The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  The cop chuckled. “I bet. My name’s Jesse Morales. You’re Jeb Barker, that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Glad to know you. When they brought you in here last night, we found your ID and saw you were a detective from New York. Does the department here know that?”

  “Yeah, I checked in soon as I got to LA.” And Captain Swanson and his merry men will be highly pissed, Barker thought, when they hear about this latest incident.

  Morales took out a pad and a ballpoint. “You feel well enough to answer some questions?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know your car exploded?”

  “I know the gas tank did.”

  “Any idea why that happened?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  “Very little. I was getting into the car, and from that point on I don’t recall anything.”

  Morales scribbled on his pad. Then he said, “The firefighters think it might have been arson.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah, like somebody put a bomb in the tank.”

  “Any evidence of that?”

  “Not much. They said they’d be back this morning and try to get a better idea of what went on. I’m going over there when I leave here.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You got any enemies you know about? Probably plenty of ’em, right?”

  “Too many,” Barker said.

  “There anything else you can tell me?”

  “Can’t think of anything.”

  Morales scribbled some more. “Okay,” he said. “I guess that’ll do it for now.”

  He put the pad and pen away. “If something else turns up, I might want to ask you some more questions.”

  “Any time,” Barker said.

  “Take it easy. And feel better.” Morales left the room.

  Barker looked at the list of calls on his cell. One was from Joe Spinelli. Another was from Lieutenant Kelly. There were also several from NYPD officials, including the chief of detectives, and that struck him as ominous.

  There were no calls from Dana Laramie.

  Barker would return Joe’s first, so he’d know how things stood. He’d also ask if Joe knew what Kelly wanted, before calling the squad commander back. He hadn’t heard from Kelly since he’d come out here.

  He punched the buttons for Spinelli’s number, and when he got an answer he said, “Joe, it’s me.”

  “Oh, man,” Spinelli said. “You are truly up shit creek.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You don’t know? You haven’t seen the pictures?”

  “What pictures?”

  “Turn on TV and look at one of the cable news channels. They’ve been showing the photos all day. After you’ve seen them, call me back.” Spinelli ended the call.

  A TV monitor was mounted on a bracket above the bed. Barker pulled it closer and switched it on. He surfed the channels until he got one that was covering news stories.

  For once he didn’t have to watch a string of commercials before hearing the report he was after. A grave-faced male announcer was saying, “. . . has added yet another twist to the bizarre Delure murder case. As part of its investigation, the New York Police Department sent a detective to Los Angeles a few days ago. He is Detective Jeb Barker.”

  What the hell was this? Barker turned up the volume.

  The announcer continued: “Supposedly Detective Barker has been working hard on the case. But a collection of photographs has come to light that reveal he’s also been involved in other activities. We’re going to show you the photos, but we warn you, they might not be suitable for viewing by children. Has Detective Barker been doing his duty? You be the judge.”

  Cut to a photograph of Barker waist-deep in a swimming pool. He was flanked by two women. One was a blonde, the other a brunette, and both were topless. In the photo he was looking at the blonde and smiling.

  “Holy Christ,” Barker said.

  “These young ladies are movie actresses,” the announcer intoned in a voice-over. “The one on the left is Donna Ferrante. And on the right, Audrey Melon. As you see, Detective Barker and the actresses were in a pool and apparently having quite a time of it. But this is only one of the photos. Here are some others.”

  There followed a number of shots, one after another. They showed Barker swimming with the women, drinking with them, and eating with them at a table lavishly spread with food and wine. In one of the photos, Audrey Melon was leaning close to him with an adoring look on her face. Her breasts were pressed against his arm.

  From the next bed Finnegan yelled, “Hey, is that really you? I saw what you were looking at and turned it on. Man, what terrific broads. You’re gonna be famous, man.”

  Barker ignored Finnegan’s comments. His attention was riveted to the TV screen.

  Cut back to the announcer, who said, “The disclosure of these photographs has shocked the public. And of course the photos have also caused the New York Police Department a great deal of embarrassment. We tried to contact Lieutenant Hogan, who’s in charge of the Delure case, so we could ask him to comment. So far he hasn’t returned our calls. Now, in other news we have a report from Washington about the latest—”

  Barker turned off the TV, his mind whirling.

  Who the hell took those pictures? Couldn’t have been Hopkins, Barker would have noticed. That fucking butler must have done it, taking the shots on the sly.

  Whoever took them, it was clear to Barker that he’d been had. Bart Hopkins had set him up, and then stuck it to him good.

  Why did Hopkins do it? Had he been in with Zarkov after all and was playing Barker for a fool?

  And what about the agreement Zarkov’s lawyer had drafted? That was genuine, Barker would bet on it. So had Hopkins seen an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the producer?

  That was a possibility. Then either Hopkins or Zarkov had released the photos to the media.

  But however it had gone down, the situation was exactly as Spinelli had described it. Barker was up shit creek. And as the old saying went, with no paddles.

  He again called Spinelli.

  Joe said, “You saw, huh?”

  “Yeah, I saw. And Joe, it wasn’t what it looked like, I swear it.”

  “So it wasn’t you in those pictures? Must’ve been a body double, huh? Some guy who looked like you and was having a ball with a couple of knockout chicks. Give me a break, okay? That’s the kind of shit you’d tell your wife, if you had a wife.”

  “Listen, I’ll explain everything when I see you. What’s going on there?”

  “Just what you’d expect. Hogan’s got reporters climbing up his ass, and the whole fucking department’s in an uproar. Everybody’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call Kelly now.” He ended the call and punched in the number for the squad commander’s direct line.

  Kelly’s tone was icy. “Detective, I am deeply disturbed by what I’ve learned of your conduct. You have disgraced this department.”

  “Lieu, I can—”

  “I order you to return to New York and report to me at once. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do it.” Kelly broke off the call.

  Barker shook his head. His boss had been his rabbi forever, but now he was going by the book, treating him as he would a stranger.

  And Dana? Had she seen the photos? He hoped to hell she hadn’t. He’d have to get to her before she did. He tried her number but reached only her answering machine.

  He again looked at the list of calls on his phone. Better if he ignored the ones from the brass. Instead he rang for the nurse.

  When she arrived, he said, “Bring me my clothes.”

  “Sorry, we burne
d them.”

  “You what?”

  “They were all scorched and filthy.”

  “And my wallet and my shield, and my pistol?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Get them for me.”

  She gave him a disapproving look and went out of the room.

  Barker pulled the IV out of his arm and swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the soreness in them and in his back. A pair of paper slippers were on the floor, and he slipped his feet into them. He took a few steps, feeling wobbly.

  “You gotta be crazy,” Finnegan said.

  The nurse reappeared. When she handed him his things, he asked her for a robe.

  She went to a closet and got out a cotton robe and handed it to him. He put it on and dropped the pistol and the wallet and shield and the cell phone into a pocket.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere,” the nurse said.

  “Just to the can,” he lied. He stepped past her and left the room. It was hard to walk, but he refused to give in to the pain.

  The elevators were down the hall. He went to them, and when a car arrived he stepped into it and rode it to the ground floor.

  From there he hobbled out the front entrance and climbed into a taxi. He told the driver to take him to the Sunset Inn Hotel.

  52.

  Dana was horrified. She’d seen the photos on CNN twice, and the hurt was no less the second time. If anything, it was worse. The photos were undeniable proof of how Jeb had been spending a good amount of his time.

  How could he have done this to her? She’d trusted him, believed in him.

  And had fallen in love with him.

  He’d claimed he felt the same way about her. Yet all the while he’d been so sweet and tender, he’d been screwing around behind her back. Rutting like a pig, and lying about it.

  He’d told her about meeting Donna Ferrante after he’d gone to Bart Hopkins’s house. But he’d barely mentioned it. And she was damn sure he hadn’t said that Ferrante was almost naked at the time.

  Apparently he’d made other visits to Hopkins’s place, if in fact that was where the pictures had been shot. Although come to think of it, the action shown in them could have occurred somewhere else, for all she knew.

  And who was Audrey Melon? The newscaster on TV had described her as a movie actress, although Dana had never heard of her.

  But so what? Hollywood was full of cheap bimbos who claimed to be actresses. Whoever she was, in at least one of the photos she was rubbing her boobs on Jeb. And apparently he was enjoying it.

  In fact, he was so happily occupied in all the pictures it didn’t look as though he even minded being photographed. Maybe he was planning to put the photos in an album, the bastard.

  She grew increasingly furious, thinking about it. And then she broke down and cried. She’d really cared about him, and it was agonizing that their relationship had turned out this way. High on a mountain one minute, down in the mud the next.

  She was also disgusted with her own conduct. She’d been taken in like some dumb little chippy. And realizing that made her both angry and tearful at the same time.

  Stop it, she told herself. Pull yourself together. Stop blubbering.

  She blew her nose and went into the kitchen, poured orange juice and vodka into a glass, and gulped it down.

  That helped. She made another one and sipped it.

  This whole episode has been bizarre, she thought. Starting with the hideous murders of Catherine and Penny.

  Since then her life had been filled with people who were out to use her, like that monster Zarkov, and the creeps in the media, and the asshole producer who had tried to shame her into appearing in his lousy documentary.

  And even Jeb. Even he had used her.

  So what was she going to do about it?

  For one thing, maybe the most important thing, she would get the hell out of LA. Go to a place where nobody could find her. Somewhere she could wash away all the LA dirt and make plans for a fresh start.

  But where?

  There might be one place. And one person who’d understand. This was a Saturday, so he’d most likely be at home. She got out her book and looked up the number. Hoping she wouldn’t be thought rude or pushy, she made the call.

  A maid answered, and Dana gave her name and asked to speak with Mr. Delaney.

  When he came on the line he said, “Dana! I was so worried about you. In fact I was going to call you. I’m sure you’ve seen those awful photographs on TV. The ones of Detective Barker?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen them. And I was shocked. The pictures were a total surprise to me.”

  “Have you spoken with him about them?”

  “No, I haven’t. That’s something I don’t want to do.”

  “Ah, I understand. Of course you don’t. I can imagine how you feel.”

  “Seeing the pictures was . . . difficult.”

  “I’m sure it was. Look, I don’t want to intrude, but may I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why don’t you get on a plane and come to New York. I’ll have a car meet you at the airport, and you can come up here to Greenwich and get things sorted out. We’d be delighted to have you, and you could stay as long as you like.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Delaney. I hope I wouldn’t be a nuisance.”

  “You wouldn’t be, I assure you. And please call me Roger. As I’ve told you, we know how Cat felt about you, and that means you’re a special friend of ours. So go ahead and make arrangements. Then call me back and let me know what flight you’ll be on. Okay?”

  “Wonderful. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Dana put the phone down. She was feeling better already. Not a lot, by any means, but much better than she had before making that call. Greenwich would be a breath of fresh air.

  But then she thought of Jeb and choked up all over again.

  53.

  Mongo laughed out loud when he saw the photos on TV. There was the dumbass detective, getting worked over by a couple of bitches. Looked like he loved it, too.

  Although who could blame him? Both the blonde and the brunette were obviously great stuff—what the cons in Q used to call table pussy.

  So Barker had been having a ball? Sure he had. The photos showed a wet dream come to life. And now his life had ended.

  But where was the story on an exploding Ford? Mongo had expected to see something on that as well, yet so far there was nothing. Apparently the geeks who ran TV didn’t think the incident was unusual enough to cover. After all, a car fire was no big deal.

  And on top of that, they apparently hadn’t figured out that there was a connection between the idiot featured in the photos and the burning car up in the Hollywood Hills. Most likely that was because Barker’s corpse had been so badly burned they couldn’t ID it.

  Maybe Mongo ought to be a good citizen and give them a call, let them know who the crispy critter in the Ford was. He wouldn’t do it, of course, but the idea was good for another chuckle. Things were finally breaking his way, and that made him happier than he’d been in some time.

  Now as a kind of low-key celebration he’d go for a run on the beach. Important to stay in the best shape possible, he thought. Before going back to Vegas for a much larger celebration.

  First, however, there’d be the matter of collecting his fee. This whole ratfuck with the detective had been the toughest job he’d ever had to deal with. And the fee had better be in line with that.

  If it wasn’t, he’d read the weasel the riot act. Once again, all Strunk had to do was pick up the assignment and pass it on, while Mongo was the one whose ass had been hanging out in the wind while he got it done.

  But let’s not spoil an otherwise fine day, he told himself. He’d made the hit, he’d be paid big, and he ha
d a stay in the Crystal Palace to look forward to.

  He went into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and put on the old pair of shorts and the frayed T-shirt and the sneakers. And after tugging the faded Dodgers cap down low on his head, he left the cottage.

  Outside, the air was cool and fresh, with a light ocean breeze. Sky was overcast, which was good, because that would keep the sun’s heat at bay.

  He crossed the Pacific Coast Highway and threaded his way between two beach houses, trotting down to where the waves had made the sand soft and wet. Then he turned left and picked up his pace.

  54.

  When the taxi pulled up in front of the Sunset Inn, a parking attendant opened the passenger door and saluted. Barker paid the driver and stepped out. As he hobbled toward the entrance, the attendant looked at him with distaste.

  Barker couldn’t blame him. Probably not many people showed up with a bandage on their head and wearing a cotton hospital robe and paper slippers.

  But the hell with how he looked. Some guests in the lobby stared at him, and the hell with them, too. Ditto the doorman and the bellmen. At the desk, Lia also seemed taken aback when she saw him.

  He went on by and stepped into an elevator that took him up to his floor. As he made his way down the corridor the patches of singed flesh on his legs and his back pained him with each step. He got out a passcard and let himself into his room.

  Once inside, he went into the bathroom and peered at his reflection in the mirror. It was the first chance he’d had to check his appearance since he awoke in the hospital, and what he saw now wasn’t pretty. His eyes were red-rimmed and there was a burn on his right cheek and he needed a shave. Also, the thick bandage on his forehead had bled through in a couple of places.

  A shower might help, he thought—as long as he kept the water only lukewarm. He stepped into the stall and turned on the spray.

  Usually he sang when taking a shower. Today he groaned. But he stuck it out, soaping himself down and groaning again as he rinsed off.

  Toweling was another problem. The best approach, he found, was to pat himself dry. Next he brushed his teeth, and after that he worked up a faceful of lather and scraped off the whiskers.