Kill Fee (29 page)

He shouldn't have brought the files. If Pluto really was on board—well, one thing at a time. But he'd been obsessed with the thought that he had to get both Murtaugh's and Ansbacher's files out of Pluto's apartment before anyone else saw them. The shopping bag was one he'd left on the back seat of his car; now Eberhart was afraid to let bag and files out of his sight.

Eberhart was trying to sort out supposition from fact. What he
knew
had happened was a bit on the skimpy side. First, Pluto had investigated the Lieutenant and Ansbacher the same way he investigated his clients and his victims. Two, Ellie Murtaugh had been hustled out of town under police guard. Three, Lieutenant Murtaugh had received an anonymous tip that Pluto would be making the ten-thirty cruise around Manhattan.

Correction.
Lieutenant Murtaugh had
said
he'd received an anonymous tip that Pluto would be making the cruise.

What if Pluto had threatened to kill Ellie Murtaugh unless the Lieutenant agreed to . . . to what? Had Pluto and Lieutenant Murtaugh collaborated on some sort of scheme? Was the Lieutenant supposed to muddy up the investigation? He couldn't get away with that for very long; no, it had to be something else. Pluto didn't know his home base had been penetrated; he still thought he was safe, he was still making plans. What did he want from the Lieutenant? What were they planning?

The answer came to him like a door opening. They could be planning to fake Pluto's death.

Eberhart leaned against a railing and stared down at the river water. Would Lieutenant Murtaugh let a serial murderer go free in exchange for Ellie's life? Or put it the other way: would the Lieutenant sacrifice Ellie for the satisfaction of bringing in Pluto? No, of course he wouldn't. A lot of ambitious men would make the exchange, but Lieutenant Murtaugh wasn't one of them. The Lieutenant would cooperate with Pluto. And Eberhart was standing there with a shopping bag full of incriminating material, documents, and photos that would link Murtaugh and Pluto in a way neither one of them wanted.

The Lieutenant would cooperate. Unless.

Unless he refused to accept the proposition that he had only two alternatives: to let Pluto go free or to watch something terrible happen to Ellie. Lieutenant Murtaugh was too good a cop just to give in to that. Maybe he'd come up with a third possibility, a way of stopping Pluto once and for all before he had a chance to hurt Ellie. Had the Lieutenant figured out a trap?

And
was it to be sprung here, on this boat, right now?

Eberhart pushed away from the railing and resumed his search for the Lieutenant, fighting against a sense of urgency. He didn't know how much time he had; it couldn't be much. The Lieutenant could use some backup. It suddenly occurred to Eberhart that he might be proceeding on wishful thinking. There had to be a reason the Lieutenant hadn't taken him into his confidence. Eberhart admitted he couldn't guess whether the Lieutenant was trying to capture Pluto or whether he was trying to help him escape.

He moved away from the crowds toward the other side of the boat, which was virtually deserted. He saw a few stray sightseers—and one familiar figure. "Jacoby! Where's the Lieutenant?"

Before Jacoby could answer, Eberhart heard his name hissed from behind him. He turned to see Lieutenant Murtaugh beckoning from behind a barely open door. "Get in here!"

The Lieutenant was in a small storage room; Eberhart crowded against plastic bags full of Styrofoam cups as Murtaugh closed the door to a crack. "What's going on, Lieutenant?"

"Keep your voice down. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Costello said—"

"Never mind, tell me later. We're expecting Pluto to show any minute. To pick up his money." He glanced at the red paper bag Eberhart was carrying. "Fine time to go shopping."

Eberhart frowned. "He's coming here to pick up his money? And Jacoby's standing right there in plain sight?"

"
He doesn't know Jacoby."

"How can you be sure of that? Lieutenant, tell me what's really happening. I can help."

Murtaugh didn't say anything, gestured impatiently.

Eberhart took a deep breath. "I know Pluto got in touch with you. I think he threatened your wife." He hesitated. "I don't care what you're planning, Lieutenant. Either way, I want to help. Let me help."

Murtaugh gave a big sigh, and then smiled ruefully. "You're right. There was no anonymous tip—I made that up. It's just as well you know. You'll need your weapon. I'm not sure I can take him alone."

Eberhart felt a lifting of the spirits; a trap, then. "But you're not alone. What about Jacoby?"

"Jacoby is scheduled to take a fall—but he doesn't know it. That's why I couldn't tell anybody. I set the kid up."

"I don't get it."

"Look, there's no time to explain everything now. I had to work out a plan that would get Pluto here and convince him I was staging a phony death scene for him. He's going to knock Jacoby out and leave one of his guns—proof he was here, he thinks."

"And then as soon as he gets rid of his gun we jump him?"

"Then we jump him."

"It must be the thirty-eight."

"What?"

"The gun he's going to leave. There was no thirty-eight in his apartment. Six others, but no thirty-eight."

"Six? What—no, save it. We can't talk any more. It's almost time."

Eberhart slipped his pistol out of its holder and re
moved
the safety catch. Outside on the deck, Jacoby started a series of isometric breathing exercises to calm himself down.

"You said black, didn't you?" Pluto handed the lady from Grand Rapids her coffee.

The concession counter was crowded, but as soon as the tourists got what they wanted they headed back to some better spot for sightseeing. The loudspeaker told them they were passing Battery Park.

It was time.

"Let's walk back along this way, shall we? Miss the crowd."

The lady agreed easily, now that she was convinced Pluto was just another tourist like herself, open to a little temporary companionship. They strolled casually along the starboard side, passing the young man Pluto had earlier seen talking to Lieutenant Murtaugh. He was stationed exactly where Murtaugh had said he'd be. Except for the unexpected appearance of Sergeant Eber-hart—which could have been as big a surprise to Murtaugh as it was to Pluto—everything was going exactly as planned. He took a quick look around: no Murtaugh, no Eberhart. He didn't need his human shield after all. Pluto made a show of taking out a handkerchief and blotting some imaginary coffee from his lips.

Don't go through with it.

The thought astonished Pluto with its intensity; he hadn't realized his own reluctance. How easy it would be just to complete this little boat trip like any other tourist. Leave the young man alone, don't leave the .38 for Murtaugh. Finish the cruise, take the lady from Grand Rapids for a leisurely all-afternoon lunch at the Rainbow Room, and still be at Kennedy International in plenty of
time
for his night flight to Geneva. Get rid of the .38 before boarding the plane—perhaps drop it over the side of the boat? Just walk away from it all. And let a disappointed James Timothy Murtaugh go home, open his front door to the little surprise Pluto had left for him, and spend the rest of his life as an emasculated cripple. That part didn't bother Pluto.

What did bother him was the thought that if he did walk away from Murtaugh's plan, he'd never be able to come back to New York. Aside from his unwillingness to give up the city, Pluto thought it wouldn't be too smart to close any door behind him. And the police were getting close—Pluto knew that as well as he knew his own name. No, he had to get the New York police files closed on Pluto-the-hundred-thousand-dollar-killer. And Murtaugh's plan was the way to do it.

Pluto and his companion had turned a corner; the patsy Murtaugh had stationed by the starboard rail was out of sight. "Oh—I've lost my handkerchief," Pluto said. "I must have dropped it back there. I'll just nip along and take a look. Wait here for me?"

"I'll be here," the lady said.

Murtaugh had said the man would be young and inexperienced; this one certainly was. He kept looking in the same general direction instead of keeping his eyes in constant motion. It was easy.

Pluto used the butt of the .38 to catch the young man a good clip in the occipital region of his skull. He used his free arm to lower the slumping figure to the deck and then knelt down, the .38 still in hand.

"What are you doing?" said a woman's voice—high, alarmed. "What have you done to that man?"

Pluto whipped the .38 around so the nozzle pointed in her direction; he heard her gasp. "You shouldn't have
followed
me," he told the lady from Grand Rapids. "You should have stayed where I told you."

"I, I just wanted to help you look, I . . ." she stammered.

"You shouldn't have followed me," he repeated, and took aim.

A door four or five feet behind the lady burst open—and Murtaugh and Eberhart were both pointing guns at him. "Drop it, Pluto!" the Lieutenant shouted. "Drop it now! Get down, lady!"

A trap! It was a trap after all!

Pluto and Murtaugh stared at each other, face to face for the first time. An electric shock ran between the two men—it was anybody's guess which one would recover first.

Pluto fired.
The lady from Grand Rapids dropped like a stone ka-pow and Murtaugh grabbed his own arm his face twisted in sudden pain two for one not bad but before he could get off another shot
—a bomb exploded in his chest.

Sergeant Eberhart lowered his pistol.

Pluto was on his back on the deck, perfectly numb, feeling nothing. He looked up to see Lieutenant Murtaugh bending over him, grimacing with pain. Pluto closed his eyes.

"She's dead," Eberhart's voice said.

Pluto opened his eyes, looked straight at Murtaugh, said, "Surprise for you," and died.

Murtaugh stood up straight. That was it? That was all there was to it? This pudgy, lifeless creature was the great Pluto who'd had them all running in circles for so long? He heard Eberhart speak again. "You say she's dead?" Murtaugh asked.

Eberhart nodded. "You all right, Lieutenant?"

"
He killed that woman just because she got in the way?"

"Because she was there. That's all the reason he ever needed." Eberhart was looking in her purse. "Name's Georgia Maxwell. From Grand Rapids, Michigan."

Murtaugh was vaguely aware of agitated voices; the gunfire had drawn attention. Jacoby was groaning, beginning to come to. "Georgia Maxwell," Murtaugh repeated, tasting the name. "Georgia Maxwell is dead because I wanted to protect my wife. I traded one woman for another."

"Georgia Maxwell is dead because Pluto shot her," Eberhart said harshly. "Don't start that, Lieutenant."

Murtaugh stood looking down at Pluto's body, waiting for a feeling of satisfaction that would not come.
God, his arm hurt!
He looked at the dead woman, back to the dead man. "You rotten son of a bitch," he said quietly. Ellie Murtaugh was alive and well but Georgia Maxwell was dead, and she'd died without even knowing why. Abruptly Murtaugh found himself thinking of two other women, Rose Malucci and Carolyn Randolph. An old woman who'd been shot down without a second thought, and a young one who'd come through the Pluto wars without a scratch. Some women were allowed to live, some were not.

Jacoby was sitting up. "What happened?"

Out of the corner of his eye Murtaugh caught a glimpse of movement; he turned just in time to see Eberhart heave the red shopping bag overboard. "What was that?"

"Just some trash I should have gotten rid of earlier. Are you okay, Lieutenant? You don't look so good."

"I don't know, I've never been shot before." He halflaughed in apology. "I never knew a gunshot wound was so, so
hot.
My arm's on fire."

"
Why don't you sit down on the deck—here, let me help. I've got to go get them to stop this tub."

"I think I'm going to faint," Murtaugh said, and did.

Four hours later Lieutenant Murtaugh leaned against the wall of the elevator car, let Sergeant Eberhart push the button. His arm was in a sling, the pain damped down to a generalized discomfort.

"You okay?" Eberhart asked.

"Yeah, now that everybody's stopped telling me how lucky I am."

I'm okay, you're okay.
The doctor had told him his wound would not have hurt so much if he'd gone into shock as a protective reaction. Perhaps Murtaugh was in an overly defensive mood, but he would have sworn there was a note of reprimand in the doctor's voice.
I apologize, Doctor, for not going into shock.
The light in the elevator seemed dimmer than usual; the car was barely crawling.

"I wonder what his real name was," Eberhart said.

"We'll find out—more things to work with now, fingerprints and such. It'll come out."

Eberhart shrugged. "Maybe."

Murtaugh concentrated all his efforts on not sliding to the floor—the shot the doctor had given him had just about knocked him out. Not much farther; all he had to do was make it to the apartment and then he could collapse. He looked forward to oblivion. He needed oblivion. He had a lot he wanted to blot out. "Stupid," he said aloud, bitterly.

Sergeant Eberhart pretended not to hear.

He had handled it all wrong. He'd let his fear for Ellie's safety blind him to correct procedure. His plan
had
been stupid—so stupid that a woman had died of it. An innocent woman from Grand Rapids, Michigan, had wandered into the crossfire and died, gratuitously and senselessly. Pluto's bullet had gone straight through her neck and lodged in Murtaugh's upper arm; she had shielded him. That made her Murtaugh's victim as much as Pluto's. And to a lesser extent, so was Jacoby. The way Murtaugh had set him up—that alone could cost him his shield, if Eberhart ever decided to talk.

Murtaugh had never before in his life been so cavalier about other people's safety. That's what contact with Pluto had done to him: he'd lost his perspective, he'd lost his plain common sense. True, the hundred-thousand-dollar killer had been stopped. But
he
hadn't been the one to stop him—Sergeant Eberhart had been quicker. And Sergeant Eberhart wasn't even supposed to be there.