The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “I wasn’t posing, and they weren’t nude. We all had on swimsuits.”

  “Really? What were they made of—Saran Wrap?”

  “I’ll explain that some other time. Right now I’ve got something for you. I know who killed Culebra. Just as we thought, it’s the same guy who killed Delure and her manager.”

  “Who is he?”

  “An ex-con named Mongo.”

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “From his former girlfriend. She saw the drawing of the tattoo on TV and called in. I went to see her, and she said she was positive it was him.”

  “She tell you where he is now?”

  “Only that she thinks he’s in LA.”

  “Okay, we’ll pay her a visit. Where is she, and what’s her name?”

  “She has a house in the Hollywood Hills. Her name’s Juanita.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “You know about her, huh?”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “It’s a sensitive subject.”

  “So I gather. She made me promise the cops wouldn’t identify her in their investigation. She wants to stay under the radar.”

  “I’m sure she does. What else did she tell you about this guy?”

  “She said he enjoyed killing people. He was sent to San Quentin for manslaughter, and when he got out he disappeared. But there’s a way you can track him. Juanita said while he was inside, he told her he’d worked out a plan that would make him rich. She didn’t know what the plan was, but it involved a lawyer.”

  “That figures. That it involved a lawyer, I mean. She tell you who he is?”

  “No, although I have a hunch it could be the one who defended him and got him a light sentence. That’ll be in the court records. Find the lawyer and you find Mongo.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Well?”

  “I’m not sure I can touch it.”

  “Why, because of Juanita?”

  “No, because of you. On top of everything else, word came in about your car blowing up. And how an ambulance took you to Hollywood Presbyterian and you walked out. The mention of your name sends Swanson into orbit.”

  “Then don’t mention it.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “New York. I was ordered back here. And by the way, the reason the car blew up was because Mongo set off Primacord in the gas tank.”

  “I’ll be damned. Same stuff that torched Culebra’s shop.”

  “You convinced now?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “Go after him, Sam.”

  “I think I’ll do that.”

  “Just be careful.” He ended the call.

  That left taking another run at reaching Dana. He called the Delaney home again, and this time when the maid answered he didn’t ask to speak to Ms. Laramie.

  Instead he said, “This is Detective Jeb Barker. Please tell Ms. Laramie there are new developments, and it’s important that I speak to her. Tell her to please call me. She has my number.”

  57.

  When the maid gave Dana the message from Jeb, it was a jolt to her emotions. She told herself to ignore his request. She’d made a firm commitment to herself that she’d have nothing more to do with him.

  Yet the fact that he’d called made her think about him. And no matter how determined she was to forget him, it was impossible. She knew she was reacting to the message like a love-struck schoolgirl, but she couldn’t help it.

  But call him? No, damn it. If there really were new developments, they wouldn’t concern her. She thanked the maid and closed the door to her room.

  So far her visit to the Delaneys wasn’t turning out as she’d hoped it would. Not because they weren’t trying to make her feel welcome. On the contrary, they made a point of treating her with elaborate courtesy.

  Then what was troubling her—besides struggling with her feelings about Jeb?

  Partly it was the strangeness of her surroundings. This enormous old house was dark and gloomy and most of the time as quiet as a tomb. The Delaneys didn’t seem to talk with each other very often.

  Even at dinner the conversation had seemed forced. There was the clink of silverware, and an occasional remark by either Roger Delaney or Sarah, and then would come another period of silence. Dana had tried to touch on subjects she thought they’d find interesting, such as books she’d read or stories in the news, but she didn’t get much in the way of response.

  Roger was the more animated of the pair, although not when his wife was around. Sarah had an odd personality, from what Dana could tell. Her smile was pleasant enough, and yet it seemed contrived, as if she had put on a mask.

  Dana wondered whether the Delaneys’ relationship was also different from what it appeared on the surface. It struck her as more like an armed truce than a marriage.

  And then there was the old man. Roger’s father was merely a husk who sat motionless in a wheelchair, his eyes blank, his skin the color of paste. Dana had only seen him once since she’d arrived. His nurse had wiped drool from his chin and pushed the wheelchair out of sight.

  A strange house indeed. And a strange family. But such thoughts were nonproductive. It wasn’t healthy to brood, which was why Dana rarely did.

  Maybe she simply needed some fresh air. She left her room and went down the stairs to the first floor. Following a hallway to the rear of the house, she stepped outside.

  There was a large terrace, paved in flagstone and surrounded by a low stone wall. A striped awning shielded chairs and chaise longues and a table from the sun. Bordering the wall were pink and white and purple azaleas, and beyond the terrace were acres of lawn, shaded by towering oaks and maples. A rose garden and a fountain were in the center of the lawn.

  She walked down to the garden and admired the bright red and yellow and peach-colored roses. There were at least a dozen different varieties, each blossom wafting a delicate fragrance. Sunlight was reflecting from the water of the fountain, and it occurred to her that the atmosphere out here was a lot more cheerful than the murkiness of the house.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye. She looked up to see Carl, the security man, standing near the garage wing, a shotgun in the crook of his arm. He didn’t seem to be watching her, but his eyes were hidden by his sunglasses so she couldn’t be sure. It was strange, though, that every time she went outside, he was there.

  Some distance away the gardener was riding a power mower, its engine clattering. He swung the machine around and began cutting another swath, and as he did Dana heard a crack of thunder. Moments later a black cloud appeared overhead and lightning streaked the sky.

  Better get back inside. She ran toward the terrace, but before she reached it fat drops of rain splattered on her blouse. She hurried through the door into the hallway and went from there into the living room.

  The interior was darker than ever. Lamps were on in the vast space, creating isolated pools of light. But that did little to cut through the gloom.

  She wandered about, finally going into the library. It was furnished with red leather chairs and a large desk, and a cabinet beside the desk bore a computer, a printer, and a fax machine. There were bookcases built into the walls, and at one end of the room was a fireplace. Hanging above the mantel was a portrait of Catherine Delure.

  Dana was delighted to see the way the artist had captured Cat’s beauty. Her skin looked as dewy fresh as the roses Dana had been admiring a few minutes ago, and there was a sparkle in the blue eyes.

  And yet, looking up at the painting, she began to see differences. The lips weren’t as full as Cat’s had been, and the jaw was a bit more pronounced.

  Suddenly she realized that the portrait wasn’t of Cat at all. Instead it was of another woman, one who bore an uncanny resemblance to her.

  This had to b
e Catherine’s mother. According to Cat, she’d died years ago, of cancer. Seeing the painting made Dana feel she was in the presence of a ghost. She turned away.

  The rain was coming down furiously now, the drops lashing the windows behind the desk. She stepped over there and tried to look out, but the streaming water blurred the view.

  The storm was also making the room darker. She sat at the desk and turned on the lamp. The light revealed a number of objects, among them a penholder with a marble base, a case that held scissors and a letter opener, an alabaster vase filled with pencils, a container of paper clips, a variety of paperweights, and other odds and ends.

  Among the items was a folder bound in dark red leather. Dana knew she shouldn’t pry, but she couldn’t resist lifting the cover.

  Inside was a sheaf of papers. The one on top bore the letterhead of Marshall, Brach, Whitworth and Cohen, LLP, a New York law firm. It was addressed to Roger Delaney at his Manhattan apartment and was from Carter Whitworth, Esq.

  As Dana scanned the letter, the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. The language was legal mumbo-jumbo, but she understood what it conveyed. It was so unexpected she thought she must be mistaken and began to read it again slowly, from the top.

  “Hello, Dana.”

  She jumped at the sound of the voice and closed the folder.

  Roger Delaney approached the desk and sat opposite her. He was smiling, and his voice had the avuncular tone he always used when he spoke to her. “Quite a storm, isn’t it?”

  She hoped he couldn’t see that getting caught reading his mail was making her blush. “Yes,” she managed to say. “A real downpour.”

  “You probably don’t get this much rain at one time in Los Angeles. Isn’t that so?”

  “Occasionally we do.” Perhaps he hadn’t realized what she’d been looking at? That was unlikely—he must have seen the open folder. But there was no way to tell that by his manner. If anything, he seemed faintly amused.

  “Sometimes in the winter,” she said, “we even get floods. And of course that causes mud slides.” God, she was babbling like a nitwit.

  “Ah, I’ve seen some of that on TV,” he said. “People often lose their homes, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “But here the rain doesn’t usually do that much damage. And besides, we need it. The thunderstorms give us a brief deluge, and then they move on. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Weather aside,” he said, “I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”

  “Thank you, I am.”

  “Takes a while, you know, to get over an emotional shock. Also the change of scenery will do wonders for you.”

  “No doubt it will.”

  “I have an impression that you and Detective Barker had become quite close. Isn’t that true?”

  “I’m afraid so. We became . . . friends. And I wish we hadn’t.”

  “Has he tried to contact you again?”

  “He called and left a message.”

  “Called here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know where you were?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what did the message say?”

  “That there were new developments, and I should call him.”

  “New developments? Do you believe that, or do you think he was just trying to get you to call?”

  “It’s hard to say. But I’m not sure I can trust him.”

  “Good for you. It’s important to stay strong, and not let anyone manipulate you.”

  “I realize that.” She rose from the chair. “And now you’ll excuse me, but I want to get back to the book I’m reading.”

  “Very well. See you at five, for cocktails.”

  She left and went back up the stairs to her room. After closing the door, she sat on the bed and tried to think.

  It wasn’t easy. Everything seemed to have turned upside down.

  58.

  “You fucking moron! You have any idea how goddamn stupid you are?”

  Mongo clenched his fists. It was hard enough to understand Strunk’s garbled voice in any of his calls, but now the little bastard’s rage was making him sound almost incoherent.

  “Did you hear me, moron?” Strunk shouted.

  Mongo choked back his own anger. “Yeah, I heard you. Now what are you yelling about?”

  “He’s alive, dummy! You were supposed to take him out, and you fucked up. You hear me? You fucked up!”

  “Wait a minute. He’s alive? He couldn’t be! I blew up his car with him in it. I saw it explode and burn. Nobody could live through that.”

  “They couldn’t, huh? Well, he did. I’m telling you, he’s alive!”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure, moron. They pulled him out of the fire and put him in a hospital with only minor injuries. So he left there and went back to New York.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “How do you think? I’ve got sources, moron. You think I only get information from dummies like you?”

  Mongo wished Strunk would stop calling him a moron. Maybe he should go downtown to the weasel’s office and strangle him with the phone cord. Then let him see who was the moron.

  Strunk wasn’t finished. “You think I pay you so you can make a fucking mess of the job? You think this is some kind of goddamn game, where sometimes you win and sometimes you don’t? Are you really that stupid?”

  “I’m not stupid at all, and it’s not over.”

  “The hell it’s not. I’m ready to dump you. I’ve got a good thing going here, and you’re pissing in the punch bowl.”

  “The good thing was invented by me, Strunk. Don’t forget it.”

  “Jesus Christ! I told you never to say my name. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “But it’s true. I came up with the plan, not you.”

  “So what? You got a patent on it? Maybe a copyright? You think you’re the only scumball in LA who knows how to use a knife or a gun? Let me tell you, moron, I can hire ten guys as good as you or better for what I’ve been paying you. Can you get that through your thick skull?”

  “Listen, I know you must be mad as hell, but cool down, will you? I said it’s not over, and it’s not. I can still get this guy, I’m sure I can.”

  “Yeah? Is that so? You mean you think you can. And that’s not good enough.”

  “I said I can, and I will.”

  “You already tried, and you fucked up.”

  Actually, Mongo had tried twice. And missed twice. But Strunk didn’t have to know that.

  “So why should I believe you now?” the weasel asked.

  “Because I’m the best there is. And don’t hand me that shit about how you can get a great bunch of pistoleros just by snapping your fingers.”

  “Okay, okay. You’ve done some good work for me, I’ll admit that.”

  “Then let’s start all over, okay? You’re saying somehow he got out of that car alive. Fine. It was a miracle, if he did, but I’m willing to take your word for it. So where can I find him in New York?”

  “He works out of the Seventeenth Precinct headquarters, which is on Fifty-First Street.”

  “Yeah, but where does he live?”

  “In a part of town called SoHo. Here’s the address.” Strunk read it off, and Mongo made a note of it.

  There was a pause, and then the weasel said, “You told me when you blew up his car he was in the Hollywood Hills. What was he doing up there, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I followed him to Ellsworth Drive, and he went in a house.”

  “Ellsworth Drive? That’s where Juanita’s place is.”

  “Juanita’s place?”

  “Yeah, it’s a fancy whorehouse,
and a broad named Juanita runs it.”

  Mongo felt a chill deep in his gut. Could it be?

  “So now what?” Strunk said.

  “So now I’ll go after him again, and this time I’ll make sure. When I’m done, I’ll mail you his head.”

  “I don’t want his fucking head. All I want is proof you did what you get paid to do. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand.”

  “And hurry, will you? Time is money.”

  “You’ll hear from me,” Mongo said.

  “I better.” The call ended.

  59.

  The executive offices of Delaney Industries occupied four floors of a building on the east side of Park. Barker decided that Roger Delaney would be on the highest of the four, which was the fortieth. He took an elevator up there and stepped into the lobby.

  The space was large, but there was nothing flashy about it. Sofas and chairs for visitors, a rack of magazines, a vase containing white lilies. An older woman sat behind the reception desk.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  Barker displayed his shield. “I’m Detective Barker. I want to see Mr. Roger Delaney.”

  She looked at the shield and then at him. “One moment, please.”

  She picked up a phone and spoke into it and after putting it down said, “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Barker stepped past her into the waiting area.

  Through the windows he could see the tops of other tall buildings and some of Central Park, and in the distance the Hudson River and the Jersey Palisades. On the wall to his left was a large framed photograph that depicted an industrial site, and on the opposite wall was a portrait of a man with muttonchop whiskers and a big gut.

  The guy was probably the founder, Barker decided. That would make him the current CEO’s grandfather. Although there wasn’t much of a resemblance.

  When he’d visited the family home in Greenwich, Roger Delaney had seemed open-minded and reasonable. Barker hoped he’d be reasonable now, and that he’d be willing to talk sense to Dana when he got home tonight. If he did, that might at least get her to answer a phone call.

  “Detective Barker?”