Kill Fee (26 page)

Home? Fifty-second and Third was near wherever Pluto called home?

Midtown, east of Fifth—high rise? townhouse? Doormen, building superintendents, realtors. Murtaugh made a series of phone calls, mobilizing a small army to invade the district in question, armed with sketches of Pluto's appearance up to the time he found his picture on the Pardee Club bulletin board. Murtaugh felt like rubbing his hands together; every day, a little closer.

The cab driver had said Pluto was clean-shaven the first two times he'd picked him up but had a mustache the last time; all three times he was blond. So no clue to Pluto's new appearance there. Murtaugh had instructed the foot soldiers he sent into Pluto's "home" area to ask especially about any tenants who'd recently changed their appearances. Or tenants who looked like the police sketch and who'd abruptly changed residences. Or anything else they could think of. A chubby blond man with a mustache and an English accent doesn't change into something else overnight without
somebody
noticing.

Twenty-four hours was all the grace period Pluto allowed him. The phone call came late at night. Ellie was asleep; Murtaugh, wide awake. Even as he answered, he knew who was calling.

"Hallo, Lieutenant? Pluto here." The English accent was back.

In spite of being prepared for the call, Murtaugh felt his stomach do a flip-flop. Here he was at last, the ever-
elusive
Pluto, only a telephone call's distance away. In contact at last—proof, as if he needed it, that he was getting close. "I've been expecting your call," he said cautiously.

"Ha! I'll wager you have. I'm calling from a phone booth, in case you were thinking of having the call traced. No point, old man. I have no intention of talking long enough for that. Do you understand my fee?"

"I understand it. Do you understand I have no intention of paying it?"

"Dear, dear. Most ungracious of you, I must say. You prefer being a defrocked policeman, or whatever it is they do to policemen? I rescued you, you know. I do think you could express a
little
gratitude."

"I'm not going to argue morality with you, Pluto—it'd be a waste of breath. But you've fallen into the trap of assuming everyone thinks the way you do. That's a bad mistake."

Something like a little-boy snicker came over the line. "Not so bad a mistake, Lieutenant. All those poor souls you're currently investigating—they all paid their bills with nary a whimper."

" Tour souls' is right," Murtaugh said. "They were so frightened they didn't dare
not
pay you. I'm not so easily intimidated."

"Oh, aren't you the brave one!" Again the snicker. "Ah well, a little chest-beating never hurts, I suppose. But come, Lieutenant, we've both been around. Do you really think my clients paid me only because they were intimidated? They
loved
having someone step in and do their dirty work for them. And you want me to think you've never figured that out?"

Too late Murtaugh saw he shouldn't have let the conversation take the turn it did. Change the subject. "Is
Carolyn
Randolph one of your clients?'' he asked abruptly.

"Carolyn who?" Pluto answered blandly, not missing a beat. "Enough of this chit-chat," his voice taking on a brisker tone. "You must understand I mean to collect."

"How? By shooting my hand off?"

A chuckle. "You're thinking of Roscoe Malucci, aren't you? Poor Roscoe. Probably talked his silly head off, didn't he? Roscoe and Leon Walsh, not an ounce of discretion between them. But you're different, Lieutenant. I know I can count on you not to talk out of turn."

"What makes you so sure? How are you going to force me to cooperate? Come on, Pluto, this is where you slip the threat in, isn't it? What do you think you're going to do to me?"

"Dear me. That has an almost masochistic ring to it, Lieutenant. Actually, I'm not planning to do anything to you at all. Not to
you.
Actually . . . it was Ellie I was thinking of."

Murtaugh's mouth went dry.

"She'll be a lot easier to get to than you, don't you see," Pluto went on conversationally, "even if you give her police protection. Besides, policemen themselves are more or less used to the idea of danger, but school administrators are not. What I mean to say is, if I threatened
you
I probably wouldn't get anywhere. But if you think Ellie is in danger—and you know she is if I say she is—well, then you're more likely to cooperate. Am I right, Lieutenant?"

Murtaugh made a strangled sound.

"I'll take that as an affirmative. You do understand, don't you, that I have no compunction at all about crippling her for life, or blinding her, or doing something equally nasty? I'm a very good shot, Lieutenant. I won't
kill
her—I don't want to lose my hold on
you.
But no matter what happens to her, just remember she'll always have something more to lose. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Murtaugh said tightly.

"Good. Then I can count on your cooperation?"

"I . . . I need some time to think."

"Of course you do," Pluto purred. "You need time to think of ways to 'get' me and protect Ellie . . . and time to see that nothing like that is going to work. How can you protect Ellie the rest of her life? Even if you both start life over elsewhere under new identities, you won't ever be sure I'll
never
find you, will you? And what a dreadful thing to do to Ellie! She'd have to give up her work, her friends, the life she's built for herself—and spend the rest of her days looking over her shoulder.
A11 because of you.
Do you think she'll love you for that? Seems to me that would put a strain on any marriage. But you need time to think all these things through for yourself. I'll call tomorrow night," he concluded. "Remember one thing, Lieutenant. I
always
collect."

The phone went dead in Murtaugh's hand.

He sat in a daze, holding the receiver until the cut-in signal reminded him to hang up. So that was it. Pluto would go after Ellie instead of Murtaugh himself. He'd go after her with intent to maim, to blind, to shoot out her kneecaps—and he'd succeed. Promising police protection to a witness was one thing; but when it was someone close who needed protecting, Murtaugh thought, the weaknesses of their protective system became glaringly obvious.

Murtaugh wasn't the first cop whose family had been threatened and he wouldn't be the last. But knowing that didn't make it any easier. He was shaken to realize he wasn't sure what Ellie would do when she learned
he'd
put her in danger. She'd be outraged, he knew—but she'd eventually forgive him. She would, wouldn't she? He honestly didn't know, nor could he imagine how he would feel if their positions were reversed. Ellie was no yes-dear wife who accepted whatever came her way. Perhaps he should try to keep her in the dark as long as he could.

Murtaugh had enough objectivity left to realize he was going through the very same thing every other one of Pluto's clients must have gone through. The fear, the questioning . . . the slowly growing conviction that there was, after all, only one real way out. Murtaugh allowed himself the sinful indulgence of supposing how things would go if he agreed to Pluto's terms: Eberhart might be a problem, but there was bound to be some way of diverting him. The new men Turnbull sent wouldn't question Murtaugh's orders; they'd not be familiar enough with the investigation. The only real obstacle Murtaugh could foresee was the difficulty of justifying his ultimate failure to catch Pluto. The Commissioner had made it clear, both through Turnbull and in person, that Murtaugh's was an
or-else
assignment. Catch Pluto
or else.

If he gave in to Pluto's demands in order to protect Ellie, how could he protect himself from the departmental wrath that was sure to follow? He was in a no-win situation—god damn that Pluto! No matter what Murtaugh did, he was bound to come out on the short end of the stick!
Now wait a minute, wait a minute,
he told himself—
Don't give up so fast.
One thing was certain: the Commissioner would have his head on a platter if he didn't find a solution to the Pluto problem. Unless . . . unless Pluto would agree to move his operation out of New York? That would make a difference, if the killings
stopped.
Yes—perhaps an agreement was possible, a compromise of some sort. Dump our garbage in some other city. Then Murtaugh could make a case (semi-truthfully) that Pluto had been frightened off by the police investigation.

How tempting it was! Look at him, sitting there thinking about going through with it. Now Murtaugh understood Pluto's other clients a little better. How easy it was—just to give in and let things slide, take care of themselves. No more hassle, no more danger. Murtaugh thought of himself as a fundamentally honest man, at least an honest cop. But what if that honesty had never really been tested? Pluto's offer was like no other that had come Murtaugh's way. He'd never felt anything but contempt for crooked policemen, parasites dependent on the corrupt strength of others for their survival. It was the only thing that ever made him ashamed of his profession. He'd made no secret of his attitude; after his first few years on the force there'd been no serious attempt to bribe him. He fingered Pluto's bill that he kept in his coat pocket, the blue piece of paper that some voice of caution had kept him from adding to the evergrowing file on Pluto.

Murtaugh suddenly thought of something Sergeant Eberhart had told him, something he'd learned from Leila Hudson. Leila had told Eberhart that
Summit
magazine was having personnel problems; a lot of the longtime staff were leaving and Leon Walsh was having trouble finding people of equivalent caliber to replace them. It seemed folks were uneasy working for a man who was known to have paid off a killer—even when the payment had been made under extreme duress.

Murtaugh wondered about all the others the police had gotten to admit to paying off Pluto. How did their friends
and
families and co-workers treat them? Did they all shy away, ostracize the offender? Did they ever stop to consider what Pluto's clients must have gone through before agreeing to the killer's terms? The nausea, the fear . . . the shameful secret elation? Would any of the men Murtaugh worked with try to see his point of view if the truth came out? The answer to that was a resounding no.

But what was any of that compared to Ellie's safety? Nothing, nothing at all. Some choice he had. Ellie in danger—
you know she is if I say she is.
Some choice.

Murtaugh opened the bedroom door a crack. The only light source in the room was the red digital numbers on the clock-radio—4:01. Murtaugh opened the door a little wider, until the light from the hallway fell on the bed where Ellie was sleeping. She did not look like a child in her sleep. She looked exactly like what she was: a woman in early middle age, tired out from the rigors of keeping on top of a demanding job. Yet she could still surprise Murtaugh by waking him early in the morning, eager for lovemaking once she'd had her rest. How could he tell her of the danger he'd put her in? It wasn't his fault—and yet it was his fault. But if she ever found out he'd
not
told her . . .

He sat down on the only chair in the bedroom. He sat without moving, watching his wife sleep. Watching, and waiting for daylight.

CHAPTER

15

Pluto was fighting an inappropriate tendency toward nostalgia. He hadn't even left New York yet and he was already beginning to miss the place. A sentimental reaction, one he had no time for. His luggage had gone out to Kennedy yesterday and the one-way ticket to Geneva was in his pocket. All he had to do was concentrate on getting through this little charade Lieutenant Murtaugh had dreamed up and he'd be on his way to Switzerland, free and clear.

But for only four or five years. He'd be back. That wasn't part of the deal, but Lieutenant Murtaugh didn't have to know everything.

The Lieutenant had come up with the one argument Pluto had no answer for. Murtaugh had said that he (Pluto) had used up New York—that he'd worked the town for all he could safely get out of it and now all the machinery of the law was converging on him in a drive that Murtaugh wouldn't be able to divert after much longer. It was a point Murtaugh had borne down on hard:
he
could cover for Pluto only as long as he was in charge of the investigation. But if Pluto kept up his killing ways, Murtaugh wouldn't stay in charge very long.

Pluto had reluctantly admitted the Lieutenant was right; it was a conclusion he'd pretty much come to on his own. When Murtaugh suggested he take his operation to Philadelphia or Detroit, Pluto had murmured something about seeking a warmer climate and let the Lieutenant think he'd be heading toward Miami, perhaps Los Angeles. Dropping red herrings was second nature to Pluto.

Of course, he could just skip the cops-and-robbers playlet Murtaugh had come up with and get on his airplane and
go.
But there was a distinct advantage to being listed as dead on the NYPD records. No one ever went looking for a dead man. It certainly would make things easier when he came back, in four or five years. Who'd be expecting him? He could call himself Pluto Junior then—ha. Son of Pluto. Plutoson. But first things first. Today he had to see if Murtaugh was on the up and up. Because if he wasn't . . . well, Pluto had warned him he always collected.