16 Hitman

by Parnell Hall

  "Ecrecious," I murmured.

  "What?"

  "Nothing. That's the word that came to mind when I signed Yolanda Smith"

  "Forget the woman. Concentrate on the man"

  I sighed. "What's the case again?"

  "You should know.You signed it."

  "When?"

  "About six months ago"

  "It's coming to trial now?"

  "The judge fast-tracked it. On account of the injury."

  "I remember signing a quad. Columbia-Presbyterian?"

  "That's the one. Recall the case?"

  "Refresh my memory."

  "Client fell on a broken stair in his apartment building. We assigned you the accident photos the same day. If you'll recall, Wendy beeped you at the hospital, sent you to take them. Instead of waiting for a separate photo assignment . .

  Richard went on, but I had stopped listening.

  A trip-and-fall. That was Richard's egregious case. A trip-andfall. This is what I'd been pulled in for, given a special photo assignment. This is what I'd have to testify in court. This is what was important, pressing, couldn't be postponed, no matter what my obligation, no matter that a man's life was at stake. This was the case that Richard took, cherished, squandered his talents on.While the truly wronged Yolanda Smith was wronged yet again.

  I made a vow, right then and there, if Richard wouldn't help that woman, I would.

  Somehow, I'd find a way.

  2 2

  "IT'S THE TEACHER," Alice said.

  Alice didn't know I was off the case. Well, she did, she just didn't credit it. As far as Alice was concerned, I was off the case when Alice said I was off the case. Which was not likely to happen until it was utterly inconvenient.

  "What's the teacher?" I said.

  "He's the intended mark."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "The guy gave you a name. It's not his name. But it's someone's name. He didn't pull it out of a hat.Why did he give it to you? The only thing that makes sense is that the teacher is the mark."

  "Or the hitman."

  "What?"

  "The other hitman. The guy I thought the hitman was following. The guy I thought lived there. The guy I thought was Victor Marsden. What if he's the schoolteacher?"

  "Is he?"

  "I've never seen the schoolteacher. What if he's our guy?"

  "I thought MacAullif checked him out and he's clean."

  "I'm not putting a lot of faith in MacAullif's investigation."

  Alice smiled. "Just because you're mad at him is no reason to demean his abilities. MacAullif's a good cop. If he says he's clean, he's clean."

  "He doesn't say he's clean. He just says he doesn't have a record. A careful criminal wouldn't."

  "I thought you were watching the school for the guy to come out and he didn't."

  "Because he was dead."

  "But if the other guy had come out, wouldn't you have recognized him?"

  "Oh."

  "Though I must admit," Alice said judiciously, "your powers of observation are so poor if the guy was wearing a different jacket it would probably be enough to throw you off."

  "Alice-"

  "Your theory now is the hitman was hired to kill the schoolteacher, but the schoolteacher turned the tables and killed him?"

  "I admit I don't know all the angles."

  "There's an understatement"

  "But how could I? I was lied to and kept in the dark. All I know is the schoolteacher is important and someone is dead. Isn't he a logical killer?"

  "What do the police think?"

  "Oh"

  "The police don't know what to think because you didn't level with them. If they knew the man you were dealing with was dead, they'd treat the whole matter differently."

  "If they knew the man I was dealing with was dead, I'd probably be in jail."

  "That's a rather negative way to look at it"

  "Alice."

  "It's one thing to lie to the cops. It's something else to lie to MacAullif."

  "I didn't lie to MacAullif."

  "Right. You haven't talked to hint because you're mad at him. How long you gonna keep that up?"

  We were sitting in the bedroom not watching House, the medical show about the sarcastic doctor. Alice and I like House, so there's a limit as to how long we can not watch it. That limit is right around fifteen minutes. We have a DVR, the wonderful digital recording system that allows you to pause live TV and start watching a program you're recording at any time. So Alice and I never watch a show when it goes on, we wait at least fifteen minutes so we can zoom through the commercials.

  "It's not that simple," I told Alice.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Straightening MacAullif out wouldn't be doing him any favors."

  "You mean he'd have to lie?"

  "That's one possibility."

  "You mean he'd turn you in? Is that where you're at? He talked to the cops, and you're afraid he'd do it again?"

  "I don't know what he'd do."

  "I don't either, but he wouldn't hang you; he likes you. Why, I can't imagine."

  "You're taking this awfully well, Alice. Considering you're aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law."

  "Are you really a fugitive from the law? You're not wanted for anything. True, it's because you lied your way out of it. But, technically, I don't think you're a fugitive."

  "Alice-"

  "Okay, you want me to say it? I'm glad he's dead. He was your client, and he seemed like a nice guy, and all that. The bottom line is he killed people. He had a record. Not under the name he gave you, but under his own name. He had the record of the type of person you wouldn't deal with. Which is why he gave you someone else's name. He knew you'd check him out. He knew if you saw his record, you wouldn't deal with him. He wanted you to deal with him. Why, I have no idea. But he gave you the name of this schoolteacher. Doesn't it make sense that this schoolteacher is actually the guy he was going to kill?"

  "No, it doesn't. Why would anyone want to kill some poor English lit teacher?"

  "Exactly," Alice said.

  "Huh?"

  "He didn't want to kill him. He wanted to be stopped from killing him. If the mark was some slimy mob type, why would he care? On the other hand, if the mark is some respectable high school teacher with a wife and kids who never harmed a fly, it makes sense he wouldn't want to take him out."

  "If the schoolteacher never harmed a fly, why is the hitman supposed to take him out?"

  "How should I know? I don't know any of the facts of the case. You didn't even tell nie the name of your client until he was dead."

  "I didn't even know the name of my client until he was dead."

  "I mean the name he gave you. The high school teacher. The one who's in danger."

  "He's not in danger."

  "I certainly hope not. Because you've taken it on yourself to look out for his well-being. By not letting the cops in on the story. All they know is you asked MacAullif to trace his name"

  "What do you want nee to do?"

  "I don't want you to do anything. It's Just I know you. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. If something goes wrong, you blame yourself for it. Even if you had nothing to do with it. This is different. You are responsible. You've got information no one else does. If something happens to this guy, you'll never forgive yourself."

  I TURNED DOWN A CASE in Harlem. Wendy/Janet had a cow, but I stuck to my guns. It was two thirty, and there was no way I'd get done in time to get back to Harmon High.

  I was going on Alice's assertion that Martin Kessler was the mark. I didn't believe it for a minute, but I was listening to Alice because I always listen to Alice, because when I don't listen to Alice things go wrong. I get in trouble for not listening to Alice. And not just with Alice. I get in trouble in general. I hate trouble, and I love Alice, so listening to Alice always turns out to be the path of least resistance.

  I was on that path encountering little resis
tance as I camped out in front of the entrance of Harmon High again. Only this time I was not on the lookout for anyone I knew. Unless Martin Kessler turned out to be the fellow I thought was Victor Marsden, the man who presumably killed him. But that didn't seem very likely, since that was my theory. And, as Alice had pointed out, not a very good one. Not that hers was any better. Still.

  Assuming I was wrong, always a safe assumption, how the hell was I going to identify Martin Kessler? It wasn't like he'd know me. The two of us had never met.

  It occurred to me what I needed was a little sign, like chauffeurs hold up at the airport.Yeah, that's the ticket. Stand there with a sign MARTIN KESSLER. Wouldn't be at all conspicuous. No one would know.

  So what was I going to do?

  While I was stewing about it, I spotted the two kids from the day before. The ones who'd mistaken me for a cop. I wondered if they still thought I was.

  I whistled, crooked my finger. "Come here."

  From the look on the guy's face, he was holding again. You'd think he'd have learned. If I didn't bust him before, I wasn't gonna bust him now Nonetheless, he was mighty reluctant.

  "Yeah," I said. "You remember me. I was looking for Martin Kessler. Guess what? He never showed."

  The look on the kid's face was priceless. "Hey, not my fault, man. How should I know what he did?"

  "No way you could know. But the fact is, I missed him. So I still need help."

  "Hey, man. I done all I could."

  "I'm not saying you didn't. But here's an opportunity to do a little more. Has he left yet?"

  He shrugged, but the girl said, "No."

  He looked at her. "How you know that?"

  "Same way you do. He asked Beez to stay after class. So you know he's talkin' to Beez."

  "Yeah. Tha's right. He still there," the kid reported back to me, as if he should get points for the information.

  I was ready to give it. "Excellent. Then you can help me. I still won't be able to recognize this guy. So, if you'll stick around until he gets finished with Beez, you can point him out."

  He face fell. "Ah, geez."

  "In return for which," I went on, "I will give you twenty bucks" I waggled my finger in the direction of the girl. "And the two of you can go to the flicks."

  "Flicks?"

  "The movies. Don't they say flicks anymore?"

  "Movie's ten seventy-five," he groused.

  "Okay. I will give you twenty-one dollars and fifty cents."

  "Imax is more."

  I couldn't believe I was bargaining with the kid. "The size of the screen is your problem. I'm paying twenty-one fifty."

  "I gotta introduce you?"

  "No, just point him out"

  "He gonna see me do it?"

  I suppressed a smile. The kid didn't want to take the responsibility for fingering his teacher. "He doesn't have to know it was you. Just point him out, and slip away."

  "You bustin' him?"

  "Duane!"

  "I gotta know."

  "No, I'm not busting him."

  "No one's gonna get hurt?"

  "No one's gonna get hurt."

  He crossed to the uptown side of the street, walked about fifty feet west, and stopped behind a parked car. The girl and I followed. From there we had an excellent look at anyone coming out the front door. Obviously, the kid had used this vantage point before.

  "Where's the money?"

  I took a twenty out of my wallet, fished a dollar fifty out of my pants. I had visions of him taking it and running. Clearly he wasn't about to. After all, I still might be a cop.

  We settled down to wait. While we did, it occurred to me I had been somewhat cavalier in assuring Duane no one was going to get hurt. After all, someone was already dead.

  "Tha's him," Duane said, pointing at the schoolhouse door.

  Martin Kessler was a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, maybe thirty-five to forty. His brown hair was shorter than your average rock star, longer than your average drill sergeant. He wore a jacket and tie, though his shirt was open at the collar. With hornrimmed glasses, he could have passed for a tax accountant. My mind kept turning backflips. He's not a teacher. He's a bookkeeper for the mob. He's being rubbed out because he knows too much. An unlikely scenario, but still more likely than the one where he's a hitman for the mob who rubbed out Victor Marsden.

  At least he wasn't the guy I'd seen with my client. The guy I suspected of killing my client. He was someone else entirely. I didn't know whether to find that reassuring or decidedly unhelpful.

  At any rate, my snitch and his henchwoman snuck off after fingering the English lit prof, leaving me to my own devices.

  The smart thing would have been walk up to the guy and introduce myself. But why should I start doing the smart thing now? Instead, I hung back in the shadows to see where he'd go.

  He headed for Broadway, which was fine by me. I followed him from the north side of the street. I've never tailed an English lit teacher before, but I think I did a pretty good job.

  I followed him to Broadway, caught the subway downtown. All right, maybe it was stupid, but I did actually have a purpose in mind. I wanted to see if anyone else was taking any interest in him.

  Apparently no one was. I didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. On the one hand, it made for awfully dull surveillance. On the other hand, dull was just about my speed.

  Kessler took the subway to Forty-second Street, transferred to the Shuttle. I went in the door at the other end of the car. I doubt if he'd have noticed me if I'd stood on his feet, but I was taking no chances. No one else seemed interested in Kessler. Of course, it was rush hour, the car was packed, and any number of hitmen could have been sizing up the little professor and laying plans for future eradication without anyone noticing.

  We shuttled to Grand Central, caught the Lexington Avenue local downtown.

  Martin Kessler lived on East Twenty-eighth Street. At least he was going to East Twenty-eighth Street. Whether he actually lived there was another matter. I tried to recall if MacAullif had supplied me with an address. If he had, I didn't remember it.

  Kessler walked up the steps of a brownstone between Lexington and Third. It was one of those townhouses divided into apartments. He whipped out of set of keys, opened the front door.

  I could have run up to him then, but he probably would have thought he was being mugged. Not that I look like a mugger; still, no one likes to be bearded on his doorstep. I let him go inside, watched to see if anyone else had noticed. No one had.

  I sighed.

  To warn or not to warn. That is the question.

  The answer, of course, is warn. In a situation like that, you always warn. Because, if you warn and the suspect gets killed, you've done all you could. And if you don't, you haven't.

  I went up on the stoop. There was a row of buttons marked B, 1, 2, and 3. I assumed B was for basement, though there was a separate outside door.

  Button #1 said KESSLER. I pressed it. Moments later a woman's voice said, "Yes?"

  I hadn't expected a woman, though Martin Kessler certainly had every right to one. In fact, a wife and kid had been part of Alice's scenario.

  "Is Martin Kessler there?"

  "Who is it?"

  "My name is Stanley Hastings. I have a message for Mr. Kessler. It's rather important"

  "Does he know you?"

  "We haven't met, but he'll know who I am."

  "Marty, do you know a Stanley Hastings?"

  "Who?"

  I pressed the button, said, "He doesn't know my name."

  Moments later a man's voice said, "Who is this?"

  "Mr. Kessler?"

  "Yes.'

  "My name is Stanley Hastings. I need to talk to you. It's very important. Do you live on the first floor?"

  "Yes."

  "Look out the window."

  After a moment I saw a face in the window. I stepped out on the sidewalk, executed a pirouette. I went back and pressed the button. "Do I l
ook dangerous to you?"

  Wrong question. I looked like a lunatic to him.

  I pressed the button again. "Have the police been in touch with you? I bet they have. About a murder you know nothing about. If you're interested, I have some information. I know why they're bothering you."

  The door clicked open. The schoolteacher peered out. "Who are you?"

  "Stanley Hastings."

  "Your name means nothing to me."

  "Join the club."

  "Huh?"

  I flashed my identification. "I'm a private investigator. I happen to know the police interrogated you about the Marsden murder. I have some things I think you should know."

  "What?"

  "I think you might be in danger."

  "Come in"

  His living room looked like something an English teacher might inhabit. It was wall-to-wall books, except for the windows in front.

  Kessler's wife was an Earth Mother sort, in peasant skirt and blouse. She wore her straight blond hair cut in bangs. Her breasts were large, as if she were nursing. I thought I heard a baby cry in the back room.

  "You have children?" I asked.

  "Two," he said.

  Earth Mother's eyes blazed. "Never mind the small talk.You said we're in danger. At least my husband is. Now, what do you mean by that?"

  "What have the police told you?"

  "They haven't told us anything. They were investigating a suspicious death, and they wanted to know where Marty was between the hours of such and such. It happened to be a time he was in class. It was obviously a mistake, and they knew it. They told us to forget about it. Now you bring it up again and say we're in danger.Why?"

  "All right," I said. "It's not accidental the police got your name. Your name was brought up in connection with the man whose murder they're investigating."

  "What do you mean, `brought up'?"

  "It's a delicate matter. There are things I can tell you, and things I can't tell you. But say you were quite deliberately brought into the picture. The question, of course, is why?"

  "I'm still not following you."

  "Okay, try this on for size. The police had two names. Victor Marsden and Martin Kessler. Victor Marsden is dead. Someone killed him. No one knows why. But it's possible the person who killed him was attempting to kill Martin Kessler. If so, it won't be long before he discovers his mistake."