The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  At least he was clean now. Although the bandage had to go. He peeled it off gingerly and was relieved that the raw spots on his forehead had stopped bleeding.

  Finally he applied antiperspirant and aftershave lotion, and as he did he decided that despite the burns he was feeling somewhat better. Physically, anyway. The thought of the photos shown on TV and his calls to New York were another story. Joe Spinelli had summed up his situation exactly.

  And yet at the moment there was nothing he could do about those issues; he’d deal with them when he got back. Right now the problem uppermost in his mind centered on Dana Laramie. He sat at the desk and tried calling her again, and again reached her answering machine.

  Okay, so maybe she just wasn’t answering her phone. He’d call later. Or else stop by her place on his way to the airport. Somehow he had to talk with her and convince her that Hopkins had sandbagged him with those photos.

  Sitting there, trying to think through his problems and not getting very far, he dozed off. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised that he’d been out for a couple of hours. Come on, he told himself, get with it.

  He called American Airlines and made a reservation for the 9 p.m. flight, and then he got dressed and packed his bag. He went back down to the lobby and checked out, and a bellman put his luggage into a taxi. Barker tipped the guy a couple of bucks and eased himself onto a seat. After he gave the driver Dana’s address, the taxi hurtled along Sunset and turned down Rodeo to Wilshire.

  Once they arrived at her building, he got out and told the driver to wait. He went into the lobby and pressed the buzzer for her apartment, but there was no response from that, either.

  As he stood there, a man wearing coveralls emerged from a door at the far end of the lobby and walked past him. “Excuse me,” Barker said. “Are you the superintendent?”

  “Yep. What can I do for you?”

  Barker showed him his shield. “Police officer. I’m looking for one of your residents. Name is Dana Laramie.”

  “Not here,” the guy said. “She left a few hours ago.”

  “Did you see her leave?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. She had a suitcase with her.”

  “Did you speak to her, ask her where she was going?”

  “Nope. Wasn’t any of my business. She got in a taxi and off she went.”

  Barker had been afraid that was what he’d hear. He thanked the super and went back to the waiting cab.

  “Okay, pal,” the driver said. “Where to now?”

  “LAX,” Barker said.

  The red-eye was a lousy way to travel. Especially with the burns making his skin feel as though a platoon of fire ants were chewing on him. He was wide awake all the way to New York. When the aircraft reached JFK at dawn, he dragged himself into the terminal and retrieved his bag.

  A shuttle took him to long-term parking, where he picked up the Mustang. He drove to Manhattan via the Van Wyck and Grand Central Parkways, and finally through the Midtown Tunnel. Even at this time of day there was a heavy stream of traffic flowing into the city.

  After parking the car on the street in SoHo he went up to his loft, wanting nothing so much as a good long sleep.

  He wouldn’t get it. Instead he showered and changed into fresh clothing, including the usual blue button-down and red tie. He carefully shrugged into his blazer and left the loft. It was time to face the music.

  First, however, he’d get something to eat. He’d had no food since he’d been blown out of the Ford in LA, and now he was starved. A rock-hard bun and dishwater coffee had been served on the flight, but he’d passed on those.

  There was a diner just down the street, filled with early birds who were stoking up before going to work. He sat at the counter and wolfed down a pastrami on rye and a mug of real coffee.

  Thus fortified, he got back into his car and drove up to Seventeenth Precinct headquarters.

  As on most mornings, Frank Kelly was already at his desk when Barker knocked and entered the glass-walled office.

  “Good morning, Lieu,” Barker said.

  The squad commander didn’t offer to shake hands. His face looked as though it had been carved from stone. He spoke slowly. “You know how much trouble you’re in?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea. But I can explain what happened.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The thing with the photos. I was set up. The guy who put it to me is involved in a fraud scheme in the movie business.”

  “What kind of scheme?”

  “It pulls in suckers who think they’re making a legitimate investment in a film project, but they’ll only lose their shirts. It’s run by the same guy who produced Catherine Delure’s last movie. Apparently she caught on and was about to blow the whistle. That made her a target for a hit man.”

  “You have evidence to back that up?”

  “Not yet, but I can help the DA get it. I’ve also found out the identity of the hit man.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Mongo. He did a stretch in San Quentin for manslaughter, and after he got out he jumped parole. There was a witness I talked to, a guy who made the device Mongo used to kill Delure and her manager. But Mongo found out I’d contacted him and blew him away.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “No, but I think Mongo would break down under questioning. He tried to kill me, too. Twice. The first time he took a shot at me. Second time he blew up my car.”

  “You report those attempts to the LAPD?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted more evidence.”

  “Which you don’t have.”

  “I was getting there, Lieu. I swear it.”

  “Where is this Mongo now?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But he’s most likely in LA.”

  “How’d you get a line on him?”

  “A hooker in Las Vegas claimed he’d had sex with her and then beat her up. She recognized him from seeing the composite on TV. The hooker was wanted for a homicide in LA, and a detective went to Vegas to interrogate her. The detective invited me to go along.”

  Kelly’s eyebrows rose. “You went to Las Vegas too?”

  “I was only there a few hours.”

  “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “The hooker told us there was a tattoo on Mongo’s shoulder. When she was brought to the county jail in LA we interviewed her again and she made a drawing of the tattoo. The LAPD got it shown on TV and a woman called in and said she used to be Mongo’s girlfriend. I went to see her and she told me Mongo’s name and gave me a rundown on him.”

  “What does the girlfriend do?”

  “She runs a fancy whorehouse in Hollywood.”

  “And that’s another place you went?”

  “Lieu, I only wanted to talk to her.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m convinced what she gave me was solid.”

  “Would she testify?”

  “Not unless forced to. She’d have to be subpoenaed, and even then she’d be a hostile witness.”

  Kelly looked up at the ceiling for several moments and then returned his gaze to Barker. “How’d you get those cuts on your head?”

  “Happened when the car blew up. They’re nothing serious.”

  There was another pause, and then Kelly said, “I had a call yesterday afternoon from Captain Swanson at the LAPD. He talked about you. Said he bent over backward to cooperate, assigned a detective to help you with your investigation. But all you did was stick your nose in cases his division was working. He was so fucking mad I thought he’d bust a gut.”

  “Listen, Lieu. Swanson’s not giving you—”

  Kelly raised a hand, palm up. “That’s enough, Barker. What all this boils down to is you’ve put together a large
amount of speculation. No evidence, no proof, just some stories from two whores. Meantime, you’ve made this police department look like the biggest bunch of assholes in creation.”

  “But—”

  “But shit. You ought to know by now that it’s bad enough to fuck up, but when you do it in a way that puts a public spotlight on the whole department, you might as well go jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Swanson wasn’t the only one I heard from. I also got calls from Hogan, and the chief, and even one from the PC himself. They all saw those photos of you with a pair of naked broads, and if you think they’ll buy your excuse that you were set up, you’re crazy. My opinion? You’re finished.”

  “Don’t I get a chance to defend myself?”

  “Oh, you’re gonna get one, all right. But unfortunately for you, it’ll be with Internal Affairs. In their view, you ran off unauthorized to LA, you misrepresented yourself to the LAPD and messed with their business, and you wasted a shitload of the taxpayers’ money having a good time. You went Hollywood.”

  Barker could have argued further, but he knew he’d be wasting his breath. He got to his feet, conscious of the pain in his back and legs.

  “You’ll be notified by IA,” Kelly said, “about when you’ll go before the board for a hearing. Until then, stay out of this precinct house and do not involve yourself in any of the squad’s activities. That clear?”

  “It’s clear, Lieutenant.” Barker forced himself to stand up straight as he walked out of the office and closed the door behind him.

  55.

  Joe Spinelli said, “You ever had to deal with IA before this?”

  Barker shook his head. “No, never.” He and Spinelli were sitting at a bar on Second Avenue, working on their third round of vodka on the rocks.

  “Not even after you shot the rapist?” Joe asked.

  “No. The chief and two inspectors ran that investigation. They finally cleared me, and when they did, the media went crazy. Or crazier, I should say.”

  “I remember that part. They wanted you roasted on a spit. And now they’ll get another shot at you.”

  “They already did. Jesus, those photos.”

  “Yeah, those photos. That’s what put you in deep shit. IA’s got a system, you know. In the hearing they read you the charges, and then they give you a chance to tell your side of the story, and then they declare you guilty.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Doesn’t stop there. I heard you’re not only gonna get canned, but criminal charges will be brought against you. Misuse of public funds is a felony.”

  “I’m aware of that, Joe. But I was this close to clearing the Delure case. It’s damn unfair.”

  “Fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “Very true. You know, I thought Kelly would go to bat for me, but forget it. Not this time.”

  “Understandable. Last thing he wants is any part of the blame. If he got sent down in grade, it could fuck up his retirement. He wants to go out as a lieutenant, full pension. But he’s got nothing to worry about. Kelly’s an expert at covering his ass.”

  “No question.”

  “As first I was surprised he didn’t tell you to turn in your shield and gun. But when you think about it, he probably figured any action against you should be IA’s job. That way he’s just playing it by the book.”

  “Also true. I tried to explain to him what happened in LA, but he wasn’t listening.”

  “Isn’t there somebody who could verify what you dug up out there? What about Delure’s secretary? What’s her name?”

  “Dana Laramie.”

  “You said she helped steer you to what was going on, right?”

  “Yeah, she did. Wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have learned about this guy Hopkins. It was through him that I found out how Zarkov screws people out of large amounts of money.”

  “Hopkins is also the one who set you up?”

  “The same. But Dana couldn’t have known he’d do it.”

  “So why not ask her to help you now? She could at least back up your story.”

  “I would ask her, if I could locate her. She left LA, and I think she might have gone to Catherine Delure’s family in Connecticut, the Delaneys. She told me once they asked her to come stay with them. I’ll try to reach her there.”

  Spinelli finished his drink and signaled the bartender to give them another round. He said to Barker, “You feeling any better?”

  “Some.”

  “Glad to hear it. Vodka is very good for burns, you know. And for everything else.”

  “It helps.”

  “About the shooter.”

  “Mongo.”

  “Yeah. Did you give that to the cops in LA?”

  “No, didn’t get the chance. It was right after I found out who he was that he blew up my car.”

  “Couldn’t you still let them know about him?”

  “I don’t know how far I’d get. He’s something else I can’t prove.”

  “And I don’t suppose it’d make any sense for you to tell Hogan about him, either.”

  “You serious?”

  “No, I guess it wouldn’t. So now what?”

  “Now I get some sleep, and tomorrow I’ll go at it again. I still have a few ideas.”

  The bartender placed fresh drinks in front of them.

  Barker raised his glass. “But first I need to continue my treatment.”

  56.

  The following morning the burns weren’t quite as painful as they had been. But now they itched. So much that Barker thought he’d lose his mind wanting to scratch them. But he knew better than to give in to the urge.

  Besides, his head had become a larger source of discomfort. Each pulsebeat felt like the pounding of a bass drum between his ears. He resolved to drink less, which he always did after drinking too much, and took two aspirin. That relieved the pounding a tiny bit. Or maybe he just imagined it did.

  What would definitely help was food. He got dressed and walked two blocks to a deli, where he bought potato salad and sliced ham and jack cheese and pickles and sourdough bread and mustard and bananas and grapes and coffee and a six-pack of Corona. After returning to his loft he made himself a hearty brunch and ate it slowly. As he did, the bass drum quieted down to the level of raps on a snare.

  While he ate, he thought about what to do next. His problems, he decided, boiled down to three main areas. Number one was how he could contact Dana.

  He telephoned the Delaney home in Greenwich and asked to speak with her. There was a long pause before the maid came back on the line and told him she wasn’t there. Which told him she was.

  Number two was the Zarkov scam and how to put together some solid evidence.

  And number three was Mongo.

  He’d try Dana again later. At the moment he’d go after the scam. The deputy DA’s card was in his wallet. He dug it out and called the number.

  “District Attorney’s Office. Natalie Adams.”

  “Natalie, it’s Jeb Barker.”

  “Hello, Jeb. Seems you’ve become famous. Or maybe I should say infamous.”

  “You’ve seen the photos.”

  “Is there anybody who hasn’t? First they were on TV, and now they’re on the Internet, where I understand they’re getting about a million hits a day. So what can I do for you—recommend a good defense lawyer? And where are you, by the way?”

  “New York. I called because I have something that might help you with the Zarkov investigation.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “Does the name Bart Hopkins ring a bell?”

  “Not offhand, no.”

  “Hopkins is a rich investor who’s connected to Zarkov. He set me up with those photos.”

  “You didn’t look like you minded too much.”

  “I do now.”

 
“I bet.”

  “A few days ago I went to Hopkins’s house in Beverly Hills. He let me read a letter of agreement that would commit him to putting fifteen million bucks into producing one of Zarkov’s movies. The production’s a fake.”

  “With Zarkov, most of them are. That’s what our people have been trying to build a case on. Does the letter go into detail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’d Hopkins let you read it?”

  “Ego, I suppose. Showing me what a big man he is. But a copy of that agreement would help build the case, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it would. But to go after it would mean getting a judge to sign a search warrant. Which wouldn’t be easy. Judges here think the Fourth Amendment is the holy grail.”

  “Worth a try?”

  “I’d say so, yes. I’ll discuss it with our DAs and see whether they’ll apply for the warrant.”

  “Okay, great.”

  “Can I reach you if I need to?”

  “Yes, here’s my cell number.” He recited it to her and wished her luck. She thanked him and hung up.

  Next he’d try to start some action on Mongo. He called Sam Benziger’s number, got no answer, left a message to call him.

  One out of three, he thought. Not too good. But what the hell, nowadays anybody with a .333 batting average would be an All-Star.

  Which was irrelevant, and no comfort at all. He put his dishes into the dishwasher and cracked a beer. Then he turned on TV and surfed the news channels. A homicide in Crown Heights, a fire in Queens, and the stock market in the sewer. There was also a promo for an upcoming special on the Catherine Delure case. He turned off the set.

  Natalie Adams had said the photos were on the Internet. For a moment he was tempted to boot up his machine and have another look at them, but then he quickly abandoned the idea. It would be just another form of self-flagellation.

  His phone rang. He answered: “Barker.”

  “Jeb, it’s Sam Benziger. I hope you realize I’m sticking my neck out just by talking to you.”

  “I know you are, Sam.”

  “Why in the hell were you posing with those nude women in the photos?”