Footsteps sounded, and Lucille dropped the knife. “Jesus God, he comin’ back.” She got up and grabbed her valise and hurried out the way she’d come in, through the door into the dining room.
Mongo was soaking wet, and furious. He’d been wandering around the neighborhood for what seemed like hours, ducking behind trees when headlights approached, rain pounding down on him. Looking for the Mustang and not seeing it.
And he was beginning to have doubts. Was Barker actually in here somewhere? Or was there another entrance, a road out that the cop had taken? Leaving Mongo here in the slop.
Maybe the smart thing to do was cut his losses. Go to his car and drive back to New York. Camp out near Barker’s apartment and wait for him to show up. Hell, the cop might already be on his way there.
The more Mongo thought about it, the more retreating made sense. He turned around to retrace his steps.
And spotted the Mustang.
It was parked in front of a huge house, one that looked to him more like some kind of municipal building than a place where people lived. It would have been right at home in Beverly Hills.
He studied it, seeing slivers of light here and there, probably from gaps in the draperies. Except for those, the house was dark. He moved toward it, taking the Scorpion from under his jacket.
When he was only a few yards away from the entrance, someone emerged from the side door under the overhang that covered part of the drive. Mongo froze.
It was a woman. She was carrying a small suitcase and running like hell. What was this? She acted like she was being chased by a pack of dogs. He hoped there were none of those in the place. He wouldn’t want to have to contend with a bunch of angry mutts.
But as far as he could tell, nothing was chasing her. And she never saw him. Too caught up in whatever was bothering her, apparently. She kept going.
He waited a few more seconds, to be sure she was out of sight and that no one else was coming from the house. Then he again moved forward, going up the steps and trying the door.
It was locked, of course. So now he’d look for another way in. He tried the side door next, the one the woman had come from. Still no luck.
That left the back. He went around to it and saw that there was a large terrace surrounded by a low stone wall. French doors led from the terrace into the house, but they too were blacked out and locked.
At a point farther on, however, lights were showing. Which meant the windows along there weren’t shaded. He crouched down and stepped cautiously toward the lights.
There was another entrance, probably for deliveries, and as he approached he saw that a large black SUV had been backed up to the door. The engine was running, but as far as he could see no one was inside.
He had no way of knowing what was going on in the house, but the one thing he did know was that the cop was in there somewhere. He’d have a good chance now to get him.
He checked the Scorpion and thumbed off the safety. Then he went to the door.
Barker strained at the tape binding his wrists. Lucille hadn’t succeeded in cutting it all the way through, but he could feel that it was ready to come apart.
He gave another heave, and at that moment Delaney returned to the room. He was holding the Mauser in one hand, a set of keys in the other. He was obviously nervous, chewing his lip.
Next, Barker heard the growl of an engine as the SUV was backed up near the rear entrance. The car’s door slammed and Carl also came into the kitchen.
Delaney shoved the keys into a pants pocket and laid Barker’s pistol on the counter. He bent down and grabbed Dana under the arms. “Give me a hand here,” he said.
Carl leaned the shotgun against the wall and stepped over to Dana. He seized her ankles and the two men prepared to lift her.
At that moment, the rear door opened.
Barker was astonished. A man was standing in the doorway. He was dripping wet and holding a submachine gun.
There was no mistaking him. It was as if the composite drawing had come to life.
Delaney and Carl were equally startled. For an instant, they were motionless, staring at the man who was brandishing an automatic weapon. But then they let go of Dana, and Carl lunged for the shotgun. At the same time, Delaney reached for the Mauser.
Delaney was a fraction quicker. He snatched up the pistol and fired a shot at the intruder. It missed, the slug passing by Mongo’s head and shattering a window in the door.
Mongo snarled and raised the Scorpion. He fired a long burst, the loud reports shaking the room. Bullets tore into Delaney, slamming him back against the counter, his mouth wide open and the front of his shirt red with blood. He fell to the floor, a mass of torn flesh.
Carl made it to the shotgun. He brought it to his shoulder, but before he could aim it, a cascade of bullets ripped into him also. Mongo went on firing as Carl went down, blood spurting from the holes in his body.
Barker gave another heave, and the tape parted. His only chance, he thought, was to get to one of the weapons before Mongo blasted him as well.
The Mauser was closest, lying where Delaney had dropped it when Mongo shot him. Because his feet were still bound with duct tape Barker couldn’t stand up. Instead, he dragged himself across the floor toward the pistol, hoping desperately he’d get to it in time.
Mongo saw him. Eyes glittering, he shouted, “Die, you bastard!” And pulled the Scorpion’s trigger.
There was a click, and that was all.
Mongo stared at the gun in disbelief. As if he was unable to comprehend that its magazine was empty.
He threw the gun aside and looked around frantically for another weapon. He spotted the shotgun and started for it.
Barker reached up to the counter and his hand closed on the Mauser. He swung the pistol to bear on Mongo and fired.
It was a clean shot. The bullet struck the killer in the head. He staggered a few steps and then dropped like a bag of cement, the life gone out of him.
Barker was breathing hard, and he was clammy with sweat. As he put the pistol down, he felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief.
Looking about, he saw that the room had been turned into a slaughterhouse. Three men lay dead in pools of blood, and bits of hair and bone and flesh were stuck to the walls and counters and cabinets. Empty shell casings littered the floor, and the air stank of gunsmoke and burnt cordite.
He turned to Dana, who was trembling from the shock of witnessing the violence. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“You okay?” he said.
“I . . . I guess so. It was just so ghastly.”
“But it’s done. Give me a minute, and I’ll cut you loose.”
First he had to free his own bindings. The knife Lucille had used earlier was lying where she’d dropped it, and he picked it up and cut through the duct tape that was wound tight around his ankles.
Next he repeated the process with Dana. He helped her to her feet, and after he stripped the tape from her arms, he chafed them to restore circulation.
She looked over at Mongo’s body. “That’s the one who came to the Sherry-Netherland and killed Catherine and Penny. I recognized him right away.”
“So did I. Name’s Mongo. He was a professional hit man, based in LA.”
“But why did he come back here now?”
Barker didn’t answer. He knew damn well what Mongo’s purpose had been. But he’d explain that at some later time.
Dana shuddered. “I want to get away from this place.”
“Sure, of course you do. But we can’t leave now. I have to call the police.”
A wall phone was mounted beside one of the cabinets. He stepped past Carl’s shotgun and picked up the phone. Dialed 911.
A female dispatcher answered.
“This is Detective Barker of the NYPD,” Barker said. “I’m calling to report a tripl
e homicide at the home of Roger Delaney in Belle Haven.”
“Who’d you say you are?”
“Detective Barker.”
“You’re not a Greenwich officer?”
“No, New York.”
“And there’s three homicides?”
“Correct. Three down. Delaney and two others.”
“They’re all dead?”
“Affirmative. I’m calling you from the house.”
“How were they killed?”
“Gunshot wounds.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few minutes ago. You’ll need to send Homicide detectives. Also patrol officers and CSI and an ambulance.”
“What caused the shooting?”
Jesus Christ, where did they get these people? “Send police!” he yelled, and hung up.
A muffled cry sounded from behind him. He turned and took in a nightmarish sight.
Mongo was on his feet. He was standing behind Dana and gripping her tightly, one hand over her mouth. Blood was streaming down his face. Apparently Barker’s bullet had only creased his skull.
Barker reached for the Mauser, and at the same time Mongo picked up the knife. As Barker leveled the pistol, Mongo held the point of the knife against the side of Dana’s neck.
Barker froze. A number of thoughts flashed through his mind: Shoot him! And this time make sure you kill the bastard. But hold on. If you miss, he’ll slice into Dana’s neck and she’ll bleed to death. What he really wants isn’t Dana, it’s you.
Barker said, “Hello, Mongo.”
He scowled. “How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you. So do the cops in LA.”
“Yeah? So what? Drop the gun or I’ll cut her throat.”
Barker kept the Mauser trained on Mongo’s face. “You were supposed to make another hit, right? Instead you screwed up. Killed the guy who hired you.”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“The first guy you shot. His name is Delaney. He paid to have you kill his sister. She was Catherine Delure.”
“Bullshit!”
“It’s true. He’s the one in the gray shirt.”
Mongo glanced at the crumpled corpse.
As a distraction, it was enough. Barker squeezed the trigger, and the pistol bucked in his fist.
The bullet struck Mongo between the eyes. The knife flew out of his hand and he staggered backward before going down again.
Barker wasn’t about to take any more chances. He stepped over and looked down at him. The killer’s eyes were staring sightlessly, and there was a blue hole between them.
Make sure, Barker thought. Make damn sure. He pointed the Mauser at the center of Mongo’s chest and fired twice more.
Dana had turned away and was leaning against the counter. Her eyes were shut tight, and she was holding her hands over her ears.
Barker went to her and put his arms around her. “It’s over now,” he said. “It’s really over.”
From outside the house came the sound of police sirens. They were coming their way and growing louder.
65.
For the media, it was a bonanza. The broadcast TV networks devoted their evening news shows to the story, and the cable channels featured it for hours on end. It was front page in the Post and the Daily News and even the Times and the Wall Street Journal, and newspapers in every city in the country ran accounts fed to them by the wire services.
According to the story, law enforcement authorities had identified the killer of Catherine Delure and her manager as a jewel thief and ex-convict from Los Angeles named Mongo. In the most recent occurrence Mongo had broken into the Connecticut home of Roger Delaney, Ms. Delure’s brother, and killed him and his security guard. Mongo was then shot to death by a Detective Jeb Barker of the NYPD. It was unclear why Mongo had gone to the Delaney home, and a further investigation of his motive was being conducted.
New York’s police commissioner held a press conference, at which he and the chief of police and the chief of detectives spoke of how the tireless efforts of the NYPD had cleared the case. Detective Barker was praised by them for his courage and dedication to duty. They also lauded Lieutenant Dan Hogan for his leadership of the task force.
Barker was then besieged by the media for interviews and was decorated by the mayor of New York in a ceremony at City Hall.
Sam Benziger was commended by the LAPD for her work in clearing the Culebra homicide.
Captain Swanson said the investigation he and his detectives had directed was instrumental in bringing the Delure case to a close.
The murders of Juanita Romero and Eddie Latanzi remained unsolved.
No connection between Mongo and Harold Strunk was ever established. Strunk continued to enjoy a successful career as an attorney and steadily added to his client roster and his billing.
Variety reported that Hot Cargo was the highest-grossing movie yet produced by Zarstar Productions. It also said Catherine Delure was a sure bet to be nominated posthumously for an Academy Award as Best Actress.
The LA district attorney’s office brought fraud charges against Len Zarkov and Ron Apperson. The charges were dismissed by the Los Angeles Superior Court for lack of evidence.
Dana Laramie was offered book and movie deals. She was also offered a job by Paramount as an assistant producer.
While excitement over the case continued to mount, Jeb Barker slipped away for a week’s vacation. He rented a small cottage at Montauk, on the eastern tip of Long Island, and took Dana with him.
They spent each day the same way. Long walks on the beach, swimming in the surf, dozing in the sun, and making love. They went to a different restaurant each night and ate clam chowder and broiled lobster and drank beer. Later in the cottage, he built a roaring fire, and when it burned down to embers, they went to bed and made love again.
Afterward Dana snuggled up next to him, and they talked until they fell asleep. One night she asked him about his plans for the future.
“Don’t have any,” he said.
“None at all?”
“Well, I was thinking maybe I’d just stay here with you for the rest of my life.”
“Sounds lovely. But not very practical.”
“Does it have to be?”
“Afraid so.”
“Then how about you? What are your plans?”
“I’m going to write a screenplay.”
“About what?”
“About all these terrible things that’ve happened. About poor Catherine and Penny and Cat’s crazy brother and that hideous attack in Greenwich. And how a brave detective rescued his girlfriend and shot the bad guys.”
“Huh. You think it’d make a good movie?”
“Absolutely. I think it’d be a big hit.”
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Copyright © 2014 by James Neal Harvey
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ISBN 978-1-4804-8578-5
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