Kill Fee (25 page)

Murtaugh nodded. "I wasn't out for blood, I just wanted him out of here. Any leads on the killer?"

"Not yet. The bullet was a twenty-two-caliber." Turnbull paused significantly. "No lands or grooves."

Murtaugh frowned. "No lands or grooves? That means a zip gun." He snorted. "Nobody uses zip guns any more."

Turnbull shrugged. "Street gangs?"

"When they can get the real thing so easily? No."

"Somebody under age.
Way
under age. Had he been rousting kids, do you know?"

"I don't know. Ansbacher didn't keep me informed. Who's heading up the investigation?"

"Dan Grogan." Turnbull looked uneasy. "We can't put you in charge, you understand. Right after he got you suspended . . . well, it would look peculiar, to say the least. We need somebody not involved."

"Sure," Murtaugh nodded agreeably. "Grogan'll do a good job."

"You're going to have your hands full anyway. Ansbacher had just started coordinating all the cases Pluto is thought to be involved in. Help yourself to what you
need
from his files. The Commissioner doesn't want you working on anything else—just catch Pluto, that's all."

"That's all, huh?" Murtaugh managed to grin.

"Yeah." Turnbull didn't return the grin. "The Commissioner also told me to give you what you want in terms of manpower and resources."

"For starters, I want Sergeant Eberhart."

"You got him." Turnbull made a note. "What else?"

"I'll need foot soldiers—begin with six. I'll get back to you on the rest as soon as I go through Ansbacher's files."

"Okay." Turnbull ran a hand through his hair. "Just one more thing. The Commissioner has a press conference scheduled for six o'clock and he wants you to be there."

"Six this evening?"

"Yes. He's going to make things right for you, Murtaugh. He's going to tell the reporters you were falsely accused and you've been reinstated. He's also going to say that your accuser has been suspended pending an investigation."

So Hanowitz is to be the goat,
Murtaugh mused. Offhand, he couldn't think of anyone who deserved it more.

Turnbull went on, "One thing working in our favor is the short period of time you were out—only a matter of days. I don't know of any shorter suspension in the Department. Anyway, the Commissioner is going to announce you are now in sole charge of the Pluto-hunt. It'll be a sign of our faith in you and a smart move as well—since you know more about Pluto than anyone else in the Department."

"I think Sergeant Eberhart may be ahead of me now," Murtaugh sighed.

"
But you're the one who's going to be at the press conference," Turnbull pointed out. "Be prepared to answer questions."

"Then I'd better get at those files." Murtaugh stood up; it was noon—he had six hours to do his homework and get organized. He was excited, even exhilarated. "Pluto's an elusive bastard, but I think I can get him, Turnbull. Now that I've got the full resources of the Department behind me—for the first time, I might point out. I can get him."

Turnbull nodded complacently. "We're counting on it."

The first thing Murtaugh did when he left Turnbull's office was call Ellie and tell her all was well. The second thing he did was go out and get something to eat; solid food in his stomach ought to help steady him. The third thing he did was go to the precinct station; he loped through the squad room, bellowing, "Eberhart! I need you!" without breaking stride.

"Yes,
sir!"
A beaming Sergeant Eberhart jumped up from his desk.

They went to Ansbacher's office, where Murtaugh explained they'd be going through the files looking for everything Ansbacher had accumulated on Pluto.

"What if we find something that might be related to Ansbacher's death?" Eberhart asked.

"Then it goes to Dan Grogan. He's in charge of the investigation—but I imagine he's already been through everything here."

Eberhart was puzzled. "Why Grogan? Why not you?"

"They wanted somebody not personally involved with Ansbacher."
They knew I'd be glad the son of a bitch was dead.
Murtaugh didn't even feel guilty. He
was
glad Ansbacher was dead. He hadn't been completely truth
ful
with Turnbull; he had indeed been out for blood. Not this way, of course—but he'd take it.

''Lieutenant," Eberhart grinned, "you don't know how glad I am to see you back."

Murtaugh smiled, genuinely pleased. "Thanks." He was feeling better every minute. All because Captain Edward Ansbacher had taken a straight shot to the heart, a disquieting example of the very approach to problem-solving Murtaugh was sworn to oppose. "By the way, did you know Ansbacher was killed with a zip gun?"

Eberhart looked incredulous. "C'mon."

"No lands or grooves in the bullet. Zip guns aren't accurate more than a few feet, so it had to be an up-close killing. But that's Grogan's worry. We'd better get started here."

Ansbacher had taken the computer-generated list of possible past murders committed by Pluto (the list Murtaugh had given him, the one he hadn't thought to ask for himself) and used it as a guide. He'd pulled the files on all the names on the list, and at the time of his death had isolated five names other than the ones Murtaugh and Eberhart already knew about. And there were more names on the computer list still to be checked out.

"Now we're cooking," Murtaugh exulted. "Okay, Eberhart, bring these five in for questioning. All at once. Help's on the way, incidentally—I asked Turnbull for legmen. Anyway, when you get these five possible 'clients' of Pluto's in here, the first thing you do is tell them they're in no danger of being tried as accessories. Tell them about Leon Walsh's hearing and the legal precedent it set. Make sure they understand about that. It's the only way we'll get them to talk—let them see we know all about it, that they're only one among many and they're in no danger from the law if they cooperate. Might not
hurt
to hint that they could be in trouble with the law if they do
not
cooperate. We've got to make that distinction clear."

"Right," Eberhart said. "You say legmen are coming? How many?"

"I asked for six. We can have more if we need them."

"Could I use one to follow up on the Pardee Club leads?"

"What the hell's the Pardee Club?"

Eberhart had put it all in a written report; it was there among Ansbacher's papers—Murtaugh hadn't gotten to it yet. The Sergeant explained about the private club with the underground pistol range. Pluto had been a member of the Pardee, Eberhart said, and had talked to other members. He also frequented shops that sold antique firearms.

Murtaugh felt like kissing him. "Eberhart, that's the best lead we've had yet! Take two men—three if you need them. Go call Turnbull's office and find out when they'll be here. And forget about hauling in those five earlier clients of Pluto's, I'll take care of that. This is your lead—checking on pistol ranges was your idea in the first place, wasn't it? You follow through on it. Git."

"Yes, sir!" Eberhart grinned happily and left. Now that was the way ranking police officers were supposed to act.

We're going to get him,
Murtaugh thought with barely suppressed excitement. He knew the signs; he'd been there before. Things were falling into place; there were too many lines leading back to Pluto for one of them not to pay off. They even knew his exact body measurements now, thanks to the Fifth Avenue tailor.

So at a little after six o'clock Murtaugh was able to face the microphones and the cameras with composure
and
say, "We have quite a few leads to Pluto—no, don't ask me, I'm not going to reveal anything that might tip him off. Yes, we think he's still in New York." He went on in that vein for a few minutes, giving the reporters nothing substantive but doing it in so authoritative a manner that they went away reassured. At least that was the effect he had aimed for; when the Commissioner congratulated him later, he knew he'd succeeded.

The press conference had been televised live as part of the six o'clock news and a tape replay was to be shown at eleven. That meant the next day would be too early for what he was expecting.

During that next day four of the five of Pluto's clients Murtaugh had brought in admitted they'd paid a hundred thousand each to the never-seen hit man. The fifth admitted nothing, even though he was repeatedly assured he would not be charged with complicity in any crime. They could have made a mistake with that one case, but Murtaugh thought the man was just too ashamed to admit he'd paid off his wife's killer.

Then the day after that it came.

At home, not through the police mail room. Same blue window envelope, same blue note paper.

FEE FOR SERVICES RENDERED

One murder, arranged to coincide with establishment of Pittsburgh alibi

Payment due . . . My continuing freedom

Well, there it was. He'd known from the minute Ellie had called and told him Ansbacher was dead, but now he had it in writing. If it hadn't been for Pluto, Murtaugh would still be sitting in his brother Desmond's house in
Pittsburgh,
anguishing over how to beat the frame Ansbacher had set up. One little zap from a zip gun, and Murtaugh's problems were solved. That simple.

Jesus.

Smart move, using a zip gun. That isolated the Ansbacher killing from the rest, one hell of a red herring. Now no one was likely to look at Murtaugh and think,
Hm, I wonder if he might not be a Pluto-client
. . . not that anyone would suspect him of being able to come up with a hundred thousand dollars for the payoff. But he could misdirect the search for Pluto, throw everybody off the scent, bollix it up so royally that Pluto never would get caught.

Which was exactly the price Pluto was charging for his service this time.

Jesus Christ.

And Pluto always collected. Poor dumb handless Roscoe Malucci was proof of that. Pluto didn't like being told no.

Murtaugh was beginning to feel a grudging respect for the man—the chubby, fast-moving killer who sometimes liked to pretend to be an English gentleman. He was efficient—oh, he was
deadly
efficient. He'd thought up this ridiculous scam combining intimidation and gratitude, and he'd made it work! A scam that left a trail of dead bodies behind him, a minor matter that didn't seem to bother him unduly. Even mob hit men tended to burn out after a while, to grow sick of the killing or lose their nerve, to notice the gun hand was beginning to shake a little. But not Pluto. Not kill-'em-and-bill-'em Pluto. Pluto rolled with the punches, bounced back, kept on going no matter what.

One familiar hazard of a long police career was the
policeman's
susceptibility to a perverse change of standards: he could come to admire the criminal and feel contempt for the victim. Shifting guilt on to the victim was a self-exonerating response well known in psychiatric circles; but it was something not talked about much in the Police Department—too close to the bone. The victim-blaming attitude was mostly an unconscious one, based upon years of working with (and against) both doers and those-done-to. So much crime, so much viciousness—rare was the policeman who had never wanted to give a victim a good shaking and say
Why didn't you take better care of yourself?
Most of the time such a frustration-filled reprimand was out of place; most crime victims truly could not protect themselves. But was there a policeman anywhere in the world who had
never
thought that?

Maybe that was what was behind Murtaugh's own dislike of people like Leon Walsh and his reluctant admiration of Pluto. The slick, callous criminal versus the bumbling, helpless victim—cartoon figures, clichés.
We simplify not to understand but to persuade ourselves we do understand.
Leon Walsh was not an easy man to like. You had to share
his
background and enthusiasms before you could talk to him; he never made any real effort to venture beyond his self-proscribed world. Murtaugh thought Pluto must be more cosmopolitan than that, moving as he did through so many different environments. Or was he glamorizing Pluto, endowing him with admirable traits simply because of his distance, his unreachableness? Murtaugh grunted in annoyance at himself.

There was only one way to deal with the problem: get Pluto before Pluto got him. Murtaugh wondered if Pluto seriously thought that he, James T. Murtaugh, would pay the price demanded. Damnedest thing, though, he
was
grateful to the son of a bitch. He hadn't done such a good job of untangling the Ansbacher mess on his own; Pluto had just come in and cut the knot with one blow. Now Murtaugh knew how Leon Walsh must have felt when he first learned Jerry Sussman wouldn't be around to sell him down the river. But to expect Murtaugh to derail the investigation deliberately . . . ? It was preposterous.

If he stuck to his usual pattern, Pluto would follow up with a phone call before long. In his other arrangements he'd given his clients time to get the payment together—almost a month in Leon Walsh's case. But since Murtaugh was not expected to pluck a hundred thousand dollars out of the air, he wouldn't be allowed so lengthy a grace period. How long did he have before he heard from Pluto?—two days, three? Twenty-four hours?

Early the next morning he was in his office making plans. He requested more investigators from Turnbull; they had a lot of ground to cover. Other tailors. Every place in Manhattan that dealt in antique firearms. One of the members of the Pardee Club had told Eberhart that "Willoughby" had always worn Bally shoes, so that gave them another line to follow. Also, Sergeant Eberhart was sure Pluto had changed his appearance again, so they needed to check the more posh of the men's hair salons. Murtaugh didn't think Pluto was the type to attempt a home dye job.

Then one of the new legmen found a cab driver who'd picked up Pluto three times since the beginning of the year, always in front of the Pardee Club. Did the driver still have his destination sheet, Murtaugh wanted to know, could he look up where he dropped Pluto off? Didn't have to look it up, the driver said, he remembered. He always
let
him out in the vicinity of Fifty-second Street and Third Avenue. This guy never gave an exact address, y'unnerstand, he just said as close to Fifty-second and Third as you can get.