Penny Ellis handled almost all those things.”

  “Who was Miss Delure’s lawyer?”

  “His name is Alex Haynes.”

  “And one of her notes said, ‘Ask Alex.’”

  “Right.”

  “Of course, that could have referred to other things she might have wanted his advice about.”

  “I realize that. Which reminds me. When I went to Catherine’s house earlier today, her housekeeper told me Haynes had been there. She said she thought he’d taken some papers from Catherine’s study. I checked and saw that he had. But I know he didn’t find anything like these personal letters and notes. It was all business correspondence.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Yes. I was the one who kept it all in order. I did the filing, so I knew what was in there.”

  “And Penny Ellis would have copies as well?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you think Ellis might have known about whatever it was that had Catherine worried?”

  “She might have, but I don’t really know.”

  “I understand Ellis’s body was sent back to her family in Missouri.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Coming back to Zarkov, he’s expecting to hear from you, isn’t he? About this material, and about the job he offered you?”

  “Yes. He told me to call him.”

  “Can you string him along?”

  “I guess I could. But why?”

  “To give me some time. This guy Hopkins. You have a number for him?”

  “I do, but I doubt he’d talk to you. Although—”

  “Yes?”

  “I suppose I could make a call, let him know you’re okay. I know I told you I didn’t want to be involved, but I can also see how important this is.”

  “That’d be great. You can give me his number too, and his address.”

  “All right, it’s on my computer.” She got up and left the room, returning with the laptop and a notepad. Again she sat at the table and turned on the machine. She tapped the keys and wrote the number down on the pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Barker.

  He looked at what she’d written. “Is this in LA?”

  “Yes. He lives in Bel Air. Do you know where that is?”

  “Off Sunset, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Entrance is at Sunset and Bellagio. “I’ll call him now, okay?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  She stepped over to a wall phone and made the call. After a moment she got an answer and asked for Mr. Hopkins. She gave her name and mentioned that she’d been Miss Delure’s secretary, said thanks, and hung up.

  Returning to the table she said, “He was out. That was the butler who answered. He said he’d give Mr. Hopkins the message and have him call me.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll try to see him tomorrow.”

  “Will you let me know what happens?”

  “Sure. I’ll probably need more help from you as I go along. I’ll also want to talk to Ellis’s girlfriend. You can give me her address too, if you would.”

  “All right.” She looked it up and jotted that down for him as well. As she gave it to him she said, “I want to apologize.”

  “What for?”

  “For being completely wrong about you. I really should have been grateful.”

  “No problem.”

  “Anyway, I appreciate the way you’re handling this.”

  “Just doing my job.” How was that for a dumb cliché of an answer?

  “Have you seen the movie, by the way? Hot Cargo?”

  “Not yet, but I plan to.”

  “I have a copy, if you want to see it.”

  “The DVD is already out?”

  “No, this is one the studio sent me. The commercial DVD won’t be out until the movie has had its run in theaters. Shall I put it on?”

  “Okay, great.”

  They went into the living room, and she put the disc into the DVD player. “It won’t have the same effect as on the big screen,” she said, “but at least you’ll know what it’s all about.”

  Barker sat with her on the sofa, looking at the TV as the titles came up. Then for the next two hours he watched Catherine Delure cavort her way through a string of scenes that emphasized her sex appeal.

  The plot, such as it was, involved Catherine going by private jet to a fabulous tropical resort, where she turned heads by strutting around the beach in a bikini. Soon she was romanced by handsome leading man Terry Falcon. They danced in the moonlight, made love in her suite, rode the waves on surfboards, all with as much emphasis on T and A as the director could stuff in.

  In the film, Falcon pretended to be on vacation, while he was actually an undercover agent who was there to track down a gang of drug smugglers. That led to the bad guys kidnapping Catherine and taking her aboard a ship packed with about a million pounds of drugs, Falcon attempting to rescue her, the smugglers trying to rape her, and Catherine shooting countless adversaries.

  There was a chase scene in which the US Coast Guard dueled with the ship’s crew, another chase scene featuring a firefight between SUVs and police cars racing along the coast, and a climax in which Catherine saved Falcon’s life and triumphed over the evil characters by shooting more of them. From there, the lovers waltzed off into the sunset, end of story.

  Barker was glad when it was over. “Very interesting,” he said.

  “Not exactly serious drama,” Dana said, “but it’s a good example of the Zarkov formula.”

  “Where was it shot?”

  “Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico. Everything’s cheaper there. And as you saw, we had a great location. The hotel is called Grand Velas.”

  He smiled. “Must have been good for your tan.”

  “It was. Care for more coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Maybe just a half a cup?”

  “Nope. I’m about to have a caffeine fit as it is. And it’s time for me to move along.” He rose from the sofa. “I’ll be in touch. You still have my cell number? It’s on the card I gave you in New York.”

  “Yes, I have it. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Sunset Inn. You can also reach me there, or leave a message.”

  “Okay.” She walked to the front door with him. “Good-bye, Mr. Barker.”

  “It’s Jeb,” he said.

  She smiled and shook his hand, saying, “Call me Dana.”

  He left the apartment and walked back to his car. It was early evening now, and the streetlights and the lights in the store windows were on. As he approached the Ford, he saw something stuck under the windshield wiper.

 
Shit—a traffic ticket.

  But that was a minor irritation. The truth was, this had been a good day. He’d picked up some valuable information, and possibly some leads. First he’d call on the woman who’d been Penny Ellis’s girlfriend, see what she had to say.

  Then there was Ron Apperson, Delure’s former husband. He’d call Apperson in the morning, arrange a visit.

  Also, Dana had talked about Bart Hopkins, the investor who’d wanted to put money into a Zarkov project. Hopkins could be another source. He’d make a run on Hopkins tomorrow.

  And there was one other thing that pleased him. Dana Laramie was not only beautiful; she hadn’t wanted him to leave.

  19.

  The sky was turning from black to gray, and a cool breeze was coming off the sea. Perfect conditions, Mongo thought, for his morning run. He threaded his way between two beach houses and walked down to the water’s edge. The sand was wet there, and that would make running tough. Which was also perfect. He knew how important it was to stay in shape, and the more he pushed his muscles, the better.

  It was another thing he’d learned in Q. You had to be strong and ready, because you never knew what you might come up against. Especially when you least expected it.

  That was why he’d spent time pumping iron while he was in the joint, and why he made it a regular routine to run in Malibu. He also had a barbell and a set of weights back at the cottage, and he used them too. As a result, his body was as taut and fine-tuned as it had ever been.

  A few other joggers were already out this morning, most of them male, but one or two women as well. Mongo was dressed more or less the same way they were; he had on an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt, his feet shod in ragged sneakers to protect against sharp stones and the occasional shard of clamshell. As he passed the others, he kept his head down.

  Ordinarily, he felt pretty good when he was running. He liked the smell of the salt air as he sucked it into his lungs, liked hearing the smack-smack of his footsteps on the wet sand. But this morning he was in a foul mood, and that made it different.

  The problem was he hadn’t heard a word from Strunk since he’d returned from Vegas. So why the fuck had he gotten the call to come back? He’d had plenty of money left, could still be having a good time at the tables and with the broads.

  On the other hand, whenever he was there he did the opposite of what he was doing now. Here in Malibu, he worked hard to stay in good condition, but in Vegas he did his best to destroy himself. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but not by much. The booze, the coke, the sex, seldom stopping to eat or sleep—Jesus, what a way to live.

  And what a hell of a lot of fun.

  The more he thought about Strunk not contacting him, the more his mood darkened. The weasel acted as though all he had to do was snap his fingers and his pet would jump up and do a jig. Mongo ground his teeth as he went on thinking about it. Maybe he should tell the little shit to go fuck his hat.

  But he wouldn’t do that, of course. The arrangement he’d worked out with Strunk was the smartest deal he could ask for. It had turned out just as he’d planned it during those nights in San Quentin. He’d be very stupid to screw it up now.

  He turned and ran back up the beach, and from there out to the coast highway. Even at this hour there was plenty of traffic, most of the cars and trucks southbound with their headlights on, and he had to wait a full minute before there was a gap and he could sprint across the road.

  At the cottage he lifted weights for twenty minutes, doing mostly squats and curls. After that he took a long hot shower and toweled down, put on jeans and loafers and a fresh shirt. He made himself a breakfast of muffins and a pot of coffee, and as he ate he turned on the little Sony TV he kept on the table and tuned in to the local news.

  There was the usual blather about the weather, which at this time of year was the same every day: morning fog followed by sunshine, temperatures ranging from the low seventies at the beach to the nineties inland. Then came the ball scores and a string of commercials, and after that an aerial shot of the 405 Freeway, revealing that it was crowded. Was there ever a time when it wasn’t?

  Next a Latina chippie was on camera, grinning and jiggling as she read some bullshit story about gang violence in East LA. She said members of MS-13, the Mara Salvatrucha, had confronted a bunch of Norteños at around two a.m., and one of the Norteños had been stabbed. He was taken to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced brain dead.

  Mongo snickered when he heard that last part. Fucking idiot had been brain dead long before he was stabbed.

  There was more, but Mongo had lost interest. Gang warfare in LA was like the weather: same thing, day after day. He looked out the window. The fog was lifting, but it was still a little early for it to clear.

  The TV upchucked more commercials. He would have ignored them, but one was the trailer for Hot Cargo and that got his rapt attention. He’d seen it before, but he always got a kick out of watching it. In a series of quick cuts it showed Catherine Delure fighting off a bunch of bad guys, kissing the leading man, shooting a gun, drinking champagne, and looking gorgeous in a bikini, all against a thundering hard-rock sound track.

  Oddly, seeing the spot induced a sort of perverse pride in him. Catherine Delure had been a movie star, and he’d played an important part in her life. Too bad they couldn’t give him a credit on her gravestone.

  He was about to turn off the set when the camera cut back to the Latina. “This just in. There is breaking news on the Catherine Delure murder case. The police have developed a new lead.”

  Mongo sat up straight and increased the volume.

  “We take you now to New York,” the Latina said, “where the police are describing the latest turn in the case.”

  Cut to a blonde standing on the steps of some official building in Manhattan. Alongside her was a guy with a nose like a banana. Several other men were grouped just behind them, obviously police brass.

  “With me is Detective Lieutenant Dan Hogan,” the blonde said. “Lieutenant Hogan has been directing the investigation and has the latest information on the progress police have been making in the case. What’s the new development, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ve got a report from the lab,” Hogan said, “that reveals key information about the poipitrayta.”

  The cop had an accent so thick it was hard for Mongo to understand him. A poipitrayta? What the fuck was a poipitrayta?

  Ah, he got it then. Banana Nose meant perpetrator. It reminded Mongo of the jabber he’d heard when he was in New York. If you were going to that town, it would be good to take foreign language lessons before you went.

  “Can you tell us what the report said?” the blonde asked.

  “The lab tested a hair,” Hogan replied, “that was found at the scene. The lab report says it came from a wig, and we believe it was left by the killer.”

  “And you think that could lead you to the man who committed the murders?”

  “We think it could, yes. We may be able to trace it. Also, a wig would have given him a different appearance from what we put out in the first composite. And in that one he had a mustache. If he shaved it off, it would further change what he looked like. So we made a new composite of him without the wig and the mustache.”

  “Can you show it to us?”

  “Certainly.”

  Hogan held up a flyer with the drawing on it, and the camera zoomed in tight. The man it depicted had high cheekbones and a strong jaw. There was no hair on his head, and none on his upper lip. His mouth was wide and full lipped, and his eyes gazed straight ahead in a menacing expression. At the bottom of the drawing were bold letters that said wanted in delure murder case. There was also the number of a police hotline.

  Hogan spoke over the shot. “If anyone recognizes this man, please call the 800 number. And be careful. He’s armed and dangerous.”

  Cut back to
the blonde. “Thank you, Lieutenant. We urge anyone who thinks they may know who the man is to call the hotline at once.”

  Cut to the Latina in LA. “That’s a very encouraging development. Catherine Delure was one of Hollywood’s most famous and beloved stars. Learning that the police now have a way to close in on the monster who cut short her life will be good news for her many fans here in Los Angeles as well as around the world. We’ll be showing the new composite drawing of the suspected killer frequently, and we hope someone will respond.”

  Mongo turned off the TV, feeling a little tense. The fucking drawing did resemble him. Banana Nose was smarter than he looked.

  But hold on. The composite wasn’t perfect, by any means. In fact, the guy it showed could be mistaken for a thousand others. So take it easy, Mongo told himself. Don’t lose your cool over some cartoon.

  Nevertheless, seeing the drawing was troubling. It sure as hell was a lot better than the cops’ first attempt.

  For the next hour he puttered around the cottage, tidying up the place, dumping dirty laundry into the washing machine, hanging scattered bits of clothing in the bedroom closet. As he did, the story of the cops’ new direction nagged at him.

  Hair from the wig? What else could they have found? No fingerprints, he’d seen to that. And no DNA; he hadn’t left so much as a drop of saliva anywhere. Fibers from his suit? That might tell them it was an Armani. Big deal. There had to be plenty of those in New York.

  So the hair was all they had. And yet it was significant, no question. The new drawing proved that.

  He picked up his attaché case and placed it on his bureau, popped open the top. Inside were two objects. One was the tape recorder. The other was the wig.

  The recorder would provide solid evidence as to what had fired the fléchettes. He’d have to get rid of it. Should have done it right away, not let it hang around.

  And the wig? That was the root of the problem. Even though he’d paid top dollar for it, the damn thing tended to shed a hair now and then. He remembered brushing a few strands off the shoulders of his suit when he was in the restroom at JFK, before boarding the jet for his flight. He’d get rid of the wig, too.