Kill Fee (11 page)

"Including me," Carolyn sighed. "You know, when the police questioned me, I got the distinct impression that
I
would have been a suspect if I hadn't been in Montego Bay at the time it happened. Can you imagine?" That Lieutenant Murtaugh had openly intimated he suspected her of involvement. Dreadful man.

"Now, now—mustn't dwell on morbid details," said a voice from behind them; it was the fast-talking plumbing and heating man. "Clean slate, start over. And it wouldn't hurt you to get away from work for a while. Come along on my sailing party—it'll be good for you."

"I'll see," Carolyn said, and decided that sounded too abrupt. "I really do have something to take care of first," she added. "I don't know when I'll be free."

"How about you, Jeffrey? Want to come along?"

"Sorry," he smiled. "I get seasick crossing the George Washington Bridge."

"You don't get seasick, do you?" the man said to Carolyn, and then plunged on without waiting for an answer. "Two masts, eight sails—well, that's something special, let me tell you. That kind of sailing makes you
feel
alive. Try to come, dear, you'll enjoy it. We'll take good care of you—give you lots of TLC." When she didn't say anything, he added: "You know what TLC is, don't you?"

"Certainly," she deadpanned. "Thin layer chromatography."

The fool was actually going to explain what TLC stood for when Jeffrey stepped in smoothly with a murmured explanation of an appointment elsewhere and steered Carolyn out of Gracie Mansion and into a taxi.

"Thanks," she said sincerely. "It was getting harder and harder not to be rude to that man."

"He does have that effect on people," Jeffrey grinned. "Hungry?"

She allowed him to buy her dinner on his expense account. When he tried to invite himself into her apartment, she pleaded fatigue but made a date for later in the week. When he'd left, she started the process of shifting mental gears, preparing herself to wait.

She'd been waiting every evening for ten nights now. And it wasn't the sort of waiting one got used to—wondering whether tonight would be
the
night. Tucked into a small leather notebook by the telephone was the bill typed on that odd blue paper.
Fee for services rendered.
She doubted that he would call her at her office—not much privacy there. But he would call; that she was sure of. Carolyn had never spoken to a murderer; she wondered what one sounded like. All she could think of was Richard Widmark's maniacal giggle as he pushed the old woman in the wheelchair down the stairs.

He was a careful man, whoever he was. He'd probably watched to see if she'd contacted the police when she received his bill—she didn't much care for the thought
of
that.
But he must have been watching her before, both her and Parminter. He'd planned it all so carefully. Parminter had been shot in an elevator. The doors had slid open to reveal the body slumped on the floor; nobody else was in the car. He had been careful about protecting her, too.
One murder, arranged to coincide with establishment of Montego Bay alibi.

The call came at eleven o'clock.

"Hallo, is that Carolyn Randolph there?" Pseudo-English accent, an American trying to sound British. "You may call me Pluto. I recently sent you a bill."

"Yes, I have it right here."

"Do you understand the terms?"

"You made yourself quite clear, Pluto."

"Good. I hate misunderstandings. Have you raised any of the money yet?"

"I have all of it. One hundred thousand."

There was a pause. "Well, that was fast work, I must say. Does this mean I don't have to threaten you with dire and calamitous events to get you to pay?"

"That's what it means. I honor my debts—I don't like owing people."

"Excellent! I'm glad we understand each other. Do you have the money where you can get your hands on it tomorrow morning?"

"It's in a safety deposit box."

"What time does your bank open? Nine?"

"Yes, nine."

"You may have to change the money. I want nothing larger than hundred-dollar bills."

"They're all hundreds."

"Then there's no problem. You do know not to try anything clever, don't you? I refer to marking the bills
or
using sequential serial numbers or whatever technique for tracing money the police favor this year."

"There won't be anything like that—I'm not stupid. Where do you want me to meet you?"

"Alas, Ms Randolph, we don't meet. As sure as I am that the acquaintanceship would prove mutually enjoyable, I find it more prudent to remain merely a voice on the telephone. You understand?"

"Perfectly."

"Very well. Do you know Carlyle and Piper's excellent establishment?''

"Carlyle and Piper's? Never heard of it. What is it?"

"It's a bookstore dealing rare editions. On Fourth Avenue, between Ninth and Tenth—are you getting this?"

"Yes—go on."

"Across the back wall of the store are shelves with closed storage boxes on them. The boxes hold old and very rare magazines. Look for the one marked
The American Gentleman, 1909–1910.
It's an extremely large box that either Mr. Carlyle or Mr. Piper bought in a moment of unwarranted optimism. The box contains exactly one thin magazine—plenty of room in there for a hundred-thousand-dollar-sized package. A regular grocery bag should do nicely. I want you to be there when the store opens at ten—not many customers around that early. Now I think it would be best if you said all this back to me. We don't want any slip-ups, do we?"

Carolyn repeated what he'd told her. "It seems awfully public. What if I'm seen?"

"Wait until you see Carlyle and Piper's. One could hide in there for
years
without being discovered. Now, do you have any questions?"

"
Only one. Am I correct in assuming this one hundred thousand is payment in full?"

"Oh absolutely, dear lady. You do your part tomorrow and you'll never hear from me again. One service, one payment. I like to keep things clean, don't you?"

"I do indeed. And Pluto?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

There was a long pause. Then: "Why, you are most welcome! Most welcome indeed!" He was almost burbling. "I must say, Ms Randolph, it has been a real pleasure doing business with you. You don't know how refreshing it is to find someone who doesn't muddy a simple business transaction with all sorts of emotional complications. What a pity we shall never meet! Ah well—it can't be helped. Good-bye!" He hung up.

Carolyn smiled as she replaced the receiver. What a strange man. All business right up to the end, and then he'd practically gushed at her. You'd think no one had ever thanked him before.

Captain Edward Ansbacher climbed out of the patrol car, told the officer who'd driven him he'd take a cab back.

He took a moment to examine the restaurant's façade before he went in. Not bad; expensive-looking. Inside, the maître d'—whom Ansbacher had never seen before in his life—knew who he was. In fact, the whole staff seemed primed; there was a satisfying amount of bowing and scraping. Ansbacher followed the maître d' past tables covered with rich white linen and heavy-looking silverware to a semisecluded alcove on a level three steps above that of the main seating area.

A
man was waiting for him—white-haired, expensively tailored, nails manicured. Ansbacher noticed all that as he reached across the table to shake hands.

"Captain Ansbacher, this is a pleasure. I'm Joseph Sutton. Please—sit here."

A waiter had placed a whiskey sour in front of Ansbacher almost before he'd got settled. So, they'd "researched" him, knew his tastes.

"So how is the car?" Sutton asked. "Running nicely?" He pronounced it
cah.

"Very nice indeed. Just what Mrs. Ansbacher wanted—the exact model."
But then you researched that too,
he thought. (Captain Ansbacher never referred to his wife by her own name, or even as "my wife"—she was always and only Mrs. Ansbacher. A conversational mannerism that led some of his less charitable acquaintances to suspect the Captain liked hearing the sound of his own name.)

Ansbacher waited. If Sutton was disappointed because his guest had failed to thank him for the gift of a
cah,
he hid it well. Ansbacher always avoided saying thank you; it tended to make the other fella think he had a claim on you. But
this
other fella was chatting amiably about this and that, very smooth. The waiter brought the soup. Ansbacher could wait; he had plenty of time.

The pitch came halfway through the meat course. "Howard Dudek tells me you might be able to help me with a little problem we're having," Sutton said. Dudek was the contact man, the one who'd arranged for the delivery of the car.

The Captain looked across the table at the distinguished-looking man who wanted a favor of him. If he was only a regular businessman who was having a little trouble and just wanted a helping hand—well, that was one thing.
But
if he was mob-connected, fronting for that sleazy bunch .. .

"What kind of problem?" he asked Sutton.

"It's my brother's boy," Sutton said. "The kid just started his own business a couple of years ago, and I'm afraid he hasn't been as discreet as he ought to have been."

Ansbacher waited.

"Not that he did wrong, mind you," Sutton went on. "But you know kids. Too eager for their own good, always in a hurry. My nephew has a nice little landscaping business, my brother and I throw him some work, you know how it goes."

Ansbacher nodded. He'd done some research of his own; the Sutton brothers owned a construction firm that wasn't exactly scrambling to survive. They made a lot of money and they spent a lot of money. It was the other brother who knew the construction business; this oily-tongued Sutton was the greaser of wheels, the smoother of rough spots. "So what did the kid do?"

"He had some correspondence with a man named William Parminter."

Ah. That was the connection. "And?"

"Let me tell you, it was a blow to all of us when Parminter got killed. My brother and I'd been doing business with the man for years. So of course when he landed the White Hall project we bid on the contract, and we wanted to throw a little business to the kid. So my nephew gets all excited and starts telling Parminter what he's going to do—on paper, no less. We had no idea those designs were stolen."

So far, no problem; Ansbacher couldn't see what they were worried about. "So your nephew jumped the gun a little, so what? Happens all the time."

"
Well, you see, the letters mentioned several earlier jobs we'd done for Parminter. The boy was just showing off, trying to prove to Parminter he was part of the team. But he used several ambiguous phrases about our earlier arrangements that might, ah, might be misconstrued. You understand? In themselves, the letters prove nothing—how could they? But they could lead a curious investigator to start prying into Sutton Construction Company's business affairs. Affairs that have nothing at all to do with Parminter's death, I might point out."

Murtaugh,
Ansbacher thought darkly.

"One of your investigators has been using his authority to stick his nose into our business," Sutton said. "His name is Lieutenant James T. Murtaugh. We were wondering if he's pursuing this line of inquiry under your direction?"

"He is not," Ansbacher growled.

Sutton allowed a small smile to appear. "Well, then. It is possible that Lieutenant Murtaugh's time could be better spent elsewhere?"

Ansbacher scowled, didn't answer.

"Is there a problem?"

"There could be. Let me think."

Of all his ranking officers, Murtaugh was the only one who ever gave Ansbacher any flak when he pulled him off a case. It had happened a few times before—besides which, Murtaugh was well aware Ansbacher had twice blocked his promotion. Ansbacher was frankly worried that Murtaugh might be reaching his flash point.

The waiter brought dessert and coffee. Say Murtaugh refused to take his dismissal from the Parminter investigation quietly; what could he do? He had no evidence of anything—he couldn't bring any charges against Ansbacher. Murtaugh could transfer out; Ansbacher hoped
he
would. Or he could start a bad-mouthing campaign against his superior officer. Ansbacher didn't much like the thought of that. He wanted to help Sutton out. The man obviously had no connection with the mob; he was just a businessman caught in a bind. Good family man. But still . . .

"I can pull him off the case," he finally said to Sutton, "but not without a lot of backlash. More backlash, frankly, than I care to have to deal with—it could get out of hand. I'm not sure I can do anything for you, Sutton."

The other man didn't bat an eye. "I understand. You have your problems. But we would all be grateful if you could see your way clear to do this one favor for us. We wouldn't forget. My nephew especially would be grateful. Did I mention he drove past your home last week? He came in just bursting with ideas for landscaping the grounds."

Ansbacher took his time and thought about it. Might not be a bad idea. Mrs. Ansbacher was always complaining about the gardener. She'd probably welcome a little outside help.

"I'll see what I can do," he said.

CHAPTER