Kill Fee (23 page)

"Jesus, I'm going nuts," he said aloud. Ansbacher was a shit and Murtaugh could believe almost anything of him. But to think of a police captain feeding information to a wanted murderer just to spite one of his lieutenants—well, that was really stretching it. "I'm getting paranoid," he muttered.

Eberhart stuck his head in the door. "Shoo flies." He disappeared.

Now what?
Murtaugh thought in irritation. He needed meddlers underfoot the way he needed a hole in the head. Two men loomed in his doorway, a tall one and a taller one; Murtaugh knew neither of them.

"James Murtaugh?" the merely tall one said. "I'm Sanders of Internal Affairs, this is Karp." The other man nodded and stepped into Murtaugh's office; Sanders followed and shut the door.

"Come in," Murtaugh said dryly.

Sanders and Karp positioned themselves in front of the desk. "I'll get right to the point," Sanders said. "A charge of malfeasance has been brought against you. Suspicion of taking a bribe."

"What?"
Murtaugh jumped to his feet. "A bribe? That's absurd! Who's supposed to have paid me?"

"The killer you're allegedly hunting. The one known as Pluto."

Allegedly
hunting. "That's ridiculous. That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. Who brought the charge? Ansbacher?''

One of Sanders's eyebrows rose. "What a lucky guess. Or was it? You knew Ansbacher was on to you, didn't you, Murtaugh? He's had your number for a long time. I want your shield and your weapon. Now."

Murtaugh started to reach angrily toward Sanders, but Karp stepped in and Murtaugh thought better of what he was doing.
Stay calm,
he told himself. "That's all it takes?" he asked. "Ansbacher points a finger and you come running to do his dirty work?"

"You were overheard making plans to set up a phony stakeout."

"A phony . . . that stakeout was legit! You're talking about the one at the Fifth Avenue tailor's, aren't you? Why would I set up a phony stakeout?"

"A diversion, a ploy. Ansbacher has a witness who heard you making plans on the phone to steer the investigation into safe waters. He heard you call the person on the phone 'Pluto'."

Murtaugh felt paralyzed, as if some vital function in his body had been summarily switched off. He knew what his captain was capable of—why was he so surprised that Ansbacher had set him up?
Why hadn't he anticipated it?
He worked his jaw a couple of times and said, "Who's this witness who claims he heard me incriminating myself?"

"Hanowitz, in Burglary. He reported the conversation to Captain Ansbacher."

Hanowitz again. "That lying little ass-kisser. He'd do anything, say anything he thought would help him get a leg up!"

"You'll get to tell your side of it at the hearing," Sanders said. "In the meantime, get yourself a lawyer. And
Murtaugh—
get a good one. A ranking officer who'd let a paid killer go free . . . let's just say he's going to need damned good legal representation."

"You've made your mind up already, haven't you?" Murtaugh said bitterly.

"You may be clean. I don't know yet. But your own captain has been suspicious of you for months, and we do have a witness. It doesn't look good. You're suspended without pay until our investigation is complete and a hearing is scheduled." Sanders dropped an envelope on the desk. "There's the authorization. I want your weapon and your shield. You're to leave now and not return until the time of the hearing. Take nothing with you—all your files are impounded, even the contents of your desk."

"Want to search me before I go?" Sanders didn't answer the sarcasm. Murtaugh put his badge and his gun on the desk. "How long until the hearing?"

"However long it takes us to complete the investigation, and buddy, we are going to investigate you good. Get a lawyer."

Murtaugh walked around the desk and stopped to stare at Karp. The taller man hadn't uttered a word the whole time; Sanders had done all the talking. "Why'd they send two of you?" Murtaugh asked Karp sourly. "Are you the muscle in case I get violent?"

"I'm a trainee," Karp said.

It figured.
Murtaugh nodded and went on out.

Captain Ansbacher felt perspiration beading up on his forehead but resisted the temptation to reach for his handkerchief. A man mopping his brow never looked good on television; he lost stature.

This wasn't going the way it was supposed to. In all his years on the force, Ansbacher had never met a news
reporter
yet who didn't start to salivate at the merest hint of scandal inside the Police Department. Most of them found misbehavior on the part of New York's finest downright titillating; something to do with suppressed envy, Ansbacher supposed, a sexual reaction. But here he'd just handed them a nice juicy tidbit and they were all acting surly about it.

The man from the
Times
asked, "Does this mean you busted Lieutenant Murtaugh on the basis of one overheard telephone conversation?"

Ansbacher enunciated his words carefully; reporters were so prone to misunderstanding. "There were other matters taken into consideration."

"Such as?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

There were several audible snorts from the reporters. A woman in an unnecessarily tight red sweater asked, "So what happens to the hunt for Pluto now? Who's taking over Lieutenant Murtaugh's investigation?"

"I am," Ansbacher said. "I will be coordinating the efforts of all our investigators—"

"You mean they haven't been coordinated up to now?" the woman interrupted.

"Let me finish," Ansbacher snapped. "I will be coordinating various lines of investigation
and
taking over Murtaugh's case load myself," avoiding her question. "I'll have—"

"How many cases did Murtaugh have?" asked a slightly overweight man with curly brown hair and glasses.

"I don't have the exact number at the moment. As I—"

"Wasn't it just one?" the man persisted. "The Jerry Sussman murder?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that. As I was saying, I will be organizing the hunt to bring in the killer we
know
as Pluto. And I'll tell you this. We're getting close. We have several strong leads that I intend to pursue personally. We're anticipating an arrest before long."

The man with the curly brown hair spoke again; the little fag wouldn't shut up. "Those strong leads you're going to follow—weren't they all developed by Lieutenant Murtaugh?"

"The leads came from many sources. This is a cooperative effort, you know—"

"Come on, Captain, isn't it true Murtaugh was the only one who was getting anywhere tracking down Pluto? And all of a sudden he's under investigation by Internal Affairs—what's really going on?"

"I've told you all I can at this point. Thank you for coming—this press conference is ended."

"Is Pluto a cop?" somebody shouted.

"NO!"
Ansbacher roared. "That is a totally irresponsible question! Pluto is not, repeat
not,
a member of this police force—or any other police force so far as I know. He's a civilian just like you, and he's out there, and we're going to get him!" On that strong finish Ansbacher strode from the room.

Once away from the sight of the reporters and their cameras, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his gleaming face. Damn them! The fourth estate would have a long wait before
he
ever handed them an inside story again. Maybe he was getting an overexposure problem; might be best to low-profile it for a while.

Damned faggots.

Murtaugh heard Ellie's key in the lock but couldn't summon the energy to get up and go open the door. "Aren't you early?" he greeted her.

"
A little." She gave him a quick kiss and settled on the arm of his chair. "What did the lawyer say?"

"Not a whole lot—it's too early, he needs to do some work first. He did say if this were a regular trial, the charge would be thrown out of court. Not enough evidence, even the false kind."

"Well, that's a good sign, isn't it?"

"Not really. The rules are different in a police trial board hearing. Crooks have to be proved guilty by a court, but cops have to prove their innocence. Ansbacher's opinion counts a lot more in a trial board hearing, for one thing. And since the so-called witness is a police detective, his word will carry a lot of weight."

"What about this witness—Hanowitz, is that the name?"

"Ah yes, Sergeant Hanowitz. A grabby little weasel who doesn't mind climbing over dead bodies to get where he's going. I can't say I'm surprised."

"You think Ansbacher promised him something? Help in getting a promotion?"

"I'd make book on it. But there's no way to prove it. As long as Hanowitz sticks to his story that he overheard me setting up a bogus stakeout . . ." He trailed off, not wanting to complete the thought.
As long as Hanowitz sticks to his story, I'm going to end up losing my pension.
The phone rang. "Don't answer it."

"Why not?"

"Reporters. They've been calling ever since I got in. People love hearing a cop is dirty." After the thirteenth ring the caller gave up. "I'll get the number changed."

Ellie squeezed his arm in sympathy. "I've been thinking. Why don't you go stay with Des for a while?" Murtaugh's brother Desmond, living in Pittsburgh. "You
haven't
seen him for nearly a year, and it would do you good to get away from New York. For a little while."

"Run away?"

"Of course not—you know I don't mean that. Just give yourself some breathing space. Have you thought about it—getting away for a while?"

Murtaugh made a noncommittal noise.

"It might help you to get outside the situation here. Find a different perspective, get rid of the cobwebs. You'll think of things in Pittsburgh you can't think of here—you're too close. Call Des. Do it, Jim."

"Hm," he said. "What about you? Could you come?"

"I can't get away right now, but I can come at the end of the week. Go call Des."

"You'd come on . . . ?"

"Friday. Late afternoon or early evening."

Murtaugh didn't need any more urging. He called his brother and invited himself to Pittsburgh. Des said to come ahead.

"Why, that's Willoughby!" old Mr. Rasmussen exclaimed in obvious surprise. "Surely the police aren't looking for Willoughby?"

Eberhart felt a chill of pleasure run down his spine. "Are you sure, Mr. Rasmussen? Take a good look."

The old man held the police sketch of Pluto's face at arm's length and studied it carefully. "Yes, that's Willoughby—no mistake. I sponsored him myself. He hasn't done anything illegal, has he, Sergeant?"

"He called himself Willoughby here?"
Here
was the Pardee Club, with its pistol range in the sub-basement; Eberhart had at last hit pay dirt. "Would you spell that?"

Mr. Rasmussen spelled it for him. "Isn't that his real name?"

"
We don't know his real name. This guy has a new alias every time you turn around." Eberhart printed
Willoughby
in his notebook, in careful block letters so that even Lieutenant Murtaugh could read it easily—and then remembered the Lieutenant wouldn't be reading it at all. "First name?"

"Henry. Henry Willoughby. Sergeant, you must be wrong. Willoughby is an English gentleman who wouldn't be associated with—what do you think he's associated with?"

"Murder. And we have proof. He's a professional killer, Mr. Rasmussen." The old man blanched, and Eberhart wished he hadn't spoken so bluntly. "You say you sponsored him here—you mean a membership in the Pardee Club? Then you must know him from somewhere else."

"Well, I first ran into him at Holland's. Then we met at Burney's a few times and had a couple of drinks together and—"

"Hold on—what are Holland's and Burney's?"

"They're antique gun dealers. As I said, Willoughby and I had a drink together a few times and then I invited him here—to the Pardee—for dinner. We were both interested in guns. . . . " Mr. Rasmussen trailed off as he realized why the other man had been so interested in guns. "No," he muttered to himself. "I don't believe it."

"So you brought him here to the Pardee," Eberhart prompted.

But old Mr. Rasmussen couldn't tell him much more. They'd talked guns and the old man had shown his guest the pistol range in the sub-basement. "Don't shoot any more myself," he said, holding up a trembling hand in demonstration. "First the eyes go, then . .. well." Mr. Rasmussen had introduced his new English friend to some
of
the other members and had eventually sponsored him for membership.

Eberhart took down the names of the other members who knew "Willoughby"—although Mr. Rasmussen had not wanted to name them. "You're wrong about Willoughby," he said stubbornly. "I didn't get where I am by being a bad judge of character, Sergeant. And I'm telling you Henry Willoughby is no murderer."

Eberhart thanked him for his help and didn't argue. Mr. Rasmussen was like those people who kept insisting Richard Nixon was just misunderstood; they couldn't bring themselves to admit they'd made
that
big a mistake in judgment. Eberhart took the elevator down to the sub-basement and talked to the counterman at the pistol range. The counterman was fairly new on the job and had never seen Pluto, but he had seen the police sketch before. He'd put a copy up on the bulletin board but somebody stole it.

Wonder who?
Eberhart thought dryly. That meant their police sketch was no longer any good, he was willing to bet. Pluto had come in to do some shooting and had spotted his face on the bulletin board. Now he knew
they
knew what he looked like, so the first thing he'd do would be to change his appearance.
Where are you, Pluto, and what do you look like now?
The opposite of blond and mustachioed was clean-shaven and brunet. Or red—no, henna was too easy to spot. Black or brown hair. Possibly a full beard? But Pluto wouldn't have had time to grow one yet and putting on a false beard every morning was a pain; to look realistic, it had to be pasted on strand by strand. Clean-shaven, then, and brown or black hair.