The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  And yet, could they really trace it? Unlikely. One hair couldn’t tell them much, even though they were making a big deal out of finding it. But the drawing was another story.

  In fact, of all the jobs he’d done, this was the first time cops had ever come anywhere near knowing what he looked like.

  The hotel videotape wouldn’t have been clear enough to help them, so how had they done it? That was obvious. They’d have had the good-looking secretary and the slug of a bodyguard work with an artist to draw a likeness.

  But the hell with it. The hit had gone down like shit from a seagull, and now it was in the past. He could look forward to getting a new assignment, if the weasel would only call him.

  One thing, though. He wasn’t about to take on anything remotely as big as the Delure hit for the lousy payoff he’d collected for it. He’d let Strunk know that, right up front.

  But damn it, where was the call?

  20.

  Ron Apperson’s suite of offices was in a high-rise on the Sunset Strip. It was equipped with a stunning blonde receptionist and a pair of assistants, one male and one female, and a few secretaries. The furniture was ultramodern, and there was an air of urgency about the place. As if there was a lot of money to be made, and they’d have to hurry in order to scoop it all up.

  When Barker walked in and gave his name to the receptionist, she treated him to a dazzling smile and said Mr. Apperson was expecting him. “Please be seated,” she said. “He’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  He sat and picked up a copy of Forbes, began leafing through it. He was a little surprised that Apperson had been so willing to see him. Or maybe like some people when contacted by the cops, he was anxious to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. When Barker had called, he was told to come right ahead.

  After only a few minutes a matronly woman appeared and introduced herself as Jane Sherman, Apperson’s personal secretary. She asked Barker to follow her.

  They went past a cubbyhole that had Sherman’s name on it, and from there to Apperson’s lair. Sherman knocked and opened the door, and when Barker entered she shut it behind him.

  He noticed that although this was a typically bright sunny day in Southern California, draperies covered the windows. All illumination came from spotlights in the ceiling. Apperson’s desk, a thick sheet of glass supported by chromium legs, was stacked high with papers.

  Apperson got up from the desk. He was a big guy, and apparently kept himself in shape. He had wavy brown hair with touches of gray at the temples and wore a nubby white jacket and a white shirt that was open at the throat. He came forward with his hand stuck out. Barker shook it as Apperson said, “Good morning, Detective.”

  “Morning. I appreciate your giving me some of your time.”

  “No problem. You probably want to ask about my former wife.”

  “That’s part of why I wanted to see you, yes.”

  “Horrible thing, that she was murdered. She and Penny.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I must tell you, though, I’m a little surprised that you’ve come to Los Angeles on this. According to the news reports, the murders took place in the course of a robbery in the Sherry-Netherland Hotel in New York. Isn’t that so?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Killer stole her jewelry?”

  “He did, yes.”

  “And that was why he killed them, according to the stories in the newspapers and on TV. Also correct?”

  “Possibly.”

  Apperson pursed his lips. “Possibly? You suggesting there was something else?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” Barker said. “Just covering all the bases.” He smiled. “Besides, it’s nice to have a reason to visit LA.” Playing the part of the rube, putting Apperson at ease.

  “Ah, of course,” Apperson said. He returned the smile. “Anything to get out of New York, eh? I can understand that.”

  “Change of scenery is always welcome,” Barker said.

  Apperson indicated a pair of deeply upholstered chairs. “Let’s sit over here, shall we?”

  After they were seated, he asked if Barker would like coffee.

  “No thanks. I promise to be as brief as possible.” That too was to make the visit seem routine.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Apperson said. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help you. So what can I tell you about Catherine? I suppose you want to know all about her private life.”

  “Only anything that might give us a direction to look at. Whether she had problems with anyone, whether she had enemies.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. She didn’t have an enemy in the world. Unless you count some other actress who was envious of her. But a real enemy? Not as far as I know. And I knew her as well as anyone. We were married almost five years.”

  “Whose idea was the divorce?”

  “It was by mutual agreement. We literally just drifted apart. She had her life, I had mine. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her for weeks on end. She was either in a studio or on location, and when she wasn’t shooting she was on a publicity tour. That’s what took her to New York, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. How did you get along, when you were together?”

  “Oh, well enough, most of the time. We had our squabbles, too, of course.”

  “Over what?”

  “The usual. She resented it when women found me attractive. And frankly, I didn’t like it when men were sniffing around her. Most of them were smarmy creatures.”

  “So there was jealousy, on both your parts.”

  “You could say so, yes.”

  “Any other reason for hostility?”

  “Not really. We had some arguments over possessions when we broke up. California law says everything gets split down the middle, but there are always some gray areas. Nevertheless, we never got to the boiling point.”

  That last didn’t square with what Sam Benziger had told Barker. He said, “When you argued, did you ever push her around? Slap her, anything like that?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t hit women.”

  That was a flat lie, but Barker didn’t press it. “You say she had no enemies. Did she ever feel she was in danger, or could be?”

  “You mean was she threatened by stalkers, that kind of thing? Every actress has to watch her step there. The world is full of nutcases who develop fixations on famous women. Cameron Diaz, Sandra Bullock—they’ve both had to contend with that. And look at Jodie Foster. There was what’s-his-name, the guy who thought he could impress her by shooting the president.”

  “John Hinckley, Jr.,” Barker said.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. But as far as some weirdo stalking Catherine is concerned, I don’t recall anything like that happening with her.”

  “But did she ever believe she was in danger?”

  “Tell me something, Detective. Do you know any actresses? Know them personally?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  “Then let me explain. An actress lives a life of drama. Not just when she’s in front of a camera, or on a stage. But constantly. She always has to be in the middle of a dramatic event. It might be thrilling, or funny, or sad, or a tragedy. But whatever it is, she feeds off it. That’s what makes her tick. It also makes her volatile, or else moody. Or both. And most of all, hard as hell to be around. When I think back, it’s a wonder Catherine and I were married as long as we were.”

  “So I take it the answer is no. She never thought she was in any danger.”

  “I didn’t say that. She might have thought it, but I never saw she had any reason to. If you ask me, her idea of danger was the prospect of getting a lousy review, or being afraid she’d lose a choice part to someone else. But real physical danger? I don’t think so.”

  “What about your own career? You’re in finance, right? An investment
banker?”

  “No. An investment banker underwrites ventures, hoping they’ll become profitable. What I do is different. I have a select list of clients for whom I find investment opportunities in many different fields. Real estate, oil, new products, companies that need restructuring, and so on. Anything that I believe could be a moneymaker. I analyze the prospects, and if they’re favorable, I advise my client to buy in. And I often take a stake myself. More times than not, it works out well for everyone.”

  “Do the opportunities include movies?”

  “Yes, sometimes.”

  “Ever do business with the producer of Ms. Delure’s last movie, Len Zarkov?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

  “How did that go?”

  “There are a number of projects that are in development. It’s too soon to know whether they’ll be successful.”

  “You mentioned having a select list of clients. Who are they?”

  “That’s confidential, for reasons I’m sure you can understand. They’re all very powerful, successful people. They wouldn’t want their identities revealed, and I’ve signed an agreement with each of them that I would never disclose who they are.”

  “I see.” Barker rose to his feet. “I guess that’ll do it, Mr. Apperson. Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Hope I’ve been helpful.”

  They shook hands once again, and Barker left the office. So Apperson’s clients didn’t want to be identified? Okay, but Barker already knew the name of one of them. He’d hear what that one had to say.

  21.

  Massive pillars holding fake wrought-iron gates flanked the entrance to Bel Air. Barker drove on through and followed the winding road.

  The area was heavily wooded, with live oak and cedar and poplar and cypress trees rising from behind high walls. This was some of the most expensive real estate in Southern California, and the owners of many of the homes had seen to it that the walls, trees, and plantings would ensure maximum privacy. It occurred to him that probably more movie stars lived here than anywhere else in the world.

  When he reached Hopkins’s address he drove the Ford up the drive to the main house. It was an enormous Mediterranean, with arches and a tiled roof and pale pink stucco siding. Elaborate gardens surrounded it.

  The inevitable security man was on hand, and when Barker identified himself he was told to leave his car in the side courtyard. He parked the Ford next to a white Rolls convertible and went to the front door. He rang the bell and a butler greeted him, saying Mr. Hopkins was out by the pool and to please follow him there.

  A hallway led to the rear of the house, where there was a vast flagstone patio and a pool house and urns filled with red and purple bougainvillea. The butler indicated a man and a woman who were sitting on deck chairs at the water’s edge. A table between them held tall glasses. The man waved to Barker to join them.

  Both people were in swimsuits. At least the man was. The woman was in next to nothing. She had on a thong that covered her pubis, and that was it. She also had a great body and deeply tanned skin that glistened under a coating of oil.

  The male wasn’t nearly as interesting. He was about fifty, Barker guessed, with iron-gray hair and a matching mustache.

  “You’re Detective Barker?” he asked.

  “Yes. Jeb Barker.”

  “Hi, I’m Bart Hopkins. Dana Laramie told me about you. Pull up a chair and sit down. This is Donna Ferrante.”

  Barker said hello, and the woman smiled at him. She was a brunette, although he hadn’t noticed that part until now. It was hard for him to look away from her.

  “You want something to drink?” Hopkins asked him.

  “No thanks.”

  “Oh, go ahead. We’re having rum punch, which is good for you. It’s got fruit juice in it.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he raised a hand and called out to the butler to bring his guest one of the same.

  Barker sat beside Hopkins and said, “I appreciate your seeing me.”

  “Don’t mention it. Any friend of Dana’s, and so on. She said on the phone you’re working on Catherine Delure’s murder?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I hope you get the rotten bastard who did it. You think he’s here in LA, and not in New York?”

  “I don’t know. But he could be.”

  “Catherine was a wonderful person.”

  “I gather you knew her well.”

  Hopkins grinned. “Well enough not to say any more about it.”

  “And her manager?”

  “Hardly at all. What was her name?”

  “Penny Ellis.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  “I understand you were interested in doing a deal with Len Zarkov.”

  “Dana tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she also tell you Catherine warned me to stay away from him?”

  “She did, yes.”

  “And what does that have to do with the murders?”

  “I don’t know. It’s one of the angles I’m checking out.”

  The butler returned carrying a tray that bore a glass filled with pink liquid. Barker took the glass from him and the butler said to Hopkins, “May I get you or Miss Ferrante anything else?”

  “Not right now, Cedric,” Hopkins said.

  The butler left them, and Barker raised his glass.

  “Cheers,” Hopkins said, and all three drank.

  Stuff tasted good at that, Barker thought. It was cool and tangy, and heavy on the rum.

  “What did you want to ask me?” Hopkins asked.

  “I want to know more about Zarkov, and why Miss Delure warned you.”

  Hopkins said to Ferrante, “Sweetie, why don’t you go into the pool house and have yourself a shower, okay?”

  She got the message. After putting her glass down on the table she rose from her chair and said, “I’ve enjoyed your company, Jeb.”

  “And I’ve enjoyed yours,” Barker said. Which certainly was the truth.

  She smiled. “Hope I’ll see you before you leave.”

  “I hope so too.”

  She walked off to the pool house at an easy pace, and both men watched her go.

  “Beautiful ass,” Hopkins said. “Among other things.”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  “Some of the time.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “Not anymore, thank God. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Word of advice. Keep it that way. It’s a lot cheaper.”

  Back to business, Barker thought. “How did you come to know Zarkov?”

  “Ron Apperson introduced us,” Hopkins said.

  “Catherine Delure’s former husband.”

  “Right. He’d put together a commodities deal for me some time back, and it turned out well. So when he wanted me to meet Zarkov, I said sure. Ron knew I was looking for a way to invest in the movie business.”

  “And you discussed that with Zarkov?”

  “No. That is, I was supposed to get together with him, but before that could take place I mentioned it to Catherine. A few days later I got a call from her, and she told me not to have anything to do with him.”

  “She tell you why?”

  “Nope. I tried to get her to explain, but she wouldn’t. She sounded pretty upset, though. Anyway, I never had the meeting, and since then I’ve regretted it. I’d still like to talk to him.”

  “Would it be possible for you to set up something with him now?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “And could I tag along, without revealing who I am?”

  Hopkins grinned. “Hey, cloak-and-dagger stuff, huh? Sure you could. I’d just say you were a friend of mine.”

  “When co
uld you arrange it?”

  “You’re under time pressure, right? So let me see what I can do. Where can I reach you?”

  “I’m staying at the Sunset Inn.”

  “Okay, I’ll call you there. Zarkov has a party at his house almost every night he’s in LA.”

  “So Dana told me.”

  “If he says tomorrow night would be all right, would that work for you?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Donna was back. She no longer wore the thong, but instead had on a short white skirt that seemed to be made of Kleenex. And still no top.

  Barker got to his feet and said to Hopkins, “Thanks for the drink. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  “I hope you’re not leaving on my account,” Donna said.

  “Believe me, I’m not.” He took one more look and made his way back to the house and on out to his car.

  On the return trip to the hotel Barker glanced at his watch. He’d be able to grab a few hours of sunshine and a swim. He’d also have a late lunch; he was desperately hungry.

  But first he’d call Spinelli and catch up on what was happening in New York.

  And he’d call Dana Laramie as well. He wanted to see her again, and soon. She was as bright as she was beautiful. And once she’d decided to trust him, she’d radiated warmth.

  He also thought about Donna Ferrante. And forced the image from his mind. Instinct told him that one could be a large package of trouble.

  Once in his room, he called Spinelli’s cell. When he got an answer he said, “Joe, it’s me.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Making progress, I hope. How about you?”

  “Still wasting time talking to a bunch of mutts. And Hogan’s been busting my balls.”

  “Over what?”

  “He asked me where you were, and I told him you were pursuing leads, but I didn’t know what they were, exactly. So he had a shit fit and called Kelly to complain. I don’t think he got very far, though.”

  “Then he doesn’t know I’m out here?”

  “No, I’m sure Kelly wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, the lab reported the hair found in the suite was human, but it most likely came from a wig. So Hogan has people trying to run that down, calling wig manufacturers to get a line on who made it and so on. He also had a new composite drawn up, showing the perp without the wig and without the mustache.”