The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “Yes, he told me. He asked me to have lunch with him today, and to bring any of her papers I might have.”

  “Fine. I’ve been trying to tot up everything I know about, although I’m sure he has much more complete information. He said he has the deeds to her house in Beverly Hills and the one in Switzerland, as well as the titles for her cars, and so on. He’s also been in touch with her accountant concerning her tax records. Seems the IRS is already sniffing around. You said you’ll be seeing him today?”

  “Yes.”

  “One thing I’d like you to do, if you would. Knowing Cat, I’m sure she saved a lot of personal notes and letters and things like that. Do you have access to them?”

  “I do, yes.”

  “Then please don’t include them in the material you’ll be taking­ to Alex. I have faith in him, but sometimes things of that nature have a way of winding up in the wrong hands, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Good, I thought you would. And one other point. It’s rather sensitive, so I want you to be very discreet. Did Cat ever tell you she was in danger? Or is there anything in her personal notes that would suggest she thought she was?”

  Dana hesitated. “There are a few notes along those lines. But I don’t know how serious she was when she wrote them. They’re really little more than fragments. Nothing is actually explained.”

  “I see. Did you know she wrote to me, describing her fears? In the letter she made it clear that she’d discovered something illegal that was going on. And apparently she believed that simply knowing about it put her in danger. As you’re aware, the police are going on the theory that the murders were committed because the killer wanted to steal Cat’s jewelry.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s what they said when they had me help with the composite drawing.”

  “And yet a detective came to see me on the day of her funeral. I took him into my confidence and gave him a copy of the letter. Obviously what it contained could send the investigation in a whole new direction. But I think the police may be keeping it a secret while they try to determine the murderer’s real objective. Do you follow?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So here’s why I’m telling you all this. I wouldn’t be surprised if the detective were to contact you. If he does, my advice is to cooperate with him as much as possible. If anything could help solve the murders, it would bring closure to this whole terrible incident. And more important, it would provide some bit of justice to Cat and Penny. I’m sure you want that too.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And one last thing. When you see Alex Haynes today, please don’t mention any of this to him. He’s a perfectly fine lawyer, but this aspect of the situation is none of his business. He just might try to contribute, and by doing so he could muck up the works. Okay?”

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Very well. All best wishes to you.”

  She put the phone down, her head whirling.

  So Roger Delaney didn’t trust lawyers either. Including the one who’d been his sister’s personal attorney. The reason he’d given for keeping Haynes out of the loop had been vague. What was it he knew about Alex Haynes?

  But she’d do as he asked. If he didn’t want her to tell Haynes what she knew about the investigation, then she’d keep her mouth shut about it. And she’d also follow Delaney’s advice about cooperating with the detective.

  As far as that last part was concerned, she was already cooperating with him. In fact, she was cooperating with Barker as much as one person could cooperate with another.

  36.

  Barker kept his right hand on the steering wheel of the Ford as he drove south on the Santa Ana freeway. His other hand held the cell phone to his ear.

  “We got a suspect,” Spinelli said. “And this time he’s a live one. When Hogan got the word, he was jumping up and down.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Street name is Danny the Dip. Or just ‘the Dip.’ Ever hear of him?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “He’s a jewel thief with a sheet down to the floor. His real name is Daniel Ennis, but when he’s working, he gives himself fancier ones. Last night he claimed he was Reginald Montgomery, a British citizen. He looked the part, too. In fact, he looks a lot like Prince what’s-his-name.”

  “What prince is that, Joe?”

  “The one who’s married to Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Philip?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “So how’d it go down?”

  “There was the Governor’s Ball at the Waldorf. Very formal, with the women in gowns and the men in white tie and tails. How exactly the Dip got in we don’t know, but apparently he has ways of getting himself invited to society events. Once he’s there, he snags whatever he can.”

  “Go on.”

  “At the ball, he asked a woman to dance. While he had her in his arms, he took off her diamond necklace, so smooth she didn’t even know it. But before he could put it in his pocket, it slipped out of his fingers and slid down her back. He grabbed it, and at first she thought he was just copping a feel. But then she caught on and screamed her head off.”

  “Then what?”

  “The Dip dropped the necklace and tried to run, but a guy in the security detail cut him off and the two of them started slugging each other. More security piled on, and the Dip was taken into custody. Right now he’s at the precinct house and is still being questioned. Says the woman was confused, and he did nothing wrong.”

  “Has he been questioned about Delure?”

  “Yeah, for hours. He says all he knows about that is what he saw on TV. But Hogan is already telling the media we may have our man. And get this, the Dip was packing. Had a .22 in his waistband.”

  “A .22? That’s a popgun.”

  “Not as far as Hogan’s concerned. To him, it’s like he had a howitzer. Hogan’s saying he was armed and dangerous.”

  “What about the composite? Does this guy resemble the one in the drawing?”

  “Maybe if you squint.”

  “Okay, what else?”

  “That’s it for the moment. You having a good time?”

  “Wonderful, Joe.”

  “Don’t suppose I should ask if you’re making any progress?”

  “I might be. If I do make any, I’ll be sure to let you know.” Barker ended the call.

  A few minutes later he turned onto Third Street and reached his destination. A sign over the door said luke’s gun shop. He parked the Ford and went into the store.

  A guy with a short black beard was behind the counter, talking to a customer. In the display case under the counter there were dozens of pistols of various makes and calibers. Apparently the bearded one was Luke, the owner.

  One other person was in the shop, a man who was looking at rifles that were held on wall racks. Barker stood by, waiting his turn to talk to the owner.

  “I want something real powerful,” the customer at the counter said. He had a beer belly and wore a vest over a checked shirt. “Maybe a .44 Magnum.”

  “I’ve got one more powerful that that,” the beard said. “In fact, it’s the most powerful handgun in the world.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  “A Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro Express Magnum.”

  “Hey, show it to me!”

  The owner unlocked the display case and took out an enormous revolver. He held it up, using both hands.

  Barker had never seen anything like it. The pistol had a long barrel and a wooden grip. It resembled the guns made famous in the Old West, except that it was much larger. He guessed the length to be close to two feet.

  “Jesus,” the customer said. He stared at the pistol with reverence. “That is some piece.”

  “It sure is,” Luke said. “Has to be this b
ig so it can accept the cartridges. See, they were originally made for rifles by Purdey in England. Hunters used the cartridges to shoot elephants in Africa. You asked about a .44? This one’s eight times more powerful. Got a muzzle velocity of 1,950 feet per second. More than four tons of energy.”

  “Jesus,” the customer said again.

  Barker thought of the conversation he’d had earlier with Joe Spinelli. So the suspect in New York had been armed with a .22? Compared to this, a .22 was indeed a popgun.

  But for that matter Barker’s own sidearm was no rival for the huge pistol, either. His was a compact 7.65 Mauser automatic held snugly in an ankle holster on the inside of his left leg. That was where he always carried it and had for so long he was hardly conscious it was there.

  Luke continued his description of the revolver. “It’s made of superhard tungsten steel. And as you can see, the hammer, the extractor, and the knockout cylinder bar are all gold plated.”

  The guy who’d been looking at rifles came over to the counter. He wore a sweatshirt with the Harley-Davidson logo on the back. “Must have a hell of a kick,” he said.

  “Actually, it’s not too bad,” Luke said. “Gun weighs just over thirteen pounds, and that’s partly to handle the recoil.” He handed the pistol to the first customer.

  “Man, you’re right about the weight,” the customer said. He peered at the cylinder. “I see there’s five shots.”

  “Yeah, and single action,” Luke said. “For added strength.”

  “Where’s it made?”

  “Austria. You want one, you have to order it. I only have this one for display.”

  “Goddamn,” the customer said. “I do believe I’d like to have one. How long would it take to get it?”

  “Couple months. Every one of ’em’s custom built.”

  “Worth the wait.”

  “No question.”

  “How much?”

  “Eighteen thousand dollars. Cartridges are forty bucks apiece.”

  The customer’s eyebrows arched. There was a pause, and then he handed the pistol back to the owner. “Have to think about it.”

  “Fine, just let me know.”

  The customer left the shop, and Luke returned the weapon to the display case.

  The second customer laughed and said, “When he found out how much it cost, he about shit.”

  “Yeah, they’re a little pricey for the average guy. What can I do for you?”

  “Need some twenty-gauge, number six shot. Going pheasant hunting. Better give me two boxes.”

  Luke got out the boxes of shells and placed them on the counter. “Need anything else?”

  “No, that’ll do it.”

  Barker looked at the pistols in the display case, noting that nothing came close to the Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro in size. He waited patiently while the customer paid for his shotgun shells and left the store.

  “Yes, sir,” Luke said. “Help you?”

  “You’re a gunsmith, right? Do gun repairs?”

  “Yep. Got a problem with a gun?”

  “No, no problem. I have a sort of unusual request.”

  “Yeah? For what?”

  “I want some fléchettes, but not the ordinary kind. I want ones that are a lot heavier. I’d shoot them one at a time.”

  “Can’t help you there, mister. Don’t have anything like that. Besides, fléchettes are illegal in this state.”

  “I realize that. But I’m willing to pay anything for them. You could probably make the kind I’m looking for, right?”

  A few seconds went by, and then the shop owner said, “You a cop?”

  Barker smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not from the LAPD, or the FBI, or the ATF. And I don’t want to kill anybody.”

  “Then what do you want the fléchettes for?”

  “I guess you’d call it an experiment. I’d also need some advice on what to shoot them with. At first I was thinking maybe I could take the bullets out of heavy-caliber rifle cartridges and replace them with the fléchettes.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But then I realized that wasn’t practical. So maybe you’d have another idea. Maybe rig an air pistol to fire them. Would that work?”

  “Might. If the air pistol had enough power.”

  “Would you be willing to try it? And make some fléchettes for that purpose?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Like I said, I’d be willing to pay whatever you ask.”

  “That’s not it. I can repair just about any problem with pistols or rifles, but making something like what you want is out of my league.”

  “Then maybe you’d have some idea as to where I could buy the type of fléchettes I’m looking for. Or maybe you know somebody who’d be able to make them?”

  “Not offhand. You might try contacting gunsmiths in Montana, or Idaho, where they’re legal. There’s some good people in those places.”

  “Okay, I’ll do that. Thanks for the advice.”

  Barker left the shop and returned to his car. He looked at the list of four possibilities Deke Edwards had given him and felt rising frustration. Luke had been number three on the list, and like the first two, a strikeout. There was one more, not too far from where he was now.

  This time he’d drop the pretense of looking for someone to construct fléchettes for him at any price. It hadn’t worked so far, although he couldn’t be sure the dealers he’d talked to had leveled with him. Instead, he’d try identifying himself as a cop. See if he couldn’t shake the next guy up, get him to reveal something.

  He looked at the list again. The name was Culebra.

  37.

  Mongo had thought long and hard about using a sniper’s rifle to take out the cop. He decided Culebra was right. It would be a good solution, for a number of reasons.

  Leading off was the rifle’s power. He wouldn’t want to take a chance on just wounding the guy, and with a .50, one shot would be enough. A rifle like that could stop a train.

  Then there was the range. Unlike most of his previous jobs, he’d probably have a tough time getting close to the target. With the .50 he wouldn’t have to. Which was good, because from what he’d seen of the cop, the guy was sharp and alert. Much better to whack him from a distance.

  A drawback was the noise, but Culebra was rigging up a silencer. That was important. Without one, the .50 would sound like a clap of thunder when it went off.

  He’d want to be careful, though, about picking the place to take his shot. It would have to be a location where he could hide, so he wouldn’t be seen lining up on the guy. And he’d need a good escape route.

  The rifle should be ready by now. Culebra wanted to gouge him on the price, but what the hell. Seen in the light of what he’d be paid for the hit, fifteen grand was chump change.

  He went into the bedroom closet and took down the large steel lockbox from the shelf. Lugging the box to the kitchen table, he unlocked it and swung back the cover.

  Inside were packets of hundred-dollar bills. He counted out fifteen thousand dollars and put the bills into his attaché case. After locking the box, he took it back to the closet.

  Driving to Culebra’s place would be a drag. It was late afternoon, and traffic would be even worse than usual, if that were possible. He left the cottage and got into the Toyota, placing the case on the floor by the passenger’s seat.

  Even pulling out onto Route 1 was a problem. He had to wait several minutes before he could squeeze into the stream of cars and trucks. And when he finally did, it was bumper to bumper moving south.

  He told himself to cool down, but that was hard to do. When would this goddamn state build more roads or revoke the licenses of at least half the idiot drivers who clogged the highways? Jesus, if he were governor, instead of that jerk in Sacramento, he’d straighten out the mess in a hurry. />
  As he’d expected, the drive took almost an hour. When he reached the old neighborhood, he felt the inevitable mixture of contempt and nostalgia. Litter and filth in the streets; junky old cars squatting at curbside; shabby, falling-down houses marked with graffiti; ragged kids chasing one another and shouting curses. Hadn’t changed, never would.

  And yet, seeing it tugged at his emotions. In some ways his boyhood days seemed long ago. But at times such as this, it was as if they’d happened yesterday.

  He was approaching the alley that would take him to Culebra’s shop when he noticed a car about fifty yards ahead of him. The car was a gray Ford sedan, and the driver was inching along, as if he was unfamiliar with the area and was looking for something. As the car drew near the mouth of the alley, it slowed further. Finally, it turned into the narrow gap between the buildings.

  Mongo drew to a stop and watched intently. This must be one of Culebra’s patrons, he conjectured. Some gangbanger who needed a weapon, or maybe expert help with a mechanical problem. But if that were true, why the cautious approach? Didn’t make sense.

  And another thing. The car was wrong.

  Nobody with cojones would be caught dead driving such a piece of shit. That was a grandmother’s car, or one for a maricón.

  But somebody doing business with Culebra? Forget it. A gangster’s ride would be a Cadillac, or a Lincoln, with the suspension lowered and the body jacked up with pearlescent paint and extra chrome.

  So who was this guy, and why was he here?

  Mongo continued on, and as he passed the Ford he got a good look at the driver. He took in the short black hair and the set of the jaw and felt his gut muscles clench.

  Christ, it was the cop!

  But hold on. Could he be mistaken? No, there was no question it was the dick from New York, the detective named Barker. The man he’d been assigned to kill.

  As Mongo went by, he saw the metal door begin to roll up. So Culebra was letting him in. Somehow the cop had learned of the connection, and here he was.

  But how had he done it? How had he figured it out? Or stumbled onto it? Was he here to get more information?