The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  The weapon was fitted with a Swift telescopic sight. That in combination with its enormous power made it an ideal sniper’s rifle, although he hadn’t needed the scope when he blew Culebra’s head off from a short distance.

  Now, however, the range would be roughly a hundred yards, and use of the scope would be vital. When focusing on the cop, he’d get exactly one chance, and he couldn’t afford to waste it.

  But when would that be? Would the cop show up tonight to call on his sweet little piece? If he did, Mongo would whack him before he made it into the building’s entrance.

  Night would offer a number of advantages. It would be darker up here then, so it would be even less likely that he’d be observed. Yet there would be plenty of illumination down on the street, where the cop would be.

  He pointed the rifle at the sidewalk in front of the target building and squinted through the telescopic sight. At the curb, a woman was getting out coins for a parking meter. He moved the gun a fraction to focus on her, and the image in the scope was so sharp he could see the buttons on her blouse.

  Fantastic, he thought. With this rig he couldn’t miss, he was sure of it. If he squeezed the trigger now, he’d drill her in the left tit.

  And when he had the cop in the scope, it would be just as easy. And just as sure.

  But at the moment, he’d stuck his neck out far enough. What he had to do now was stay out of sight and wait for darkness. He lifted the rifle from the parapet and rose to his feet.

  “Hey, you! Drop the gun!”

  Mongo was so startled he let go of the weapon, and it clattered to the surface.

  “Put your hands up! Do it now, or I’ll shoot!”

  The voice was coming from behind him. He thrust his hands into the air.

  “Now turn around.”

  Mongo complied, slowly turning to face the owner of the voice.

  A guy in a dark blue uniform was staring at him. He was training a revolver on Mongo’s chest, and at the same time pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

  “Don’t move,” the man said. “You’re gonna stay right where you are till I get some backup.”

  43.

  One of the Sunset Inn’s amenities was a small gym. When Barker walked in, only one other man was in the place, a fat guy who was pumping iron. His face was as red as a ripe tomato, and he was wheezing loudly as he hoisted the barbell over his head. Barker walked past him and stepped onto a treadmill.

  The device was equipped with a small TV set and earphones so that the user could offset the boredom of exercising with the boredom of watching television. Barker put on the earphones and tuned in to a news channel. Then he set the treadmill on a fast pace and began running.

  At least today the TV news wasn’t about the Delure case, which was a relief. Instead, there was a stream of stories on mayhem, ranging from the latest developments in the war between gangbangers to a double homicide in South Central. As Sam Benziger and Deke Edwards had said, there was no shortage of crime in LA. He switched channels to one that featured country music.

  Barker liked country. Mostly it consisted of a singer wailing about an unfaithful lover, but at least you could understand the lyrics and there was an actual melody. Not like the idiot pounding of rap.

  He’d clocked about seven miles when his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and went on running. “Barker.”

  “Hi there,” a familiar voice said. “Hopkins here. I thought you’d want to know Zarkov’s agreement has arrived. It’s complicated, because it’s written in lawyerese. I told you I’d call when I got it.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to see it.”

  “Fine. Come on over and have a look.”

  “Okay, when?”

  “Whenever you can make it.”

  Barker said he’d get there as soon as he could. He put the phone away and went on running.

  He was due to meet Sam Benziger at the LA County Jail, where Marcia Slade was now being held. According to Sam, Slade was again trying to bargain, claiming she had more information than she’d given up in Las Vegas. But he wasn’t to join Sam at the jail until late afternoon, so there was plenty of time.

  This was the first chance he’d had to get some exercise, and he hated to cut it short. He ran another five simulated miles before shutting down the machine.

  On the way out of the gym he saw that the fat weight lifter was still at it. The guy’s red face and loud wheezing suggested he was due for a heart attack any minute now. Strange way to improve his health, Barker thought. Or maybe he just wanted to look good in his casket.

  After a shower Barker put on a polo shirt and khakis and headed out. It was another beautiful California day, with warm sunshine and a cloudless sky, and he enjoyed the drive.

  Just before he reached Bel Air his phone rang again. For a moment he was tempted to ignore the damn thing. Let it take a message, and he’d decide later whether the call was important. Then he thought better of it and answered: “Barker.”

  “Jeb, it’s Joe.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not so good. Danny the Dip had a solid alibi for the day Delure and Ellis were shot, and a judge sprang him. So Hogan looked like a horse’s ass. The media loved it, of course. The Post came out with an editorial that said he should be replaced. The PC gave him a good reaming, said he was an embarrassment to the department.”

  “And then he canned him?”

  “No such luck. He’s back to flailing in all directions.”

  “So stay out of his way.”

  “I’m trying, but here’s the bad part: Hogan called a bunch of us together so he could take his misery out on us, and afterward he pinned me down. He didn’t ask where you were, or even ask if I knew. Instead he just told me if you didn’t report to him soon, he’d have you suspended.”

  “Good luck to him. He could take me off the case, but he couldn’t suspend me. That’d be up to Kelly.”

  “Maybe so. But my advice is for you to get back here. Otherwise you’ll be in deep shit.”

  “Can’t do it, Joe. Between you and me, I’m close to cracking the case.”

  “Come on.”

  “I mean it. The shooter’s a hired gun, and I think he’s here in LA. The LAPD wants him too, on a separate murder rap. I’m also running down leads on who hired him.”

  “That’s great. So why not let Hogan know? He could even find a way to take the credit if what you’re doing pays off.”

  “You know why.”

  “You’re afraid he’d fuck it up?”

  “Of course he would. All I need is another day or two, I’m convinced.”

  “Okay, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Me too,” Barker said and ended the call.

  When he arrived at Hopkins’s place, Barker nodded to the security man and parked in the side courtyard between a silver Porsche and a green Aston Martin. He got out and looked at the lineup of the three cars. In that company, the Ford put him in mind of a poor relative who’d come to ask for a loan.

  For that matter, seeing the huge Mediterranean house had the same effect on him.

  He went to the entrance and pressed the buzzer.

  The butler opened the door. “Ah, Mr. Barker.”

  “Hello, Cedric.”

  “Follow me, sir, if you would, please. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  They traveled the same route as they had the last time Barker was here, winding up on the vast patio at the rear of the house. The area was ablaze with red and purple bougainvillea blossoms.

  Hopkins was in swim trunks. He was lounging on a deck chair by the pool, and so was Donna Ferrante. As on Barker’s earlier visit, Donna was wearing little more than a coat of suntan oil. Another woman was there as well, similarly attired. This one was a blonde, and like Ferrante,
she had a fantastic body.

  “Hi, Jeb,” Hopkins said. “Welcome. You know Donna, of course.” He indicated the blonde. “And this is Audrey Melon.”

  Barker said hello to the two women, and both gave him brilliant smiles.

  “You may have seen Audrey on television,” Hopkins said. “She’s a regular in Girls Who Do It. They wanted someone who had intellectual appeal, and obviously she has quite a bit. In fact, she has two of them.”

  “Honestly, Bart,” the blonde said, “do you have to be so crude?”

  Hopkins grinned. “Yeah, it’s congenital.”

  “Part of his charm,” Donna said.

  “We’re drinking piña coladas,” Hopkins said to Barker. “You’ve gotta have one. Most refreshing.”

  “Thanks,” Barker said. “But I’d just as soon—”

  Too late. Cedric had reappeared, bearing a full glass on a tray. He proffered it and smiled.

  What the hell, Barker thought. He took the glass and drank. Once again he had to admit the drink tasted great.

  It was also powerful. When it hit bottom he felt a pleasant suffusion of warmth. And his reservations about being here with two near-naked women began to fade away.

  “Bart tells me you’re from New York,” the blonde said. “I love that city. Don’t get there often enough.”

  “It’s an interesting place.” He drained his glass and put it down on a table.

  “Where do you live?” She linked her arm with his, seeming genuinely interested.

  “SoHo.”

  “Ah, that’s a great neighborhood. Do you have a loft apartment?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I do.” He was aware that her boobs were brushing against him.

  “Wonderful,” she said. “High ceilings, and views, and all that?”

  “Uh-huh, all that.” He didn’t mention that his apartment was actually one room, with a kitchen area at one end and a bathroom at the other. His bed was a pullout sofa. As for the view, that was nothing to rave about either.

  But he hadn’t come here to chat about New York real estate. To Hopkins he said, “So how about showing me the agreement?”

  “No rush, especially on a day as nice as this one. Tell you what. Why don’t you have a swim, and then we’ll go over it, okay?”

  “Don’t have a swimsuit,” Barker said.

  “Cedric will fix you up with one.” He raised a hand, and the butler again materialized.

  “Take Mr. Barker to the pool house,” Hopkins ordered. “And get him some trunks.”

  Barker started to protest. “Look, I—”

  “Oh, come on,” the blonde said. “I’ll swim with you. It’ll be fun.”

  So why not, he thought. He followed Cedric and was shown a dressing room in the pool house and given a pair of yellow trunks that came down almost to his knees.

  When he returned to the patio, the blonde said, “Wow, you look just like a Malibu surfer.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the pool.

  The blonde was right, he decided. It was fun. They swam together and splashed each other and generally acted like a couple of kids. Donna jumped in as well, but Hopkins stayed on his chaise and worked on his piña colada.

  Later, when Barker and the others had climbed out of the pool and toweled off, he again asked to see the agreement. Hopkins said by all means, but first let’s have something to eat.

  There was a loggia at one end of the pool house, where Cedric had laid out lobster salad and smoked turkey and ratatouille and warm rolls. He’d also popped a bottle of champagne.

  The sunshine and the swim had made Barker ravenously hungry. While he stuffed himself, Hopkins and the women carried on a gossipy conversation about people in the film business.

  Audrey was seated next to him, and now her legs were doing the brushing. Barker felt himself respond to her touch and wondered what would happen if he suggested they go into the house and find a secluded bedroom. She’d probably be delighted. Might even make the suggestion herself.

  The thought brought him back to his senses. “This has been terrific,” he said to Hopkins. “But I’m running out of time. I’ll get dressed, and then you can show me the agreement.”

  “Yes, of course. You girls will excuse us.”

  “Oh hell, Bart,” Donna said. “Can’t you forget about business for one day?”

  The blonde squeezed Barker’s thigh. “Just come back soon, okay?”

  Barker went into the dressing room and put his clothes on. Then the two men walked to the house, and Hopkins led the way into a well-stocked library.

  There was a refectory table with a lamp on it in the center of the room. A document lay on the table. They drew up chairs, and Barker began to read.

  Hopkins was right. This was nothing like the simple agreement Zarkov had said it would be. Instead, it was page after page of legal babble.

  The gist of it was clear enough, however. Hopkins was to invest the tidy sum of fifteen million dollars in a creative venture that might or might not eventually become a profitable movie.

  Barker noticed that some of the clauses referred to the movie project specifically, while others were more general and concerned Zarkov’s company. One said that the money invested could be used in any way the company chose.

  Another said that the investor acknowledged that he would have no claim against the company should the venture fail, inasmuch as development of a motion picture invariably involved a high degree of risk.

  Taken in total, everything in the agreement favored Zarkov’s company, and nothing protected the investor’s interests. Just as Dana had said, if the project tanked, Hopkins would get zilch.

  When he finished the perusal Barker said, “May I have a copy of this?”

  “Sorry,” Hopkins said. “I don’t think I should do that. I’m probably stepping out of bounds just by letting you read it.”

  “Okay, I understand. But thanks for letting me have a look.”

  “I thought you’d find it fascinating. I don’t know, of course, whether Zarkov and Apperson are doing anything that’s not on the level. But I intend to hold on to this and study it further.”

  “What are you going to tell Zarkov?”

  Hopkins grinned. “That I’m considering it. Which is the truth. Although after reading this, I keep telling myself to be careful. Very careful.”

  Barker glanced at his watch. He had to hurry, or he’d be late for his meeting with Sam Benziger at the jail. He thanked Hopkins again and asked him to give the girls his apologies for running off. Then he left the house.

  This had been an interesting visit. The agreement could constitute the first piece of hard evidence that showed Zarkov and Apperson were out to commit fraud. A sharp DA could demand to see it, or subpoena it if necessary.

  And the possible connection between that scheme and the murder of Delure and Ellis? Okay, that would be a hell of a lot harder to prove.

  But if he could prove it, the pieces would fall into place. As he’d told Joe Spinelli, he wasn’t there yet, but he was getting close.

  44.

  It took Mongo less than a second to form an impression of the guy with the gun. The dark blue uniform with the officer’s cap and silver badge said he was a guard who worked for a security company. He was older, and obviously very nervous.

  He was also dangerous. His hand was shaking, the forefinger pressing on the trigger of the revolver, and his other hand was fumbling with the phone.

  Mongo shouted, “Christ, man, what are you doing? You’re gonna ruin the whole fucking thing. Are you crazy?”

  The guy frowned. “What?”

  “Didn’t you get the word? We’re making a movie!”

  “What movie? I don’t see any—”

  “This setup is for an overhead shot from a helicopter,” Mongo yelled. “I was waiting for the chop
per to get here. You fuck up the scene and I guarantee you’ll find yourself fired. We’re making a major motion picture, damn it.”

  The guard stopped fiddling with the phone. But he kept the revolver pointed at Mongo. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “For one thing, I can show you my ID.” Mongo reached into his back pocket for his wallet, hoping the guy wouldn’t shoot before he got it out.

  Flipping the wallet open he said, “There’s my SAG card. See? I’m a member of the Screen Actors Guild.”

  No such card was visible, because Mongo didn’t have one. But the revolver was lowered by a few inches.

  A note of uncertainty crept into the guy’s voice. “So where’s the rest of the crew?”

  Mongo returned the wallet to his pocket and pointed. “Right over there. The director’s the one waving his arms and having a convulsion.”

  The security guard hesitated. But he couldn’t resist taking a look in the direction Mongo had indicated. “I still don’t see—”

  Mongo grabbed the hand holding the revolver and twisted it back, so that if the guard pulled the trigger now he’d shoot himself in the face.

  “Go ahead, you fucking idiot,” Mongo snarled, “kill yourself!”

  The guard tried to pull free, but Mongo held him in a tight grip and thrust a leg around behind him, slamming him down onto his back. He struggled, but he was perceptibly weaker. Mongo knelt on his chest and kept on twisting until a sharp crack signaled the wrist was broken.

  The guard shrieked in pain, and Mongo snatched the revolver from him. His cap fell off, revealing a bald head, and Mongo used the revolver as a club, smashing it against the top of the head again and again until the skin split open and blood ran down the man’s face.

  Mongo then seized him by the neck and pressed a thumb against his windpipe. After a few minutes his eyes became glazed and sightless and he no longer showed any sign of life.

  Mongo rose to his feet. Breathing hard, he looked at his surroundings. He had to find a place to hide the body, but where? The shed holding the air-conditioning equipment wouldn’t do, and neither would the smaller one. They’d almost certainly be locked.