Kill Fee (28 page)

Jacoby's eyes were saucers. "Who . . . anonymous, you said?"

Murtaugh nodded. "He said if we could catch Pluto and recover his money for him, then he'd come forward and identify himself. He gave me a code word so I'd know him. He's playing it safe—doesn't want to antagonize Pluto in case we blow it."

"Where's the drop?"

"On the Circle Line sightseeing boat, the one that makes a three-hour cruise around Manhattan? Our anonymous caller said he was instructed to take the boat that leaves at ten-thirty this morning—probably their busiest trip of the day."

Jacoby looked at his watch. "It's a quarter to ten now."

"I know. The boat departs from Pier Eighty-three, foot of West Forty-third Street. I'm going there now. What I want you to do is get on the phone and see how many of the men you can round up. Plainclothesmen only—no uniformed officers." Murtaugh was counting on the shortness of time here. "But don't spend more than twenty minutes on it. Then get out to Pier Eighty-three yourself —I've got to have at least one man. Get going."

"Right." Jacoby was up and gone.

The Lieutenant smiled in nervous satisfaction; Jacoby still had a lot to learn. Sergeant Eberhart would have asked a few pertinent questions first, such as: where on the boat was the money to be stashed?

Murtaugh put on his jacket and left, missing by fifteen minutes Costello's call with the news that Pluto's apartment had been found.

Librarian
or schoolteacher,
Pluto thought. ''What is it you do back in Grand Rapids?'' he said aloud.

"I operate a chain of garages," she answered surprisingly. "My brother and I were co-owners, but he died last year. So now I run things by myself."

"Must be a big job for one person."

"It is, but I enjoy it. It's something I'm used to."

They were still docked at Pier Eighty-three. The woman didn't look like a small-scale business tycoon, standing there by the rail of the excursion boat. She did look like an out-of-towner, a middle-aged tourist here to see the sights in the big city. Some gray in her hair, brand new clothes purchased just for her vacation trip.

And she was alone. As long as she was willing to talk to Pluto, then he was part of a couple instead of the single man Lieutenant Murtaugh was undoubtedly trying to spot at that very moment. A woman with a child would have been better, but all the children on the boat seemed to have come equipped with two parents instead of just one.

The garage lady from Grand Rapids was fidgeting; she kept looking at the few people still milling about on the pier. "Shouldn't we have left by now?"

"Five more minutes."

One of the people still on the pier was Lieutenant James Timothy Murtaugh. Who was obviously waiting for somebody. Murtaugh had come aboard for a quick check around. Now he was back on the pier waiting for his straight man to show up. Murtaugh had promised Pluto it would not be Sergeant Eberhart but a less experienced man.

"Where are you from?" the garage lady asked tentatively.

"
Deer Falls, North Dakota," Pluto said.

She nodded. "I didn't think you were a New Yorker." She smiled at him, feeling safer.

Pluto speculated over the thinking process Murtaugh must have gone through to come up with his plan. He would have to convince his superiors that the dreaded free-lance killer known as Pluto was dead, dead, indubitably dead;
and
that he had died in such a way that his body could never be recovered. How to make a corpse disappear—even a police lieutenant would have to give that one some thought. Fire and explosions always left traces. There were no volcanoes or quicksand in Manhattan. Meat-grinders and acid vats were easily accessible only in Vincent Price movies, and a one-way rocket to the planet Mercury wasn't even on the drawing board yet. Earth, air, fire, and water—Lieutenant Murtaugh had opted for water.

The middle-aged lady at Pluto's side was chattering away, making small talk. Pluto was grateful. He answered an occasional question, asked one or two himself, kept the conversation going.

There he was:
the patsy. Murtaugh's straight man had shown up, his semi-witness. Pluto thought he looked very young; it shouldn't be too hard to get the drop on him. Murtaugh had wanted Pluto to come up and hit the patsy from behind at a time he was being distracted by Murtaugh himself. But Pluto had very quickly rewritten that part of the script; he had no intention of revealing himself to Murtaugh. The Lieutenant's plan was to claim he'd struggled with Pluto and Pluto had gone overboard—such melodramatics! But Pluto had agreed, once Murtaugh had given in on the point of the semi-witness. Pluto's attack on the young officer was necessary to give credence to Murtaugh's story.

Then
Pluto was to slide one of his guns under the unconscious officer for Murtaugh to find, a gun that could be connected to a recent killing. Murtaugh had said that would serve as evidence that the man who'd gone overboard was indeed Pluto. Pluto had thought about it a while and then had agreed to that too. He had confidence in his own ability to spot a trap if there was one. He'd selected the Ruger .38, the gun that had killed the thieving landscape architect William Parminter, among others; it was untraceable because it had been stolen instead of bought.

In spite of himself, Pluto felt a flutter of excitement. He'd never allowed an adversary to get this close before. As far as he could tell, there were no other police on board; Sergeant Eberhart certainly was nowhere in sight. Pluto had looked for Sergeant Eberhart
very
carefully. So far, it looked as if Murtaugh were keeping his side of the bargain. If all went well, Pluto would see to it that the Lieutenant didn't go home to face a shotgun blast after all.

"At last!" the garage lady said. "We were supposed to leave five—oh, look. Somebody running for the boat."

Pluto looked, and then looked again. The "somebody" was Sergeant Eberhart—running like crazy, gripping the handles of a bright red Gimbels shopping bag flapping at his side.

He made the boat.

When Murtaugh first learned that Pluto had probably changed his appearance, he was astonished to see how many slightly overweight men with dark hair there were in New York; every fourth or fifth man he passed on the street seemed to fit that general description. So he wasn't particularly surprised when a dozen or so turned up on
the
excursion boat. Some wore glasses, some had mustaches, all had companions. There was no way he and Jacoby could watch them all; he'd have to rely on the script as written.

Jacoby, when he finally arrived, was excited. "They've found his apartment!" he blurted out. "Costello called in just before I left. Filing cabinets
full
of evidence, Costello says."

"Slow down—start at the beginning."

Jacoby repeated in detail everything Costello had told him about Pluto's home base. "And oh yeah—Sergeant Eberhart sent word he has two files he needs to talk to you about immediately."

"Which ones?"

"He didn't say. I told Costello you got a tip Pluto'd be on this boat—but Lieutenant, Costello's the only one I talked to. He'll tell Eberhart, but I couldn't get hold of anybody else. Not enough time. Can we hold the boat? Until Costello or Eberhart gets here?"

"No, that would tip him off—we don't want to spook him now that we've finally got this close. You and I'll have to take him by ourselves." Murtaugh checked his watch; Pluto had had enough time to spot them and familiarize himself with Jacoby's appearance. "Come on, let's get on."

Once on board Murtaugh took Jacoby on a quick tour of the boat. They were climbing down a companionway from the top deck when the boat pulled away from the wharf. Murtaugh's heart was in his throat. The news about Pluto's apartment should have left him jumping for joy—but why couldn't Costello's call have come just a few minutes later?
After
Jacoby had left. Jacoby had told Costello about the excursion boat and Costello would report to Eberhart. And Murtaugh didn't want Eberhart
knowing
anything about the upcoming little drama until it was over and done with.

"How long did you say this trip takes?" Jacoby asked.

"Three hours."

Timing was so important. Murtaugh had told Pluto the fake struggle would have to take place at the exact moment the boat was passing Battery Park, rounding the southern tip of Manhattan to start its way upriver. The rivers themselves could be dragged and sounded—but not New York Bay. There was too much water, too much area for the Harbor Patrol to cover. It was a good place to lose a corpse; no one would really expect Pluto's body to be recovered, Murtaugh had told him.

Pluto bought it. He had agreed to Murtaugh's plan.

Murtaugh had tried to think of everything; he'd even included something in his plan for Pluto to reject so the killer would feel he was controlling the situation. The crucial point had been whether Pluto would agree to leave a gun by Jacoby or not; once he said yes, Murtaugh knew his plan had a real chance of succeeding. Pluto was so sure he could outsmart any opponent; Murtaugh had counted on that ego to bring him to agree. Murtaugh was sorry about the lump Jacoby was going to have to take; he didn't like putting anyone in danger, even when that danger was slight. But he had to have somebody to act as unintentional bait, to help maneuver Pluto into position. Sergeant Eberhart was too sharp; he'd never let Pluto sneak up behind him. Jacoby was the other extreme—of all the men under Murtaugh's command, Jacoby was the least qualified to help bring in a killer.

The "struggle" was scheduled to take place on the New Jersey side of the boat; the tourists would be on the New York side, gawking. He picked out his spot and stationed Jacoby there, telling him it was near the deck
locker
where Murtaugh's fictional anonymous caller had said Pluto's payoff money would be stashed. Murtaugh had told Pluto he himself would be on the other side with the tourists until Pluto had taken care of Jacoby and planted his gun, but in truth he didn't plan to be far away. There weren't many places to hide on an excursion boat, but he'd found a small concession storage area nearby that would do nicely. Then once Pluto had disarmed himself . . . .

Murtaugh checked his watch again; enough time for one more quick scout around. He left Jacoby standing by the starboard rail, trying to look like a tourist fascinated by the New Jersey river bank.

"I have a confession to make," the garage lady from Grand Rapids said uncomfortably. "I don't own a chain of garages. I don't even own one garage. I
work
in a garage. I'm a bookkeeper."

Pluto looked at her in surprise. "Then why the fairy tale?"

She sighed. "Women my age who travel alone—well, you've got to understand we're simply treated better when people think we have money. The little courtesies, friendly treatment on the part of clerks and waiters—you'd be surprised how fast it all disappears once people learn you work for a living just like everybody else. So I lie a little."

How extraordinary.
Pluto asked, "By 'people' do you mean men-people?"

"It's women, too, but the problem is mostly men. There's a certain kind of man who seems to live on boats like this one or in hotel lobbies and the like. The kind of man that's always on the lookout for well-to-do widows. They're very attentive until they find out you've had to
save
for two years to make the trip. But until then they can be quite helpful, you know, in a strange place."

Pluto was delighted. "And you think that
I
. . . ? "

"Oh no, no, I don't," she said, distressed. "It's because I
don't
think you're one of those men that I'm telling you. My saying I owned a chain of garages—well, that was just habit, I'm afraid. Little excursions like this boat trip are always so much more pleasant if you have someone to talk to, don't you think? That's all I had in mind."

"But at first you
did
think—"

"Well, I couldn't be sure—"

Pluto laughed out loud. "Dear lady, I am immensely flattered. I've been mistaken for many things in my time, but never before for a gigolo. Hush now—don't say a word! I
like
the feeling." He laughed again. The lady smiled uncertainly.

They heard the tour director's voice over the loudspeaker direct their attention to the World Trade Center. That was Pluto's cue; Battery Park, coming up.

He stood up. "I could use a cup of coffee. How about you? Shall I bring you one?" When his companion didn't answer, he said, "Perhaps a soft drink? Lemonade?"

"Black coffee," she sighed, suddenly listless.

"I'll be right back."

"Sure you will," she said expressionlessly.

She thinks I'm walking out because she doesn't have money.
Pluto stood looking down at her, thinking fast: something he could use here?

Lieutenant Murtaugh might be playing straight, might be trying to pull a fast one. Sergeant Eberhart certainly hadn't tried to slip aboard unseen—what a flamboyant entrance, with that great red shopping bag flapping with every step! But
something
was not going as planned; Eberhart wasn't supposed to be there at all. It occurred
to
Pluto that it might not be a bad idea to take a human shield along with him.

"Why don't you come with me?" he said to the lady from Grand Rapids. "We'll have to go to the other side of the boat, that's where the concession counter is—but I don't think we'll miss much. We can always watch from the back—oh dear, they don't like you to say 'front' and 'back' on boats, do they? We can watch from the
stern,
that's better. Let us go fetch our coffee and then remove ourselves to the stern of this noble vessel and watch from there. What do you say?"

Utterly charmed, the lady rose and took Pluto's arm. He maneuvered her around to the other arm, where there was no danger she might feel the .38 nesting in his shoulder holster.

Sergeant Eberhart made his way among the crowds on the main deck, his red shopping bag banging against his legs. Where the hell was Lieutenant Murtaugh?