“Oh?”
“Forget those minor counts in New York. DiCica turns out to have been an enforcer for the New York mob. He was a suspect in four homicides, never got tapped for any of them and gained a reputation of being a pretty efficient workman.”
“Then how’d he get to be a delivery man?”
“Simple. Somebody cracked his skull open in a street brawl and he came all unraveled. He was in a hospital seven months and left with severely impaired mental faculties.”
“Who sponsored him?”
“Nobody took him in. He remembered very little of his past, but he could handle uncomplicated things. He had been working with that printer you used for over a year. The hospital had no choice except to release him.”
“What’s the tag line, Pat?”
“He could have made enemies. Somebody saw him and came after him.”
“In my office?”
“Anybody with a hate big enough to take him apart like that wouldn’t be rational about it. He’d take him when and where he could and your office was it. He spotted him, followed him, then went in after him. If your unknown client did show up afterward all the activity scared him off.”
For a minute I thought about it. There was still the “walker” Maria Escalante had seen, but for now I was keeping that to myself. I said, “Why the hell was I abducted then, Pat? Nobody wanted me. They wanted Penta.”
A detective came in and handed Pat a thick folder and left. Pat flopped it open, scowled, then closed the office door, sealing out the confusion on the other side. “Mike, you remember Ray Wilson?”
“Sure. The old intelligence guy?”
“He’s had Penta on the computers with Washington for two days. Usually we get some sort of a reply in a short, reasonable time. With Penta it’s all delays and referrals to other agencies.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Probably nothing,” Pat said. “Ray seems to think that when Penta was mentioned a flag went up somewhere down the line. When that happens we’re into something pretty damn heavy.”
I let out a laugh. “And I can see what will drop on you if they know we have such great heart-to-heart talks.” I looked around. “This place bugged?”
He looked startled a second, then grinned. “Go screw yourself, pal. You’re my pigeon and I’m running you.”
“Good story,” I said. “Stick to it.” I looked at my watch. It was almost four o‘clock. “When’s the next briefing?”
“Like now,” Pat said. “Let’s go.”
This time the Ice Lady wore a cool blue sheath of a fabric that seemed to caress her whenever she moved. She knew what it did and every motion was beautifully orchestrated for her audience. Their response was just as carefully calculated, as though they were totally ignorant of this vibrant woman who was one of them too. They saw us come in, but only stopped talking when we were close enough to hear what they were saying.
Pat motioned to the table. “Shall we sit down?” I didn’t bother with the chair bit this time. I took a seat across from Jerome Coleman and when he was ready, he nodded to the man next to him and said, “This is Frank Carmody and his assistant, Phillip Smith, both of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. On my right is Mr. Bennett Bradley, representing the State Department, and his special assistant from the CIA, Mr. Lewis Ferguson.”
It’s funny how cops look like cops. When they’re federal they seem to dress alike, groom themselves identically and use the same body language. There were slight differences in the color and pattern of their suits, but not much. They were all in their early forties and probably had the same barber who gave proper haircuts and shaved close.
At least Bradley, the guy from State, was different. His suit was a light gray, his tie was red and he wore a mustache, which was more hair than he had on his head. Like Yul Brynner‘s, it was shaved off on the back of his skull for convenience. But he was still State, bore the bureaucratic attitude of tired integrity and seemed anxious to get on with the meeting.
Pat said, “I’m Captain Chambers and this is Michael Hammer. I believe you want to ask him some questions.”
I held up my hand before they could talk. “This is a strange interagency relationship here. Cooperation between the FBI and CIA is pretty damn rare. Not to mention State. Do I need a lawyer here?”
The Ice Lady said, “You are not in jeopardy, Mr. Hammer.”
“My licenses are intact, I presume.”
“For now.” There was no inflection in her voice at all.
I gestured with my hand and sat back.
Carmody spoke up first. “We want to know about Penta, Mr. Hammer.”
“So does everybody else,” I told him.
“Yes. We’ve all read the statement you gave Captain Chambers. The witnesses at the hospital saw the assailants, saw you abducted, and we know what you have said.”
“What’s your point?”
It was Bennett Bradley from the State Department who broke in. “Mr. Hammer ... when your name came up in this matter I remembered having heard it before. After an inquiry or two I opened a file that made interesting reading.”
Pat grunted and said, “Everything he does is interesting.”
Bradley simply ignored him and said, “You testified at a trial as to the possible inaccuracy of the polygraph test. In fact, you gave a demonstration using an authorized operator of the device and succeeded in lying without being detected.”
“There were two others who did the same thing, Mr. Bradley. If you know how to do it there’s no trick to it at all.”
“The State lost that case, I might add.”
“So be it,” I said. “What’s that got to do with now?”
“Could you possibly do it under sodium Pentothal?”
They were playing with me now and I was getting ticked off. “I suppose there could be a trick to that too.”
All of them watched me, waiting.
I said, “Why are you so interested in nailing this loony?”
It was Lewis Ferguson who looked to Pat for confirmation and when Pat nodded slightly, he said, “This one ... this Penta murdered one of our men. You seem to have enough ... familiarization with police departments to understand how we feel about this.”
“I know how the cops feel about it.”
“We’re no different.”
“Cops don’t have the State Department backing them up,” I said.
Bradley gave me an enigmatic smile. Those State guys had a thing with them that made me want to belt them right in the mouth. “The agent who was killed was carrying some very valuable information. If he gave it up before he died, the security of the United States could be compromised.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’ve heard that ‘compromised’ line a million times. What the hell can one man carry that could destroy us? You know damn well nobody can afford to start tossing nukes around and live to brag about it, so how the hell do we get compromised?”
“I’m not referring to the big nations, Mr. Hammer. Some of the Third World countries have nuclear capabilities nobody likes to speak about. They may not have the same moral attitudes we have.”
“So why kill your agent?”
“Because he knew which country was planning to let the first bird fly. He was about to deliver that information.”
“Damn,” I said, “here I was thinking about how altruistic you were about your agent getting killed. Things are starting to blossom out.”
“Mr. Hammer,” Ferguson said. “Did you lie to your abductors about Penta?”
I shrugged. It was better than words. Finally I told them, “I don’t know. I was under the influence of drugs.”
They were very polite and thanked me. The Ice Lady looked at me and her eyes were as cool as her dress. She turned just a little bit and the fold of her neckline opened enough to show the fullness of her breasts, snowy white against icy blue. I didn’t try to hide my appreciation, and let her see the edges of my teeth under a smile.
&n
bsp; Pat and I looked at each other in the empty room and he said, “Want to go have coffee?”
“Sure. Think we can get Ray Wilson to go with us?”
“He’s always glad to go anywhere.” He pushed back his chair. “What do you want him for, anyway?”
I said, “You reminded me that he was in the intelligence unit.”
“Fourteen years’ worth.”
“Didn’t he head up the operation when Qaddafi threatened personal attacks on Reagan?”
“He headed up the New York command post.
Incidentally, he’s our liaison with some international counterparts.“ He frowned, looking at me quizzically. ”Why?“
“Maybe he can straighten out a few things for me.”
“Beautiful. Never say New York’s Finest doesn’t do its damnedest to keep the public happy.”
“Come on, pal, I pay my taxes,” I said.
“Don’t forget your license fees.”
“Never,” I grinned. “Now, do we go downstairs together or one at a time?”
Pat shook his head at me. “After all these years, this department has given up on you and me.”
“Not the DA’s office, though.”
“Ah, them,” Pat said. “They come and go with the elections. Just don’t underplay Candace Amory, buddy.”
Musingly, I said, “The Ice Lady.”
“Yeah, her.”
“She’s going to supper with me,” I told him.
“Bullshit.” He seemed startled. “When did this happen?”
“As soon as I ask her, kiddo.”
Ray Wilson was already at a table when we got to the deli, a half-eaten pastrami sandwich and an empty coffee cup in front of him. “Couldn’t wait for you guys,” he explained. “Want coffee?” We both nodded and he held up two fingers. Before we were in the booth the waiter had the coffee down. The old cop went back to his sandwich, had another bite and added, “Nobody ever asks me out for anything unless they want something.”
“How about women?” I suggested.
“Boy oh boy, do they want something. My apartment, my salary, my pension.”
“Just because you’re good-looking?”
“Man,” he leered, “I may not be a beauty, but I sure got something that is. Well trained. Knows all the tricks. But that’s not what you want to know about. So what’s up?”
“Mike’s been thinking,” Pat said.
He nodded and waited.
I said, “You know about me being mugged. I mean, classically mugged?”
“Pat told me,” he said casually.
“Two of them questioned me about Penta. Their voices were accented, but at the time I was pretty cloudy from the shot they had given me and didn’t try to place the inflections. Every time I think back now I seem to come to one conclusion. Those accents were faked.”
“Well?”
My coffee was too hot to drink, so I sipped at it. “What’s your opinion on Penta?”
Wilson gave Pat another of those looks and Pat gave him the “go ahead” sign with his hands. He said to me, “I assume you’re asking me if the guys who grabbed you were from some government agency?”
“You got it.”
“Why?”
“Their method, their attitude. All that was pretty well structured.”
“Hell, Mike, even a bunch of punks could do that.
“Would punks want Penta?”
Pat held up his hand and interrupted. “Suppose as a mob hit man, DiCica thought he had killed Penta and didn’t. That still leaves him open to be knocked off.”
“Where does that put me then?” I asked Pat.
“In the middle, pal, right in the frigging middle. If you know anything about Penta, they wanted to know about it.”
“Then why did they leave my gun right there on the floor? No punk is going to walk away from a piece like that.”
Wilson let out a derisive laugh. “With the pieces we get in off the street, nobody would want an antique .45 like yours. Nowadays the hoods opt for Uzis, .357 Magnums and anything untraceable. A registered piece like your Colt could mean trouble.”
“Right,” I agreed. “But if they did come from some agency everything would still fit.”
“True.” Wilson finished his sandwich, wiped his hands on a napkin and lit up a butt. “All you wanted was my opinion?”
“That’s all.”
“Okay, they weren’t hoods. They had some intelligence going for them. They knew about the hospital, they had the car preparked, ready for a quick getaway. Sodium Pentothal or a quick-acting tranquilizer could be easy to get, but using Smiley’s garage meant plenty of preknowledge. One other thing, after you damaged two of their guys nobody bothered to lay anything on you. That’s a real professional attitude.”
He stopped, took a long drag on his butt and let the smoke drift toward the ceiling, watching it laze its way upward. “So they were government personnel?”
“I didn’t say which government. Or whose,” he replied easily. “Besides, all you wanted was an opinion.”
“There were FBI and CIA troops probing for more of the same an hour ago.”
“Carmody and Ferguson,” he stated.
“Those are the ones.”
“Old spooks. I know them. Good guys but dull. They were real busy during the Black Panther days. Later Ferguson spent a lot of time overseas helping smooth over some of the blunders we made.”
“You’re real current, Ray.”
He winked at Pat. “Interdepartmental cooperation, they call it.”
Now I took my time about polishing off my coffee. When it was gone I put it down slowly. Little things were beginning to show. I said, “Where does Bradley come into it?”
“He’s a State Department troubleshooter.”
“On what level?” I asked him.
“That I don’t know. He spent the last six months in England and was rotated back here about three weeks ago.”
Someplace there had to be a connection. “Penta’s beginning to have an international flavor.”
“Not necessarily,” Wilson told me. “State might be into this just to protect one of their own sources. Washington gets pretty damn touchy about the contacts they have running for them.”
“Like Pat runs me?”
Wilson grunted something unintelligible. “Yeah.”
“So who the hell is Penta?” I asked.
“And why did you kill him?” Pat said. When I gave him a nasty look he added, “That damn note meant something, Mike.”
“Not if it was DiCica he was really after. In that case you guys have a plain old murder and not some kind of conspiracy.” I got up to leave and tossed a buck down for my coffee.
“Somehow,” Pat insisted, “that note is important. Just how do you explain him saying ‘You die for killing me’?”
“Easy,” I said.
They both looked up at me.
“Somebody gave him AIDS.”
Pat’s eyes got hard and I waved him off before he could say anything. “Wasn’t me, buddy,” I said.
I thought the little guy in the oddball suit who shuffled up to me was another panhandler. When I closed the cab door he peered at me, a grin twisting his mouth, and said, “Remember me? I’m Ambrose.”
“Ambrose who?”
“How many people with a name like that you know? From Charlie the Greek’s place, man.”
Then I remembered him behind a mop getting the spilled beer off the floors. They called him Ambie then.
He said, “Charlie says for you to give him a call.”
“Why?”
“Beats me, man. He just told me to tell you that. And the sooner the better. It’s important.”
I told him okay, handed him two bucks and watched him scuttle away. When I got upstairs I dug out the old phone book, looked up the Greek’s place and called Charlie. His raspy voice started chewing me out for not stopping by the past six months and when he got finished he said, “There’s a gent that wants to meet w
ith you, Mike.”
Charlie was an old-fashioned guy. When he said “gent” it was with capital quote marks around it, printed in red. Any “gent” would be somebody in the chain of command that led into the strange avenues of what they deny is organized crime. He wasn’t connected; he was simply a useful tool in the underworld apparatus.
“He got a name, Charlie?”
“Sure, I guess. But I don’t know it.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Like tonight. Can you make it down heré tonight?”
“You know what time it is?”
“Since when are you a day person?”
“He there now?”
“I got a number to call. He can be here in an hour.”
I looked at my watch. “Okay, but make it two. You think I ought to have some backup?”
“Naw. This guy’s clean.”
“Tell him to sit at the bar.”
“You got it, Mike.”
The Greek’s place was just a run-down old saloon in a neighborhood that was going under the wrecker’s ball little by little. Half the places had been abandoned, but Charlie’s joint was near the corner, got a regular trade and a lot of daytime transients. From four to seven every evening the gay crowd took over like a swing shift, then left abruptly and everything went back to sloppy normalcy.
A pair of old biddies were sipping beer at the end of the bar and right in the center was a middle-aged portly guy in a dark suit having a highball. His eyes picked me up in the back bar mirror when I came in and we didn’t have to be introduced. He waved Charlie over. I said, “Canadian Club and ginger,” then we picked up the drinks and went to a table across the room.
“Appreciate your coming,” he said.
“No trouble. What’s happening?”
“There are some people interested in Tony DiCica’s death.”
“Pretty messy subject. You know what happened to him?”
He bobbed his head. “Tough.”
“Yeah. He sure as hell messed up my office. But that’s not what you want to know.”
He stared around the room, then sipped at his drink. “You and that police officer checked out his apartment.”
“Right.”
The Killing Man Page 5