Kill Fee (18 page)

He carried the old copies of
Summit
back to his desk and sat leafing through them, remembering. He came across one story that made him grunt out loud: "Talking of Michelangelo"—by J. J. Kellerman. That had been the first one, the one that had started his subterranean writing career, if it could be called a career. It had also been the story that had evoked no comment whatsoever, pro or con.

Walsh read it through. Not a bad little story for a first effort—could do with some beefing up here and there. And some stylistic slickening wouldn't hurt either. But the basic idea was sound; all it needed was a little cosmetic help.

The idea came to him then.

He thought about it; he thought about it long and carefully and decided he could probably get away with it. Change the title and the names of the characters, think up a new pseudonym for the author. Fiddle with the setting, add a little here, cut a little there. Same kind of editorial work he did all the time—shouldn't be too hard.
Plagiarizing myself, cannibalizing my own work,
Walsh thought dryly. The thought had only just occurred to him, but already his ethics were hurting. Like an aching tooth. But he decided to go ahead with it anyway; it was the only solution he could see.

Of course, there was the danger that some sharp-eyed reader with a long memory would see that the new story was just "Talking of Michelangelo" in different clothing—but that was a chance he'd have to take. He didn't think it likely to happen, since the story had made no impression when it first appeared. The more Walsh
thought
about it, the more certain he became he could pull it off.

It wasn't as if he were doing something illegal. After all, he was stealing from nobody but himself.

Murtaugh came in in a bad mood. He and Ellie had quarreled that morning, about nothing at all. They'd both just felt like quarreling. It happened.

His mood wasn't helped any by the debris left on the desk by the night officer who used the office before him—scraps of paper, overflowing ashtray, a half-eaten candy bar. Two Styrofoam cups, each with half an inch of cold coffee in the bottom.

Sergeant Eberhart came bouncing into the office with an energy Murtaugh found almost indecent. ''Morning, Lieutenant—I got something here that'll cheer you up!"

"How do you know I need cheering up?" Murtaugh snarled.

The younger man stopped short. "Uh, it's Monday morning and everybody needs cheering up on Monday morning."

That drew a wry smile. "Oh, good recovery! All right, Eberhart, sit down and tell me what you've got."

"Right." Eberhart pulled a chair up to Murtaugh's desk and hesitated. He grabbed a wastebasket and swept last night's leavings off the top of the desk. Murtaugh thought about the leftover coffee mixing with the cigarette ashes but said nothing. Eberhart muttered something about people who don't clean up their own messes and sat down, spreading out a few papers in front of him.

The Sergeant had been unsuccessful in his attempt to find a witness to Pluto's pickup of Roscoe Malucci's hundred thousand dollars at the Modern Living Show in Madison Square Garden. The people who ran the show
said
this year's crowd were touchers—opening drawers and doors, turning on (unconnected) faucets, etc. Dead end.

So now Eberhart was glad to have something positive to pass on. ''Crime Lab report on the bill Pluto sent to Roscoe Malucci. Only fingerprints are those of Roscoe himself and Raymond J. Bowers, the nurse. The envelope has a whole mess of smeary prints—postal workers. But the paper itself is a help. Distinctive watermark, a stylized tiger's head. Heavy—twenty-pound weight. Kokle finish, odd color called 'bluebell'. Documents Section was able to identify the manufacturer as Yarborough Paper Products, operating out of Stamford, Connecticut."

"Have you called them yet?"

"Yep. The lady I talked to, a Mrs. Fertig, knew the line from the tiger's-head watermark. It comes in six different colors—and here's where we had a bit of luck. Mrs. Fertig said they were thinking about discontinuing the blue, or else substituting a different shade for the one they have. Seems that 'bluebell' isn't a good seller—it's too dark. The black ink of a typewriter ribbon doesn't show up as well as on white, and blue ink from a pen even less. Hard to read."

"So they don't have much call for it?"

"Not a whole lot. And get this—anybody wanting that shade of blue
with window envelopes
has to special-order them!"

"Great! Direct from Stamford?"

"No, the orders are placed through retail stores, stationers and the like. I asked Mrs. Fertig how many special orders had come through from New York City within the past year. She pushed some buttons on their computer and came up with four orders. Over eight million people in this burg, and only four of them like that shade of blue!"

"
No wonder they're thinking of discontinuing it," Murtaugh smiled, his bad mood forgotten.

"Those four orders are just for business stationery and envelopes, remember," Eberhart said, "and just in this immediate area. That blue might be a big hit in Dubuque —who knows. However. Mrs. Fertig read me the names and addresses of the special order places, and here they are!" He separated one sheet of paper from the rest and handed it to Murtaugh with a flourish.

Murtaugh tried to make sense of Eberhart's illegible scrawl. "You can read this, can you?"

His sergeant was insulted. "Of course I can read it. Two of the orders came from the same place, an office supplies outfit on Broadway. The third order came from one of those high-toned places that call themselves fine paper merchants. The fourth was from a stationery shop in Brooklyn."

"So why aren't you calling them? What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting for the stores to open, Lieutenant. It's only eight-thirty."

Unbelieving, Murtaugh looked at his watch: eight-twenty-seven. "So when did you have your conversation with Mrs. Fertig?"

Eberhart grinned. "They start early in Stamford."

Murtaugh nodded, musing. "Special orders—the customers would have to leave their names. Our hundred-thousand-dollar killer wouldn't use his real name, of course, but maybe somebody'll remember him."

Eberhart was doing a little musing of his own. "One hundred thousand dollars. Jeez. Remember the Echever-rias?"

Murtaugh remembered; he'd helped bring them in. Raul and Juanito Echeverria, first cousins who'd murder
anybody
for six hundred bucks. That was six hundred dollars for the
team,
for both of them. Three hundred each.

Now Eberhart was thinking of something else. "Lieutenant, that English accent Pluto has—you think it's real?"

"Probably not. An accent is an easy way to disguise your voice."

"But why would he want to? Does he know any of these people he calls?"

"I think he's just being cautious. We don't know how long he's been doing his, ah, speculative killing. But if he's been getting away with it for any length of time, it's because he doesn't take any chances he doesn't have to."

"You don't think this is something he's just started."

"Hell, no, it's too slick. I'm going to see if the computer can help us. What we need is a list of unsolved murders that follow a specific pattern. The murder rather spectacularly benefits one certain person, and that person not only has an iron-clad alibi but is also in a position to come up with one hundred thousand dollars on short notice. And I can tell you a good place to start. Carolyn Randolph. You know—the landscape architect who was almost done out of a city contract by William Parminter? I want you to run a financial check on her, see if she needed a hundred thousand shortly after Parminter's death. I'm willing to bet next month's salary that the lady paid Pluto for killing Parminter."

Eberhart looked uneasy. "Lieutenant, if Captain Ansbacher hears you're back on the Parminter case—"

"I'm not back on the case, I just want to know if Carolyn Randolph needed a lot of money in a hurry. But leave that until after you've checked the stationers. If you can't get a line on Pluto through the four orders
you
know about, then call back your friend in Stamford, I've already forgotten her name—"

"Mrs. Fertig."

"Call Mrs. Fertig and get a list of last year's orders—you know the drill. What time do stationery stores open?"

Eberhart started calling at nine-thirty, and Murtaugh found the computer could indeed tell him what he wanted to know. Nine other unsolved murders fitting the pattern Murtaugh specified in the past year alone, but only two to four a year for the preceding ten years. Even if some of the cases were discounted as coincidence, the record still indicated a pronounced increase of murderous activity within the pattern during the past year. Why? What was behind it? Why did Pluto get greedy all of a sudden?

By nine-forty-five Eberhart had hit pay dirt. "Tobin and Sons," he told Murtaugh. "Stationers, on Lexington —it's gotta be them. The two orders at the office supplies store on Broadway were placed by businesses—Di Gennaro's Ceramic and Marble Cleaning Service, and Lasky and Appelbaum, a jewelry firm. Both of them ordered the company name imprinted on the bill paper and the window envelopes. The Brooklyn order was also for imprinted work—a specialty foods store called Popo's. The only order with no imprinting was at Tobin and Sons. I talked to the clerk who took the order—and Lieutenant, she said, 'Oh, yes, I remember him. That's the English fellow, isn't it?' "

Murtaugh's grin stretched from ear to ear. "What's he look like?"

"The clerk says he's a bit on the chunky side, average height. Dark blond hair, worn long. Age, thirty or forty. Or maybe fifty. I'm quoting."

"
Hm. What name did he give?"

"Nicholas Ramsay. No address, but he left a phone number—I called it and it's an answering service. They wouldn't give out any information over the phone, so I'm going to have to go over there and flash a badge at them."

"I'll do that—you stay here and start the check on Carolyn Randolph's finances. That was good work, Eberhart. What's the name of the answering service?"

"Backtalk Telephone Service. It's on—hell, I forgot to write it down. I'll get the address for you."

"Okay. Nicholas Ramsay, huh?"

"Right. Lieutenant—why'd he buy this exclusive paper and envelopes? If he's so damned cautious, why didn't he just use a cheap paper anybody could pick up anywhere?"

"Vanity, I'd guess. Remember 'The Man from Porlock'? Leon Walsh kept talking about the killer's enormous ego. Cheap paper wouldn't suit Pluto's sense of style."

Eberhart thought of something. "Are you going to tell Captain Ansbacher?"

Murtaugh looked pained. "Yes." Eberhart nodded and went back to his desk to start phoning.

The Lieutenant didn't want to tell the Captain; Murtaugh wouldn't feel safe from his superior's interference until he actually had Pluto (alias Nicholas Ramsay undoubtedly alias something else) safely under lock and key. But he'd have to share information with Billings, the detective in charge of the Roscoe Malucci shooting, and Billings had to report to Ansbacher. There was no way around it—Ansbacher had to be told.

Might as well get it over with.
Murtaugh walked down the hall and knocked on Ansbacher's open door.

"
Not now, Murtaugh. Come back later."

"Fine with me. Thought you might like to know we have a line on Sussman's killer." He walked away.

"Come back here!"
Ansbacher roared after him. Murtaugh went back. "Billings says that's the same gun that shot off the Malucci kid's hand."

"Same gun, Captain." Murtaugh filled him in on what they'd found out. " 'Ramsay' has got to be an alias, but the answering service might give us a further line. Also, we can get an Identikit picture of his face—the clerk at the stationer's remembers him."

Ansbacher was nodding, making notes. "What about an all-points?"

"As soon as we get the picture."

"Okay, I'll say we have a suspect, picture to follow."

"You'll. . . what?"

Ansbacher checked his watch. "I have a press conference downstairs in ten minutes. I'll include an announcement about your Pluto and how he operates. A splash of publicity might be just the thing to keep him quiet for a while."

Murtaugh's mouth fell open. "You can't be serious!"

"Of course I'm serious!" Ansbacher eyed him with annoyance. "Don't tell me how to do my job. You're still taking orders from me."

"I wasn't—"

"You don't decide policy around here,
I
do. Got that?"

God
—
how jealous of his authority he was!
"Captain—"

"Why shouldn't I make an announcement? It'll all come out at the Walsh hearing next week anyway."

"That still gives us a week. Captain, there are other people out there who've been finagled into paying Pluto for killing their enemies—Leon Walsh and Roscoe Malucci aren't the only ones. You go down there and
spill
the beans to the news media and we're going to get zilch from those people who paid Pluto. Especially if you tell them about Walsh's hearing. Nobody's going to talk to us if they think they can be charged as accessory to murder!"

"It's your job to get them to talk. Who are these people anyway?"

"I got a list of possibles from the computer. I could use some more men, Captain."

"Can't spare any. Send me the list—I'll pass it on to Billings or somebody."

Murtaugh felt his face turning red. "At least wait until after Walsh's hearing before you go public. Chances are Walsh'll get off—then the people who paid Pluto won't be so reluctant to talk. But if they clam up now, they might never open up to us."

"What if Walsh doesn't get off?"

Murtaugh gestured helplessly. "A week, Ansbacher. Just
one week."

Ansbacher stood up behind his desk. "I'm going to be late," he said, and brushed by Murtaugh on his way out.

CHAPTER