The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  She and Zarkov sat at an awning-shaded table and he asked if she’d like a drink. She said mineral water would be fine and he buzzed for a maid, and when one appeared, he told her to bring some for both of them.

  He swept an arm toward the expanse. “You like this?”

  “It’s marvelous,” she said. “It’s like being on top of the world.”

  The remark obviously pleased him. “That’s why I bought the apartment.”

  “You still have your place in LA, too, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. My business is in both places. Production in California, finance in New York.”

  The maid returned and served them drinks in tall glasses.

  When they were alone again, Zarkov asked if Dana had heard from Jay Harris, who had been Catherine’s agent at CMI.

  “No, not a word.”

  “He’ll be dealing with her lawyer,” Zarkov said. “Trying to get what he can from her estate.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Believe it. He’s a slimy little prick.”

  Dana thought so too, but she didn’t reply.

  Zarkov said, “What about the publicist, Sandra Rosen?”

  “She called me, mostly to commiserate. Said she’s been swamped by the media, wanting more information on Catherine for stories they were doing about her.”

  “Only what you’d expect. The irony is that Catherine knew the value of publicity as well as anyone. But she’d be horrified by what’s going on now.”

  Dana wasn’t fooled by his pious remark. “Although it’s certainly had a positive effect on the box office, hasn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes. The numbers look very good.”

  “I thought they would. I saw a newscast that showed the theater in Times Square at the opening, and there was a long line of people waiting to get in.”

  “It’s the same as when they see a car wreck and have to stop and look. But with Hot Cargo they’ll get their money’s worth. It’s a good picture, and Catherine is wonderful in it. In fact, even if she hadn’t been killed it still would have been a big hit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Actually, Dana thought the movie was trash, but she wasn’t about to say so. At the preview in Westwood, the members of the audience had seemed bored, even though the film contained plenty of sex and violence. The survey afterward confirmed that they weren’t much impressed.

  “I tried to reach you at the Sherry,” Zarkov said, “but I was told you’d moved. Fortunately, I had your cell number.”

  “I had to get away from the reporters. So I slipped out and went to the Regency.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I want to go to Catherine’s funeral. It’s to be held in Connecticut. In Greenwich, where she grew up.”

  “Yes. I wanted to go too, and so did Tony Gregarian and Terry Falcon and people from the studio. But we were told it’s to be private. So we’ll hold a memorial service for her in LA, at some point later on. I’m surprised you were able to get an invitation.”

  “I think it’s because her brother knew I was close to her.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. By the way, Penny’s body will be sent to Kansas City. Her family is there.”

  “So I understand.”

  “You two didn’t get along very well, did you?”

  The question surprised her. How would he know anything about that? “We had a few differences. But nothing serious.” That wasn’t true. She’d always found Penny to be an officious bitch, jealous of her relationship with Catherine.

  Zarkov didn’t press it. Instead he said, “You should go back to LA right after the funeral. Otherwise you could have problems.”

  “Problems? With what?”

  “You could be forced to stay here in New York. The district attorney could have you held as a material witness.”

  “He could do that?”

  “Yes. I talked to my lawyer about it. He said you and Chuck Diggs could both be held here.”

  “But why? I told the detectives everything I knew. They kept asking me the same questions over and over again about what happened.”

  “Did they ask you anything else? About Catherine, for instance? About her personal life, anything like that?”

  “Not really. They were mostly interested in how she’d spent her time after we got to New York. They asked if she’d had any impression that someone might be following her, and I said no.”

  “And that was all?”

  “Pretty much, yes. They also showed me dozens of pictures of men, but none of them looked like the one who did it. I helped them make a drawing of him. Then they had me put together a list of the jewelry she had with her. I told them I couldn’t be sure it was accurate. I gave them the name of her insurance company and suggested they check with them.”

  “So you were completely cooperative.”

  “Of course. And I still don’t understand why they’d want to hold me here.”

  “My guess is that the case is so big they’d want to keep a tight grip on it. So they’d force you to stay while the police try to find the killer.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Who knows how long that might take. Maybe they’ll never catch him. Then what?”

  “I’m only passing on what my lawyer said about it. He also said something else, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. He said you should go through your files as soon as possible and take out anything you wouldn’t want the authorities to see. Anything that might show Catherine in a bad light.”

  “I doubt there’s anything like that.”

  “Perhaps there isn’t. But something you think is perfectly innocent could be distorted. Also, once it was made public, or leaked, the tabloids would blow it all out of proportion.”

  “Yes, I know that’s true. During the time I worked for her, they said outrageous things about her.”

  “You see? Look, I’ve had a lot of experience with that kind of thing. I’d be glad to go over what you have and advise you as to what could cause trouble.”

  “Thanks, that’s very good of you.”

  “You brought your laptop with you to New York, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’d prefer to wait till I get back to LA to go over the files. I have more stuff there, also. Personal letters, notes, that kind of thing.”

  “I see. In any case, I’ll help you. And I’ll make sure the studio plane is available to take you back to LA right after Catherine’s funeral. I have some business that will keep me here for a couple of days, but then I’ll go back as well.”

  “Okay. Was there anything else?”

  He put a hand on hers. “Only that I’ve always found you very attractive. Why don’t you stay and join me for dinner? I’d be delighted to have you.”

  “Sorry, but I have a lot to do.”

  He moved his hand down to her leg and squeezed it. “Don’t be in such a rush. I think we could have a pleasant time together. A very pleasant time.”

  She stood up. “Gotta go, Len.”

  He looked annoyed, but then wiped the expression from his face. “As you wish. Just be careful. Remember my lawyer’s advice.”

  “I will.”

  He followed her back to the elevator. As she stepped into it he said, “I’ll look forward to spending time with you in LA. Meantime, you can count on me for anything you might want. You have my number, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” The door closed, and down she went.

  Once Dana had returned to her room at the Regency she decided that after the visit with Zarkov she needed a shower. The nerve of the oily bastard. Stay for dinner? Dinner wasn’t what he meant. He’d acted as if he’d be doing her a favor by fucking her.

  She took off her clothes and got into the shower stall and turned on the hot water. As the spray pounded her skin she felt a little better, but she was sti
ll irritated by the discussion. Obviously Zarkov considered her naive, if not stupid. His offer to help her wasn’t as altruistic as he wanted her to think.

  And he hadn’t just been horny. In fact, two points stood out, loud and clear. He wanted her to leave New York as soon as possible. And he wanted to get his hands on Catherine Delure’s personal files.

  9.

  A few days after the autopsies of Delure and Ellis, Jeb Barker drove his Mustang up FDR Drive and over the Third Avenue Bridge, on his way to Greenwich. Because it was morning and people were coming to work in New York, most of the traffic was moving in the opposite direction, and that was a break. The weather was lousy, however, sky heavily overcast and rain falling off and on. Perfect for a funeral.

  On the Major Deegan Expressway he passed the reincarnated Yankee Stadium. According to a story he’d read in the Post, the new park had cost $1.3 billion, with a good chunk of that provided by the city. It struck him as unfair for the owners to stick it to taxpayers, especially since they were making a shitload of money. And besides, there didn’t seem to be much wrong with the old stadium, which had been right next door.

  Those issues aside, it would be nice to go to a ball game—if his life ever returned to something approaching normal. As it was, the Delure case was taking over every part of his existence.

  He’d never seen so much pressure within the NYPD. Everybody from the police commissioner on down was putting the squeeze on the cops who were actually doing the work. And for that matter, the PC himself was catching hell from the mayor and every tinpot politician who saw the case as an opportunity to call attention to himself by demanding that the killer be brought to justice.

  As a result, Lieutenant Hogan now had more than a hundred detectives in what the department was calling the Catherine Delure Task Force, and at times it seemed as though the cops were stumbling over one another. So far they’d come up with not one solid lead.

  Hogan’s order that Barker and Spinelli check out known fences, hoping they’d run across jewelry that had belonged to the actress, had also been fruitless. In Barker’s opinion, it was a waste of time. Especially after what he’d seen at the autopsy.

  To begin with, the cops didn’t even know exactly what the pieces of jewelry were. The list Dana Laramie had provided was, by her own admission, mostly guesswork. But she’d suggested that because the jewelry had been insured through the Fidelity National Insurance Company, they probably had better information. Barker had called the firm, and they said yes, they’d issued Ms. Delure a policy. They sent a list of their own, which contained fewer than half the items Laramie had put down.

  Not only that, but the descriptions were much too broad. “Ring with square-cut 5-carat diamond.” And “Patek-Philippe ladies’ wristwatch.” And “Pearl necklace.” And “Bracelet set with sapphires and emeralds.” Ask anybody in the jewelry business about pinning down such pieces and they’d laugh at you.

  In fact, several had. One of them, a retailer in the Diamond District on West Forty-Seventh Street, said, “What is this, a joke? I got things here in my shop that’re like all the ones you’re talking about. So?”

  The guy had a point. Even though he’d had several brushes with the law for dealing in merchandise that later had turned out to be stolen, there was no way to connect him or his goods to the Delure case.

  “Listen,” he said, “let’s say you were looking for signature pieces, like the stuff created by Harry Winston, or Van Cleef. Then they’d be distinctive, know what I mean? You could identify them. But you’re asking me about a diamond ring, or a bracelet with jewels or a pearl necklace? Get real.”

  Barker and Spinelli had also gone through police records and picked out known thieves, guys who’d done time for jewelry heists. None of the men in the photos much resembled the smooth character who’d sneered at the security cameras in the Sherry-Netherland, but the two detectives tracked down a number of them anyway.

  One had been paroled from Sing Sing some six months earlier. He was bald and skinny and had a nervous twitch in his left eye. The only physical aspects he had in common with the Delure perp were his above-average height and a mustache. His name was Alfred Favalo, and he hung out in a bar in the Village. Barker and Spinelli found him there and showed him their shields and IDs.

  Favalo was drinking a gin and tonic and was obviously not happy to see them. To take the edge off the discussion, each cop ordered vodka on the rocks. They said salut and drank, and then tried to question him. But except to swallow some of his booze, Favalo kept his mouth shut. And the twitch in his eye became more pronounced.

  “Come on, Al,” Spinelli said. “You probably got a pretty good idea of what’s going down. What’ve you heard?”

  “Nothing. If I did, I’d tell you.”

  “No word on the street? Nobody’s been saying anything about the case?”

  “People’ve been saying a lot about it. But that don’t mean any of them know anything. It’s all rumors and guesswork. Like I said, if I knew I’d tell you.”

  “You would?”

  “Jesus, don’t you ever talk to other cops?”

  “What does that mean?”

  Favalo dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “I’m a CI, man.”

  Barker looked at him. “You’re a confidential informant?”

  “Hell yes. I’m in touch with Robbery all the time. Ask Sergeant Wanewski. And right now you guys can get the fuck away from me. I don’t want to be seen with you.”

  Barker and Spinelli knocked back their booze, and Barker paid the tab. They told Favalo to have a nice evening and left the place.

  Later, when they were driving back uptown in Barker’s Mustang, Spinelli said, “The guy was right. One hand doesn’t know what the other one’s doing. How were we supposed to know he’s a snitch?”

  “We weren’t. That’s part of the idea, Joe. An informant has to operate below the radar.”

  “Maybe so, but you know what I think? I think Hogan’s got us spinning our wheels.”

  “Could be.”

  Other interviews they conducted were no more productive, and Barker was convinced Spinelli had put his finger on it. If they happened to come up with something worthwhile, Hogan could take credit for it. Until then, their bullshit assignment would keep them busy.

  Barker’s problems didn’t stop there, either. His on-and-off-again girlfriend had turned into a real nudzh, pestering him for information about the case. She knew an autopsy had been conducted and assumed he’d attended it. Now she was eager to hear what he might have learned about Delure.

  Could he tell if the actress’s smooth skin was due to Botox injections? Was her hair dyed? Did she have scars from a face-lift? Was there cellulite in her thighs? Or in her ass? Were her boobs real?

  And in addition to all that, what did he know about her social life? Had he found out who she’d been fucking?

  When Barker refused to reply to her questions, Gloria went into a monumental sulk. Before this, she’d never expressed the faintest interest in his work, and now she seemed to think of little else. She said by not confiding in her he was being cruel, and it showed he didn’t trust her, and he was a stubborn male who ought to consider her feelings.

  Gloria was a data analyst at J.P. Morgan. Barker told her to stick with her numbers and stop shoving her nose into matters he was not able to discuss with a civilian. Calling her a civilian apparently pissed her off as much as any of the rest of it. He hadn’t seen or heard from her since.

  This morning Barker was alone in the car. Spinelli was in the city running down yet another known jewel thief, although with little enthusiasm for the task. Nevertheless, Joe felt it beat going to Greenwich. He hated funerals.

  For that matter, he didn’t know anybody who liked them. Except the undertakers, of course—or funeral directors, as they called themselves these days.

  Once he was on
I-95 the traffic was somewhat lighter, mostly trucks pounding along the broad concrete ribbon. The weather also improved a little. By the time he turned off at Greenwich the rain had become a drizzle, although the day remained dark and gloomy.

  From I-95 he drove to the center of town. If you didn’t know better, the impression you got was that this was simply a charming little village. But then you began to notice that the stores were Tiffany­, and Saks Fifth Avenue, and Prada, and others equally famous. The cars you saw gave you another hint. There were far more Mercedes and BMWs and Bentleys and Porsches than there were Fords and Chevys.

  The fact was Greenwich was one of the richest towns in the United States and had been for more than a century. This was where the Whitneys and the Vanderbilts and many of the Rockefellers had built their estates, great sprawling properties that featured castlelike houses with acres of meticulously manicured lawns and gardens.

  And although most of today’s residents owned smaller spreads, many of their houses were nevertheless baroque statements of status and wealth. Business tycoons, sports and entertainment stars, hedge fund operators, wheelers and dealers of every stripe called Greenwich home. All it took was money. Lots of it.

  Over the years, the town had also attracted its share of rascals. One of the first to gain a national reputation for political thievery was Boss Tweed, the notorious head of New York’s Tammany Hall back in the nineteenth century. At the height of his career, Tweed was the third largest landowner in Manhattan. He used some of the money he stole to build a vast dwelling in Greenwich, on the shore of Long Island Sound and used it as his summer home. He died in jail on April 12, 1878, after being convicted of forgery and larceny.

  Like Boss Tweed, modern criminals residing in Greenwich also tended to be the white-collar type. A prime example was Martin Frankel, a financier who’d owned a mansion a few miles north of the Merritt Parkway. Frankel swiped more than $200 million from insurance companies in five states before skipping to Germany with two blondes and a satchel full of gold and diamonds. He was arrested in Hamburg and brought back to the States to face the music. A federal judge sentenced him to sixteen years.