The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  That left the ventilation ducts. There were several of them, each about five feet high and with an opening that was protected by a screen. Mongo judged the openings to be roughly twenty inches in diameter.

  That might do it, he thought. He dragged the dead man over to the nearest duct and examined the screen covering the opening. It was fastened with four wingnuts, and they were rusty. He strained to loosen them one by one, and when he had all of them undone, he pulled the screen away from the duct and tossed it aside.

  With an effort he lifted the body. The guy was much heavier than he looked, and now that he was lifeless, it was like trying to maneuver­ a large sack filled with sand. It took a mighty heave to shove him headfirst into the opening, and then more heaving to stuff in the rest of him.

  The corpse didn’t slide all the way down the ventilation duct, as Mongo had hoped it would. But at least it was out of sight.

  Now the question was whether the scuffle with the security asshole had been seen. Even though the roof was higher than the other buildings, some nosy neighbor might have spotted Mongo dropping the guy and called 911. He looked carefully in all directions but saw no one who might be observing him.

  Okay, so he was in luck. And after waiting for a time and hearing no police sirens, he was certain he was in the clear.

  What’s more, it was getting dark. That meant more cover, so much that no one could see him. He went back to the roof’s edge and picked up the rifle. Crouching down, he leaned the barrel against the top of the parapet and again took up his vigil.

  45.

  LA’s Twin Towers Correctional Facility was the world’s largest jail. The enormous complex was located at 450 Bauchet Street, just off 101 and to the northeast of Union Station.

  In addition to the towers, it comprised a medical services building and the Los Angeles County Medical Center Jail Ward. As big as it was, the place was jam-packed with inmates every day of the year.

  When Barker arrived, Sam Benziger was waiting for him among a throng of visitors just inside the main entrance. She said a prosecutor would be joining them for their talk with Marcia Slade. Also Slade’s lawyer would be on hand.

  “So what’s she up to now?” Barker asked.

  “She claims she didn’t give us the whole story when we questioned her in Las Vegas,” Sam said. “She’s scheduled to go before a grand jury, and she’s looking for another bargain.”

  “You believe her?”

  Benziger shrugged. “She knows information is valuable, so it’s possible she held something back.”

  “Yeah, they always do that, if they can. By the way, how did the search for Morris Wagner go?”

  “We ran down a bunch of guys with that name, and none of them checked out.”

  “So either Slade lied about it or the name was another phony.”

  “Yeah, take your pick.”

  “And now?”

  “She realizes the charges here aren’t just ratshit misdemeanors she can walk away from. She’s facing murder one with special circumstances, meaning premeditated and committed in the course of a felony. In this state, that can get her the needle. So she’s probably desperate. Anyway, it’ll be interesting to hear what she has to say.”

  “Good afternoon.” A young black woman wearing a pinstriped business suit and carrying a briefcase approached them.

  “Hi, Natalie,” Benziger said. “This is Jeb Barker, the detective from New York I told you about. Jeb, say hello to Natalie Adams. Natalie’s a deputy DA.”

  Barker shook her hand. “Glad to know you.”

  “Same here.”

  “We were talking about Slade,” Benziger said. “And whether she can give us anything worthwhile.”

  “I think she can,” Adams said. “Her lawyer’s too smart to let her try to con us. Instead he’ll want to trade some chips. You give us this and we’ll tell you that.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mel Torson, a public defender,” the DA said. “You know him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re lucky. He’s a real worm. When you talk to him, he squirms.”

  “I’m told we’re in room B on the fourth floor,” Benziger said. “Let’s get our passes and go up.”

  They presented ID to a sergeant at the desk and were given passes to move about the jail. They took an elevator and then went past a cell block to the assigned room. Marcia Slade and her attorney were already waiting for them. Also present was a large female corrections officer whose nameplate identified her as Marie Santiago.

  Slade didn’t seem nearly as chic as she had in Las Vegas. Instead of the tight-fitting blue dress she’d worn there, she now had on orange coveralls. Her face was pale, and there were shadows under her eyes.

  To Barker, Torson was just as Natalie Adams had described him. He was short and round, with long brown hair covering his ears. He wore a three-piece gray suit, and his patronizing manner revealed what he thought of the DA and the two cops.

  After making the introductions, Adams got the meeting under way. She turned to Slade. “So, Marcia, you say you have some additional information for us concerning the perpetrator in the Delure case.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Slade said. “But I want—”

  Torson cut her off. “My client is more than willing to be as cooperative and helpful as possible. But I think we need to reach an understanding.”

  “About what?”

  “About giving us something in return for her help. You’re putting her before a grand jury on a charge of homicide, which is ridiculous. You may not even get an indictment. And if you do, you won’t be able to prove your case in a trial.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Adams said.

  “We certainly will. Although you know as well as I do that your so-called evidence is extremely thin.”

  “You think so?”

  “Come on, Natalie,” the lawyer said. “All you have is a piece of videotape showing Ms. Slade leaving a room in the Beverly Hilton. Do you really believe that amounts to proof that a crime was committed?”

  “No, I don’t. But you haven’t mentioned the other piece of tape. The one that shows her going into the room with a man who later was found dead and with his money gone.”

  “You call that evidence?”

  “Yeah, I do. Especially when the medical examiner said he’d been murdered.”

  “And also,” Benziger said, “when you consider Marcia’s history of rolling johns.”

  Slade’s eyes flashed. “Damn it, I never rolled anybody.”

  “Then what happened to the guy’s money?”

  “All I did was blow that turkey! What’s more, I—”

  Again her lawyer interrupted. “Of course that’s all you did, Marcia. We know that.” He turned back to Adams. “And we also know that any reference to Ms. Slade’s history of arrests would be inadmissible. No judge would allow it.”

  “Is that so?” Adams said. “California law permits priors to come in as long as they show a pattern of similar conduct.”

  One side of Torson’s mouth twisted upward. “Are you lecturing me on the law?”

  Adams said, “Just reminding you, Mel.”

  “Then let me point out that before this my client was never arrested for robbery, and certainly not for murder.”

  “But the prostitution raps show a pattern, right?”

  “Yes, a pattern of arrests for trivial misdemeanors.”

  “Although the court just might see a connection, don’t you think?”

  “No,” Torson said. “I don’t think that at all. So let’s stop dancing around. What are you offering us?”

  “Just this,” Adams said. “If your client gives us something of value, I’ll make a favorable recommendation to the judge.”

  “Not good enough. The very least you can do is request bail.
”

  “Bail? On first-degree murder with special circumstances? You know that’s impossible.”

  “Then what is possible?”

  The DA steepled her fingers and looked at the ceiling for a few moments. Then she focused on Torson. “What’s possible is that I tell the judge she gave the police valuable help in their investigation of a separate capital crime. Moreover, she would be willing to testify, if and when the perpetrator of that crime is brought to justice. Therefore, our office believes she is a person who genuinely wishes to redeem herself, and we request that the court take that into consideration as the case moves through the system.”

  Slade said, “Oh, shit. Are you—”

  “Shut up, Marcia,” Torson said. He turned back to the DA. “We’ll take it.”

  “Smart move,” Adams said. “But before you tell us anything, Marcia, I want to show you something.” She opened her briefcase and took out a copy of the composite that showed the killer without a wig or a mustache.

  She laid the drawing on the table and said, “Take a good look. Do you swear this is the man you had contact with in Las Vegas, the one you say assaulted you?”

  Slade peered at the rendering, and then at Adams. “Yeah, that’s him. He looks a little skinnier there, but that’s the guy, I’m sure of it.”

  Barker had been quiet until now. “You said he had a tattoo. Correct?”

  “Yes, on his left shoulder.”

  “You saw it clearly?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’d like you to draw it for us.”

  Slade shrugged. “All right, I can do that.”

  Adams produced a sheet of paper and a ballpoint and placed them beside the mug shot. Slade laboriously drew her recollection of the tattoo.

  Barker took the sheet from her and studied it. The drawing was a simple depiction of a fishhook. Why, he wondered, would the man have worn such a decoration? What was its significance?

  Sam said, “Was there anything else? Any other kind of identifying mark on him?”

  Slade looked at her with an expression of contempt. “Yeah. He had a picture of the Statue of Liberty on his dick.”

  Sam grimaced, but before she could say anything, Torson jumped in. “Just answer the question, Marcia. Were there any other marks?”

  “No. The tattoo was all I saw.”

  “Okay,” Barker said. “Then can we please hear what the information is that you have for us?”

  Slade looked at her lawyer.

  “Go ahead,” Torson said.

  After a dramatic pause, Slade said, “I can tell you the town where the guy lives.”

  “You already told us,” Barker said. “You said Los Angeles.”

  “I meant the Los Angeles area. But I can do better than that.”

  “So let’s have it.”

  After another pause, Slade said, “Malibu.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He had some receipts in his wallet. Two were from a Chevron station on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. And there was another one from Ralphs supermarket, also in Malibu.”

  Benziger said, “And you think that shows where he lives? Maybe he was just driving through, and he stopped for gas and picked up a few things from the store.”

  “Not just a few things,” Slade said. “The receipt was for a hundred eighty-five bucks. All for groceries and a couple of bottles of wine. Just like what somebody would buy to stock up.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “What else can you give us?”

  Slade glared at her. “What else do you want—his address and phone number? What kind of cops are you, anyhow?”

  “That’s enough, Marcia,” Torson said. He stood up and addressed the others. “I think we’ve more than fulfilled our end of the bargain here. So that brings our discussion to an end. Have a nice evening.”

  Barker spoke up. “One more question, Marcia. You claim you never rolled anybody. Is that right?”

  “You heard me. Never.”

  “Then why did you go into the guy’s wallet?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and Torson said, “Don’t answer that. This meeting is over.”

  Slade shot Barker a fierce look, but she said nothing more. She rose and the CO escorted her from the room. Torson left with them.

  Barker said, “What do you think, Sam?”

  “Could be nothing, could be a home run. First thing I’ll do is ask the Malibu police to help us.”

  “Do you know that supermarket?”

  “Yeah, there’s only one Ralphs in Malibu. It’s next to the Malibu Colony. I’ll show his photo to the staff there.”

  Barker picked up the sheet of paper with Slade’s drawing of the tattoo on it. “And can you get the media to give this some exposure, especially TV? Somebody might recognize it.”

  “Sure. They’re always hungry for anything to do with the Delure case. They wouldn’t pay much attention if it only involved Culebra. But Delure? Absolutely. I’ll ask our PR people to get out copies to the TV stations and the LA Times right away.”

  “Great. We just might be making progress.”

  Benziger said, “Thanks for your help, Natalie. Turned out better than I thought it would.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope the Malibu leads and the drawing get you somewhere.”

  “So do I.”

  “Natalie, there’s one other thing,” Barker said. “I’ve come across a situation here in LA that could be a major case of fraud. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss it with you.”

  “Not my bailiwick,” Adams said. “But we have a section that handles that type of case. As you’re probably aware, Congress passed the Fraud Enforcement and Recovery Act in 2009. That gave us more money to work with, and we’ve got some sharp DAs in the section. You want me to set something up?”

  “Yes, I’d appreciate it. It’s a little early in the game, but I’d like to hear what they think.”

  “Sure. Give me a call whenever you’re ready.”

  Barker was looking forward to seeing Dana. They’d have a few drinks, and then he’d take her out to dinner. And this time he’d insist on it.

  By and large, the discussion at the jail had been encouraging. Although whether Marcia Slade’s information was any good, who could say? Was the killer actually living in Malibu? Or was that just a smokescreen Slade had used in an attempt to buy herself a better deal?

  Same thing applied to her drawing of the tattoo on Mongo’s shoulder. And yet, getting the media to put the drawing before the public just might turn up some worthwhile results. Especially if the drawing were shown on TV.

  The visit to Bart Hopkins’s house might also pay off. The Zarkov agreement could stand as evidence that Zarkov was involved in a widespread scam. And now Natalie Adams would set up a meeting with the people in the DA’s office that dealt with fraud.

  Still, the toughest part would be to prove there was a connection between that and the murders of Delure and Ellis. He was still thinking about it as he got into the Ford and headed toward Dana’s apartment.

  Up on the roof darkness had closed in, while the streets below were brightly lit and filled with traffic, and people were going in and out of the stores. With the darkness had come a drop in temperature, and Mongo wished he’d worn something more than a light shirt.

  He was also hungry and tired of crouching here like some wild animal that was hoping a meal would come along. This was the part of the arrangement he had with Strunk that pissed him off whenever he thought about it. Here he was, taking all the risks, having to operate in lousy conditions, while the lawyer sat on his ass in his cozy office and counted the money.

  And that brought another thing to mind. Mongo was well paid for his services, no question about that. There were plenty of guys in LA who’d be happy to take somebody out for a few bucks,
let alone the amounts he got. The difference, of course, was that he handled the toughest contract jobs, and handled them with great skill, never leaving the slightest trace of evidence.

  You wanted somebody to go away for good, wanted to be sure the going could never be connected to you? Okay, fine. But be prepared to pay for it. Pay Strunk, that is, who would then dribble out a fraction of the fee to Mongo.

  For that matter, Mongo had no way of knowing just how much of a fee the lawyer got for a job. Or what percentage Strunk was passing on to him for doing the actual work. But he was sure the largest part stayed with Strunk.

  So what to do about it? He’d given a lot of thought to that, and so far he hadn’t come up with a satisfactory answer. But sooner or later he’d figure out a way to get a bigger slice for himself. A lot bigger. And if that meant Strunk would be left with the short end? Tough shit, Counselor.

  He looked at his watch. It was getting late, and there had been no sign of Barker. So maybe the cop had other plans for tonight. Mongo would give it one more hour, and if the detective didn’t show up, he’d pack it in. Then he’d try again the following night.

  But not here. He couldn’t take a chance on coming back to this location. The company the security guard had worked for would be wondering why he hadn’t checked in, and then they’d start hunting for him. In fact, it was a little surprising they hadn’t already sent somebody.

  And if they did, then what? Mongo would be forced to deal with yet another turdbrain. He’d wind up having a second body to dispose of, and how many ventilation ducts could he clog up?

  The first guy certainly had been a rank amateur. Not a retired cop, as most security guards were. Of course, if he had been, Mongo would have taken care of him anyway, but as it was he’d been almost too easy to overcome.

  It was funny, the way he’d gone for the movie gag. We’re shooting a major motion picture was a magic phrase to most of the shitwits in this town, and Mr. Security couldn’t resist the lure.

  Mongo glanced at the guard’s pistol, which was lying at his feet. It was a .38-caliber six shot Smith & Wesson Police Special, as outmoded as a flintlock. Nowadays, everybody who carried a handgun chose an automatic. Or a semiautomatic, as ladies called them. A Glock, say, or a Beretta, or maybe a Sig. One of those would give you as many as fifteen rounds, fast as you could pull the trigger.