The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, in his office. And just between us, he sounds like he’s got a hair up his ass. So watch yourself.”

  Sam sighed. “Thanks, Walt, I’ll do that. Did you give him my message from last night?”

  “Uh-huh. I think that’s what set him off.”

  “Okay. Let’s go, Jeb.”

  She led the way to Swanson’s office, knocked once, and she and Barker went inside.

  The commanding officer of the LAPD Detective Division was standing behind his desk. Flanking him were two other men Barker hadn’t seen before. All three wore grim expressions.

  Swanson hooked a thumb toward the one on his left. “Barker, this is Sergeant Reardon.” The thumb then pointed the other way. “And this is Sergeant Fernandez.”

  Both stared at Barker.

  Swanson said, “Detective Benziger, I understand you’re working on a homicide case where the victim was a man named Culebra. That correct?”

  “Sure, Captain. I wrote it up in my report.”

  “I saw that. What I didn’t see in the report was anything that put the case in context.”

  “Put it in what?”

  “Anything that would inform me that there was a possible connection between that homicide and the Catherine Delure case.”

  “Cap, at that point the possibility of a connection was more like speculation. So I didn’t write about it, but I did try to talk to you and fill you in.”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  She made no reply. Obviously she wasn’t going to get into an argument with her CO.

  “So tell me now,” Swanson said.

  “We’ve also been talking to a hooker,” Benziger said, “who claimed she could ID the Delure perp. She saw the composite on TV in Vegas and was sure she’d met him a few days earlier. Now she’s in the Twin Towers, and from what she could tell us, the guy might be in Malibu. I made up flyers and took them out there. Gave some to a supermarket and some to the Malibu police.”

  “You also had our people get TV and the Times to show a tattoo he has on him.”

  “Yes, I did. I looked for you last night to tell you about that, but you’d left. So I told Walt and asked him to pass it on to you.”

  “Not good enough. He gave me the message this morning, but that was pretty late. I should have been informed as soon as you began work on Culebra. Or maybe when you first talked to the hooker.”

  “But I didn’t know—”

  “You already have a DA involved. What’s her name, Adams?”

  “Yes. We met with her and the hooker’s lawyer.”

  “Which is another thing you should have told me about.”

  Reardon said, “Captain Swanson’s right. This never should’ve gone so far without you bringing him up to date. And if you couldn’t reach him, you could have spoken to me.”

  “Or to me,” Fernandez said.

  Benziger took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry you don’t think I was following proper procedures. I thought I was, and I was doing my best to keep both investigations moving. The reason the hooker’s in the Towers is that she’s a suspect in the homicide in the Beverly Hilton, where the john was rolled. Her name’s Marcia Slade.”

  “Where does that stand?” Swanson asked.

  “Adams plans to put her in front of a grand jury. She’s pretty sure she can get her indicted on a charge of murder one.”

  “Good. I’ll want to talk to Adams myself about it.”

  The captain then swung his attention to Barker. “I’m afraid you’ve overstepped your bounds, Barker. As a courtesy to your department in New York, I assigned Detective Benziger to give you whatever help you might need in your investigation. But now you’ve gone and involved yourself in two cases that are the responsibility of the LAPD.”

  “And you never requested permission,” Reardon said.

  “How do you explain that?” Swanson said.

  Barker replied carefully. “Captain, as Detective Benziger just told you, at first we didn’t know whether Culebra or Slade were in fact tied to Delure. That’s what we were trying to find out.”

  “And it’s also what you weren’t telling us about,” Fernandez said.

  Barker started to say it was Benziger’s job and not his to inform her superiors, but he shut his mouth. The last thing he wanted to do was to undermine Sam. It would also look as if he were trying to shift blame away from himself and onto her. So he said nothing.

  Reardon said, “We’ve always done our best to cooperate with other jurisdictions and departments. That’s been a hallmark of Captain Swanson’s leadership.”

  “And, Barker, what you should have done,” Fernandez added, “was show him you appreciated the help he was giving you by making sure he was up to the minute on everything you were doing.”

  Swanson raised a hand. “All right, that’s enough. Barker, I probably should register a complaint with your commander in New York about the way you’ve conducted yourself here. And I promise you I’ll do exactly that unless you stick with the rules from now on.”

  Barker remained silent. He’d begun to suspect there was more to this than the reasons Swanson was giving for tongue-lashing him and Benziger.

  “And now let me ask the key question,” Swanson said. “Do either of you believe there’s a connection between Delure and what you’ve been turning up here?”

  “I certainly do,” Benziger said.

  “So do I,” Barker said.

  “How much evidence do you have on that?”

  “There’s the ID by Slade,” Barker said. “And also it looks as though this guy Culebra might have built the Delure murder weapon.”

  “Might have built it?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “But no actual proof?”

  “No.”

  Swanson looked at Benziger. “And now Culebra was murdered and his shop burned down. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have anything else?”

  “Not so far, no.”

  “It seems pretty flimsy to me.”

  “We’re hoping to get a break soon.”

  “Fine. But whether you do or not, from this point forward you’re to consult with me and with Reardon and Fernandez every step of the way. We’ll be giving you direction. Is that clear?”

  She nodded, and so did Barker.

  “Okay,” Swanson said. “That’ll be all, for now.”

  The pair left the office.

  Barker was partly mystified, partly angry. When they were again alone, he said, “What the hell was that all about?”

  Sam gave him a small, brief smile. “You didn’t get it? No, you wouldn’t. You’d have to know how our detective bureau operates, and what drives Swanson. See, the investigation of any run-of-the-mill homicide is handled by detectives in the division where it occurred. But if the victim’s a VIP, then Detective Headquarters runs the investigation.’

  “Okay, so?”

  “So until now, Swanson figured Delure was a New York case. And as much as he wished he could be running it, he wasn’t and couldn’t. In fact, he believed what your department was saying, that the homicides were part of a jewelry heist. That’s why he didn’t pay much attention to what you and I were doing.”

  “I’m beginning to see the light. Now with the Culebra homicide and what we’ve been told by Slade, he thinks there’s a chance this could be an LA case and he could take it over. True?”

  “If not take it over, at least he’d have reasons to run an investigation of his own. And I don’t have to tell you, if he could get the credit for clearing Delure, he’d have struck gold. That’d be so big it’d put him in line for chief of the LAPD.”

  “I’ll bet. So now we have to wait for him and the others to tell us what to do next?”

  “You heard the
man. And don’t take Reardon and Fernandez lightly. They’re shrewd politicians too. Both of them have got their noses so far up Swanson’s ass they’re the same shade of brown.”

  The detective named Walt was back. “Sam,” he said, “Reardon wants you for a meeting in the conference room. Right away.”

  Benziger shot Barker a look that said, See what I mean? Then she left him.

  48.

  “Is it done?” the garbled voice said. “Did you get it done?”

  “Not yet,” Mongo said.

  “What do you mean, not yet?”

  “Just what I said. I’ll do it when I’ve got it lined up right.”

  “Listen, you. The client’s in a hurry. I told you that, didn’t I? That was part of the deal. He wants it done and done fast. So what are you waiting for?”

  There were times when Mongo wished he could drag the little shit right out through the phone and beat him to a pulp. This was one of those times.

  With an effort, he spoke in an even tone. “I’ll do it soon as I can.”

  “You better. What do you think you get paid for?”

  Mongo didn’t reply. Rage was bubbling just under the surface, threatening to boil over.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “Then goddamn it, get going.” The call ended.

  Mongo took several deep breaths and told himself to calm down. When he had his anger under control, he thought about where things stood.

  Fortunately, Strunk had no idea that an attempt had already been made to take out the cop, and the attempt had failed. If he found out, the lawyer would go batshit.

  The failure in itself was amazing. With all the work Mongo had done, he’d never once had a job go down the toilet.

  Until now.

  It wasn’t just frustrating. It was worse than that. He’d always taken pride in knowing he was the best there was. Smart, with iron nerves, and most of all, effective.

  And now he’d fumbled what should have been a simple hit. He’d sat for hours on that lousy roof, chilled by the wind and bug-eyed from watching the street, and then he’d had to deal with the idiot security guard. And after all that, when he finally got his chance, he missed. It was humiliating, and he hated to admit it. Goddamn it.

  Okay, so get your thumb out of your mouth, he told himself, and take another cut at it. And this time, be sure it ends the right way. Don’t give the weasel another reason to complain.

  Although he’d given that some thought, too. Strunk figured he was so clever, using a device that garbled his voice. What the lawyer didn’t know was that Mongo had saved the tapes of every phone call. Garbled or not, there was enough in those calls to hang the prick, if it came to that.

  But back to the problem. What he needed to do was off the cop for sure, and as soon as possible.

  The rifle was out. The fucking thing was awkward to carry around, even in the golf bag, and it made too much noise when fired. And worst of all, he’d missed with it.

  So how could he—hey, wait a minute. The answer was right at hand, had been the whole time. In fact, it was in his car, sitting right there on the floor.

  Primacord! He still had half a roll of it! The stuff had done a great job on Culebra’s dump, and it would do a great job on the cop as well. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that sooner?

  No matter. The important thing was that he’d figured out the solution. Now all he had to do was get to the cop. And light him up.

  49.

  Barker exhaled. He was on thin ice that was getting thinner by the minute. It was apparent to him that he’d been cut out of the loop. Sergeants Reardon and Fernandez now had Sam Benziger working with them, while he was being ignored.

  Meanwhile, if he had to keep Swanson’s pets informed of his activities, they’d be dictating to him as to what he could do and what he couldn’t. And if Swanson were to follow through on his threat and call New York, it would be all over.

  Every once in a while, Barker thought, everything turns to shit. But what you have to do when that happens is tough it out and keep going. He picked up the telephone on Sam’s desk and dialed 27.

  The taped calls were not encouraging. A female caller said the man who had that tattoo was her brother-in-law, and she knew it was him because he was a real dickhead.

  Another caller said the tattoo was a drawing of the boss where he worked. The boss had a face like a fishhook.

  Still another said it was the mark of a secret force that was part of the CIA. Each member had to have the mark so that the others could identify him.

  A woman in Palos Verdes claimed she was clairvoyant. There was no question she could find the man who had the tattoo, she said, and she was willing to do it. For a fee, of course.

  Okay, Barker thought, Sam Benziger had warned him. Many of the messages were plain nonsense. But then again, you never knew when one of them might turn out to lead you somewhere. He tried to skip over the nuttiest of them, mostly to avoid growing bored.

  A few sounded as though they could be legitimate. He made notes of those on a pad, scribbling the phone numbers the callers had left. Running them down would take time, but there was no other way to check.

  He’d heard dozens of messages before one of them brought him up short. A woman’s voice said it was Juanita calling. She said she knew the tattoo and knew why the man had it. She’d give him up, so long as the police would promise not to identify her. They’d know why, she said.

  That was strange, Barker thought. The cops would know why? What did that mean? And why would she want to remain anonymous?

  He could guess the answer. The cops would know why because she was someone they were protecting.

  But protecting her for what reason? Was she an informer? Or was there something else?

  He dialed the number she’d given.

  On the fourth ring, a woman answered. “Yes?”

  “Juanita?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Police,” Barker said. “Are you Juanita?”

  “Yeah. What do you want?”

  “I’m Detective Barker, following up on your call. You said you recognized the tattoo in the drawing we put on TV.”

  “I recognized it, all right. I know the guy you’re looking for. But I want to be sure it never gets out it was me who tipped you. Is that understood?”

  “Absolutely. You have my word on it.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you what you want, but not over the phone.”

  “Fine. Where do you want to meet?”

  “You can come to my place.”

  “When?”

  “Now’s a good time. Later we get too busy.”

  “Let me have the address again.”

  She gave it to him and hung up.

  Barker looked at the address he’d jotted down. It was on Ellsworth Drive. He didn’t know where that was. And he wasn’t about to ask one of the cops here in the room.

  Instead, he used Benziger’s computer to find it. The address was in the Hollywood Hills, and a map showed him the area. He left LAPD headquarters and went to his car.

  Mongo sat in the Toyota and waited as patiently as he could. He was parked on the street near City Hall and diagonally across from the LAPD’s new headquarters. Twice a cop had come along and told him to move, and twice he’d circled the block and come back to his perch.

  Now he was again waiting. He’d followed Barker here, hoping he’d get a chance tonight, but at the moment he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t make a move in this neighborhood; it was too public, and the HQ building was swarming with police.

  And Jesus, wasn’t it some building. He’d seen photos of it on TV when it opened, but they didn’t do it justice. The structure was all stone and glass, so modern it looked as though it belonged in some future century. The cops’
monument to cops.

  But where was Barker? He’d been inside the building for a couple of hours now. Eventually he’d leave, and the question was where he’d go then. Back to his hotel? To the girlfriend’s place? Or somewhere else?

  Wherever he went, Mongo would follow him. And sooner or later the dick would stop at a suitable spot.

  This time, Mongo told himself, he wouldn’t miss.

  For Barker, the drive was the usual long haul you had to deal with in LA. The traffic was also typical, a thick stream that was occasionally stopped by red lights.

  As he drove, he frequently glanced at his rearview mirror, a habit from his earliest days as a cop. There were headlights behind him, and at one point he thought a car might be tailing him. But then it fell back and he lost sight of it.

  Nevertheless, he kept taking quick glimpses at the images in the mirror. After being barely missed by a bullet from a high-powered rifle, he wasn’t letting his guard down.

  When at last he’d climbed up through the hills to the top of Ellsworth Drive, the traffic had become a trickle. He looked back and saw only a few cars, all of them some distance away. The view from up here was much like the one from Mulholland, with the lights of LA seeming to stretch away forever.

  He also saw that the neighborhood was old, most of the houses apparently dating from the 1920s. The one at the street number Juanita had given him appeared to be of the same vintage. The place was large, its architectural style faux-English. But it was blacked out, and quiet.

  For a moment he wondered whether he’d come to the wrong address, although cars were parked out front, and others were parked nearby. He found a space for the Ford and walked to the house.

  Mongo had no idea why the cop had driven up here. Not that it mattered, but he was curious. Maybe he was right about Barker having another girlfriend.

  Whatever the reason, for Mongo’s purposes the area was perfect. It was shadowy, illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlamp.

  When the Ford stopped, he was about fifty yards behind. He pulled over and turned off his headlights, watching as the cop maneuvered the car into a parking place and then got out and walked to one of the houses.