Kill Fee (14 page)

That story had particularly disturbed Murtaugh. If the officer's allegations were correct, Ansbacher was guilty of complicity in a felony (arson) that resulted in death—making the Captain an accessory to murder. And if Ansbacher had been able to rig things in the landlords' favor over a period of years, that meant he was not only corrupt himself but he would also have had to corrupt other policemen in order to make the scheme work. Ansbacher was even worse than he'd thought, far worse. Murtaugh tended to believe the young officer's story, and not just because he wanted to believe him. He'd checked the officer's record. The younger man may have joined the force as a way of getting at Ansbacher, but the record showed he was a good cop, doing a good job; he already had a couple of commendations even though he'd been on the force less than two years. He just wanted to help get the goods on Ansbacher.

So did a lot of other people. The stories came trickling in, sometimes duplicating each other, never offering evidence of any sort. The stories ranged from the horrible, such as the slum fires, to the absurd: a policewoman told Murtaugh that Ansbacher had once instigated an investigation of her personal life because he'd seen her in an off-duty dress he thought was too revealing. The charge became absurd only when it was dropped; before then, it had caused the policewoman a great deal of distress. Which was probably Ansbacher's sole intention in the first place.

Murtaugh
was feeling more frustrated than ever. There was no longer any doubt in his mind but that Ansbacher was as dirty a criminal as any that had ever been hauled in on the wrong end of a pair of handcuffs. Nor was there any doubt that Murtaugh's unauthorized investigation had the tacit backing of his fellow police. What was very much in doubt was the probability that he'd ever be able to prove anything against Ansbacher. There had to be something, some way of getting the man. When he'd just started out, Murtaugh would have been content simply to get Ansbacher off the force. Now he wanted to see him in prison.

The phone rang. "Murtaugh."

"Lieutenant? This is Carlos Montoya in Ballistics. I've got something for you."

"Jesus, I sure could use something. What is it?"

"You know the shooting on East Ninety-first yesterday? The one where the kid millionaire got his hand blown off?"

"Yeah, what's his name, starts with an M—"

"Malucci, Roscoe Malucci. We recovered the bullet—"

"That's not my case, Montoya. I think Billings has that one."

"I already told Billings. Now I'm telling you. The bullet was a forty-five. We did a computer run for unsolved crimes involving forty-five-caliber weapons within the past year, matter of routine—"

"And you found a match?"

"We sure as hell did. The gun that was fired at Roscoe Malucci yesterday is the same gun that killed Jerry Sussman."

Murtaugh skipped a breath. "Montoya, you old sonuvagun, you will be remembered in my will. Where's the Malucci kid now?"

Montoya
had to ask someone, got an answer. "Doctors Hospital."

East End Avenue. "Thanks." He hung up and rushed out into the squad room. "Eberhart! We're going."

Sergeant Eberhart hurriedly ended the phone call he was making and ran to catch up with Murtaugh. "What's up, Lieutenant?"

Murtaugh told him about the .45-caliber bullet on the way down to the car. "You drive."

"Now wait a minute," Eberhart said as he slid behind the wheel. "If the guy with the forty-five popped Sussman and then collected from Walsh for it—do we assume the same thing is going on here? Is somebody going to profit from this Malucci guy's death? Who?"

Murtaugh scowled, trying to remember details. "Maybe the killer isn't trying to collect on Roscoe Malucci. Maybe he's trying to collect
from
him."

"Meaning what?"

"Well, the kid himself just profited from somebody's death—his grandmother's. And the old lady was murdered. Shot. But not with a forty-five or Ballistics would have turned that up. I don't remember what caliber was used on her."

"So this guy's got two guns?"

"At least. The fact that he holds on to his weapons instead of dropping them at the scene should tell us something."

"That he can't lay his hands on a new gun any time he feels like it?" Eberhart said. "Which means he's not all mobbed up. A free-lance. A free-lance who doesn't want to fill out registration forms when he makes a buy."

"Sounds like it. Okay, say what we've got here is the real-life version of Walsh's fictional killer. He kills first,
then
sends a bill, and then calls with instructions for making the payoff—along with a few choice threats if needed. Logically, Roscoe Malucci should be one of the people who pay off, not one of the targets."

"So why'd he try to kill him? Malucci refuse to pay up, shortchange him?"

"Maybe the man with the forty-five didn't try to kill him. Maybe he
meant
to shoot his hand off."

"Jeez." Eberhart was silent a moment. "But Leon Walsh is safe because he paid up like a good boy? Huh. Just when we were thinking the Sussman case was a dead end, things start breaking all over the place."

"What about Walsh's finances—did you have time to get anything?"

"Yep, and it's lookin' good. He sure needed money in a hurry. He borrowed twenty-five thousand from Sterling National Bank and Trust—that's where he has his checking account. He got another thirty thousand from Chase Manhattan, where he keeps a savings account. Neither bank would let him have any more than that because he'd already had to borrow from them to buy Sussman's
Summit
shares. Walsh has cleaned out his savings as well, except for a hundred bucks to keep the account open. I was just starting to call around the other banks."

Both men fell silent, trying to fit the various events into a logical order. Near Doctors Hospital Sergeant Eberhart found another fireplug to park by. Inside the hospital a physician named Riley expressed his annoyance at seeing more police wanting to talk to Roscoe Malucci. "I told Detective Billings that Malucci was so heavily sedated he couldn't talk sensibly. But he insisted on seeing him anyway."

"Dr. Riley, I appreciate the problem, but right now
all
we need is a minute." The look on the doctor's face made Murtaugh add, "Well, maybe two minutes. But no more than that."

"Can't it wait, Lieutenant? In a few days he'll be able to talk. Right now he might not even understand what you're saying."

"No sir, it can't wait. We won't disturb your patient, I promise."

Dr. Riley went with them, not believing Murtaugh's promise and resenting having his time wasted this way. Roscoe Malucci was hooked up to monitoring machines, his eyelids fluttering. His left arm ended in a bandage.

"Roscoe?" Murtaugh said. "Roscoe, can you hear me?"

Only a slight head movement answered him.

"I told you," Dr. Riley was quick to say.

"Roscoe, listen to me. I'm Lieutenant Murtaugh and I've come to help you. Do you hear?"

Roscoe opened his eyes and looked straight at Murtaugh. After a moment he smiled the sweet smile of a child who's just been told daddy is here and everything's going to be all right.

"Hello, Roscoe," Murtaugh smiled back. "We're going to find the man who shot you. Do you understand?"

"Hngh." Was that a nod?

"All right, I want you to tell me if you've heard from someone claiming he killed your grandmother—somebody who wanted you to pay him for killing her."

But that was too long a sentence; Roscoe drifted away. A wide-eyed Dr. Riley was staring at Murtaugh, horrified.

"Roscoe," Eberhart said, "come back. Roscoe?"

Dr. Riley interrupted. "I can't have you disturbing him with a thing like that! You—"

"All we need is a yes or no, Doctor, and then we'll be
gone,"
Murtaugh said quickly. "Roscoe? Can you hear me?"

The eyes fluttered open again.

"Roscoe, did someone call you about your grandmother's death?"

Roscoe was mumbling something. "Shah me."

"Shot me?" Eberhart said. "Who shot you?"

Mumbling.

Murtaugh said, "Roscoe, do you know who shot you?"

"Pluto shah me."

"What's that?" Eberhart asked.

Roscoe's eyes closed. "That's enough," Dr. Riley insisted. "You'll have to leave now."

Murtaugh and Eberhart left Roscoe Malucci's room and walked slowly down the hospital corridor. "Well, he didn't exactly tell us what we came to hear," Murtaugh said. "But at least we have a name to put on the file folder now. Pluto."

"Pluto?" Eberhart said in surprise. "I thought he said Bluto."

"Bluto? What kind of name is Bluto?"

"Oh, you know who Bluto is. He's the heavy in the Popeye cartoons."

"I thought his name was Bruto."

"Naw. Bluto."

"Well, Roscoe said Pluto, I'm sure. I remember wondering why anyone would be named after a planet."

"Hey—that story in
Summit?
What was the killer's name in that?"

Murtaugh frowned. "Damn. I should remember, but I don't."

Back at the station the first thing they did was head toward Eberhart's desk. Murtaugh flipped through the
magazine
until he found what he wanted. "Here it is. Osiris."

The two men stared at each other blankly. "I'll get a dictionary," Eberhart said.

A memory teased at Murtaugh and then became clear just as Eberhart came back. "Egyptian!"

Eberhart found the entry in the dictionary and grinned. "Right you are. Egyptian god of the dead, sometimes identified with the Greek Hades and . . . huh. And the Roman Pluto." He closed the book. "God of the dead."

"So that's how he sees himself, is it?" Murtaugh mused. "A divinity ruling over life and death. I wonder—when he shot off Roscoe's hand, was that meant as a warning? I think we'd better be there when Roscoe goes home from the hospital. In the meantime, you get back to calling those banks. I want to know exactly how much Leon Walsh borrowed."

"You going to confront Walsh?"

"Damn right. But even with the Osiris–Pluto connection, we're still guessing at what happened. I need to know about the money before I force a showdown."

Toward the end of the day Eberhart had tracked down a total of seventy-five thousand dollars' worth of loans Leon Walsh had taken out over a three-week period. "The last place that gave him a loan was Dollar Savings Bank, and they let him have only three thousand. After that, everybody said no—Empire Savings, Bankers Trust, Central Federal, bunch of others. He'd already borrowed on his own
Summit
shares to buy Sussman's, he didn't have any more collateral, and he was in debt. Not exactly what you'd call a good risk. Did your Wall Street contact find out how much Sussman's shares cost Walsh?"

"Exactly the amount he borrowed the week after Suss
man's
death," Murtaugh said. "So we can forget about that—this three-week flurry of borrowing was for something different. Seventy-five thousand. The amount in 'The Man from Porlock' is one hundred thousand. Well, maybe Walsh just inflated the figure for the sake of the story."

"Or maybe he did get the other twenty-five. There are still a couple hundred banks I didn't check, Lieutenant. The credit bureaus don't cover them all."

"Would he go to a shark? Does he know any?"

"I wouldn't think so. Do you want me to start calling those other banks?"

"I've got a better idea. Do we know which bank Leila Hudson keeps her money in?"

"His ex-wife? No, why should we? You think he got the rest of the money from her?"

"It's possible, isn't it? Walsh doesn't have all that many people to turn to. Look, go talk to her. She may still be at work—get the address from the Sussman file. She works for some television production company."

"I'm on my way," Eberhart said.

Leon Walsh had been a mistake. Leon Walsh had been a very bad mistake. Conceivably Leon Walsh was the worst mistake he'd ever made in his life. And what a way to find out about it! In print! Right there, for the whole world to see.

Pluto closed the copy of
Summit
and sat brooding over his mistake. Leon Walsh was a lulu, all right. Was it egotism or infantilism that made a man reveal his personal story in just that self-dramatizing way? Pluto glowered at the cover of the magazine.

A lightly sarcastic laugh drifted over from the table next to his. "That bad, huh?"

Pluto
looked up to see a young woman watching him. Sparkle in her eyes, body tense. No make-up, but her jacket had been chosen to match the green of her eyes. "Just one story," he answered her. "But it was bad."

"Let me guess. 'The Man from Porlock'?"

He didn't even try to hide his surprise. "Now how did you know that?"

"It's a stupid story," she muttered. "He never should have published it."

"By 'he' I assume you mean, er, the editor?"

She nodded. "Asshole."

Pluto made a show of opening the magazine and checking to see who the editor was. "Leon Walsh?"

"That story made me change jobs," the young woman said unexpectedly.

What was this? Pluto considered a moment and then picked up his drink. "May I join you?" When she nodded, he moved over to her table. The tavern was crowded; two people quickly sat down at the small round table Pluto had just vacated.

"I'm Fran," she said.

"Nick," he answered. "How did 'The Man from Porlock' cost you your job?"

"It didn't
cost
me my job. I quit. Because of that asinine story. I used to be the fiction editor at
Summit,"
she explained.

"Ah."It was beginning to make sense.

"The blasted story came in over the transom—no agent. I started reading in the middle the way I always do and the damned thing put me to sleep. How could anyone take a story like that seriously? Anyway, I rejected it, but Leon told me to take another look at it."

"The editor."

"Right. So I read it all the way through ver-y care
fully,
but the thing was even worse the second time around."