Kill Fee (6 page)

"This Walsh is looking good for it," Captain Ansbacher had said in his meant-to-be-heard politician's
voice
when he'd called Murtaugh into his office the day before. "You picked him up?"

"Not yet. Mr. Walsh seems to have made himself inaccessible."

"You're telling me you don't have him in custody?" Ansbacher said in a tone intended to carry through the open door toward whoever felt like listening. "What about a warrant? You did get a warrant, didn't you?"

"If we do bring him in, it'll just be for questioning," Murtaugh said quietly, hoping Ansbacher would moderate his own tones.

He just became louder. "Questioning?" He snorted. "Come on, Murtaugh, why the tippy-toe-ing around? A warrant can be a weapon if you know how to use it right."

"It's a matter of evidence, Captain." Murtaugh was sick to death of this cat-and-mouse game. Ansbacher knew perfectly well they didn't have enough evidence to arrest Walsh—hell, they didn't have
any
evidence. Just a motive . . . and a suspicion. "Why don't we talk to him first? Then we can decide how we want to play it."

Captain Ansbacher put his lips together and smiled without opening his mouth. Then, when the silence had grown uncomfortable enough to suit him, he said: "How are you going to talk to him when you can't even find him?"

Murtaugh had left the interview with the taste of bile in his mouth. It occurred to him that Jerry Sussman and Captain Ansbacher were two of a kind: they both enjoyed watching other people squirm. Murtaugh felt a quick stab of sympathy for the missing Leon Walsh.

Murtaugh's wife Ellie had subscribed to
Summit
up to a few years ago but then had dropped it. On impulse he called her at her office and asked why.

"
It was getting to be just like every other magazine," she said. "It used to be something special—but now it's trying to be all things to all readers. Why do you want to know?"

"Tell you tonight," he promised.

The change in the magazine—could that have been Jerry Sussman's doing? If so, Leon Walsh would have even more of a motive than ever. Murtaugh sent Sergeant Eberhart over to the
Summit
offices to talk to the staff. Eberhart called to say Walsh was back.

"I'll put it as delicately as I can. I hated the bastard's guts." Leon Walsh smiled wryly. "I might as well tell you. If I don't, somebody out there will." He made a flapping gesture with his hand that Murtaugh took to be a reference to the
Summit
staff.

The Lieutenant sat in a comfortable chair facing Walsh's desk, in the messiest office he had ever seen. "How did you feel when you heard he'd been killed?"

"Shocked, numb—virtually paralyzed." Walsh's face was pained. "And at the same time, underneath the shock —I was pleased, Lieutenant. And the more I thought about it, the less shocked I was and the more pleased I became. To be free of that bastard once and for all—even if I'd lost
Summit,
I'd still be rid of Sussman and
that
was something to cheer about." Walsh didn't try to hide the fact that he was worried. "Then, of course, I came to my senses. I like to think of myself as a relatively civilized man, Lieutenant. I'm not proud of the way I reacted."

Murtaugh nodded, taking it all with a grain of salt. He'd seen too many men admit to something discreditable in that same open, disarming way—admitting it because they were hoping to conceal something even more discreditable. But Walsh's reaction had been identical to
that
of quite a few of the people who'd known Jerry Sussman: first shock, then pleasure, then shame at feeling the pleasure. Walsh could be telling the truth.

Murtaugh was having trouble getting a fix on the man. As the editor of a magazine like
Summit,
Walsh must be a man of considerable authority. Yet he didn't generate that impression when you talked to him. Walsh had more of an average-guy air about him; he was probably easy to work with and never pulled rank on his staff. His manner certainly showed no signs of the kind of barely restrained violence that could lead a man to murder. Even his admission that he'd hated his partner had carried no residue of smoldering hostility.
I like to think of myself as a relatively civilized man,
he'd said. Was that self-denigrating strain a true part of Walsh's character or was it just an act?

Walsh had been out of town at the time Sussman was killed, in Connecticut, with his ex-wife. He and Leila Hudson had registered in a country inn—a story that could be checked a dozen different ways. But Walsh's physical whereabouts at the time of the shooting probably wasn't important; by now Murtaugh was fairly well convinced the shooting had been a professional job. The question now was whether Walsh had hired a killer to save his magazine for him or not. That was the kind of connection that was so hard to prove.

Murtaugh told Walsh he'd be talking to him again and left the editor's office. The Lieutenant felt a little out of place in the
Summit
offices, a feeling he hadn't had for years.

Sergeant Eberhart, on the other hand, looked right at home. He came up to Murtaugh and said, "Lieutenant, there's a woman down the hall you might want to talk to. Name's Fran Caffrey and she's the fiction editor."

"
What's she got to say?"

"As little as possible, unfortunately. She was a sort of unofficial spy for Sussman here. Seems everybody in the office knew about it except Walsh. She wouldn't talk to me, but maybe you can get her to open up."

Murtaugh nodded and went down the hall to the office Eberhart indicated. So Sussman had thought he needed a spy in what was technically his own organization. Interesting.

Fran Caffrey was waiting for him, standing by her desk and leaning slightly forward as if ready to pounce. Had Eberhart scared her or was she always that tense?

Murtaugh barely had time to mention his name before she interrupted. "That sergeant of yours has been asking questions about me! Am I a suspect or something?"

"Good gracious, no." Murtaugh tried to look properly shocked at the idea. "It's just that we can't understand why Sussman would need his own private ear in a magazine he owned."

"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.

"Yes, you do. You weren't breaking any law by reporting to the primary owner what was going on in his own magazine. But it does imply Mr. Sussman didn't trust Mr. Walsh."

"Mr. Sussman didn't trust anyone. Not even me." She sounded bitter.

Something worth pursuing there? "He disappointed you in some way?" When she didn't answer, Murtaugh prompted: "Perhaps he promised you something."

She threw him a hard glance. "Shrewd guess, Lieutenant. Or maybe I'm making it obvious, I don't know." She sighed. "Yes, he promised me something. It was a promise I know now he had no intention of keeping."

A
promotion,
Murtaugh thought. Perhaps even Walsh's job. "Would this broken promise have anything to do with UltraMedia Corporation's plans for
Summit
after the takeover?"

Fran Caffrey smiled a slow, sad smile. "Yes, indeed it would, Lieutenant. That's exactly what it has to do with. Do you know what UltraMedia was planning? They're not going to admit it, but I have a friend who works there and I
know.
They weren't just going to get rid of Leon Walsh—everybody'd seen that coming for months, he and Mr. Sussman were barely speaking. But the Ultra-Media powers-that-be were going to let the entire staff go and bring in their own people. Every single one of us would have been fired, right down to the last file clerk."

"So you could say Jerry Sussman's murder was quite timely," Murtaugh mused. "A whole lot of jobs were saved. Now I wonder who's job meant the most to him?"

Fran laughed in a jittery sort of way. "No, you don't. You don't wonder, I mean. And you can forget it—Leon Walsh never killed anybody. Leon's as nonviolent as they come."

"Ah, but many a man who shrinks from violence up close often finds a solution in hiring someone else to do the job for him. Someone who doesn't faint at the sight of blood."

She was shaking her head. "You're on the wrong track. Leon—hiring a, a
hit man?
That's absurd. He wouldn't know how. Forget about Leon. He's not behind it."

"You don't think much of him, do you?"

She shrugged. "Leon's all right as long as he stays in that office.
Summit
is his whole world—it's all he cares about, it's all he knows. He's a little short-sighted, but he
junctions
when he's editing. But negotiating with a hired
killer?
Unh-uh. He could no more arrange for a murder to be committed than I could fly to Saturn. Forget Leon Walsh, Lieutenant. He's not your man."

Murtaugh examined her closely, trying to read her face, her body language. A lot of tightly controlled anger there. Her position at
Summit
had been saved by whoever put a bullet into Jerry Sussman (a .45 caliber, shattering the spine: Dr. Wu had been right). But
Summit's
fiction editor had thought she was in line for something bigger, not for dismissal. Sussman had promised her something she'd wanted, perhaps the editorship, perhaps something else—and then had betrayed her just as casually as he'd betrayed Leon Walsh. That might be motive enough in Walsh's case; but Fran Caffrey was a young woman—she still had years to go and heights to scale. Her career would not end with the loss of this one job. She didn't have the investment in
Summit
that Leon Walsh had.

"When did you learn Sussman had sold you out?" Murtaugh asked her.

"Just this morning."

"Your friend at UltraMedia called you?"

"No, I called him. He wasn't going to tell me." Her voice was curiously flat.

So Fran Caffrey would have no motive since she didn't know of Sussman's doublecross until after his death.
If
she was telling the truth about when she found out. But she had made no effort at all to shift suspicion on to Leon Walsh, the person with the most to lose. In fact she had stated flatly, several times, that Walsh couldn't have done it.

Murtaugh was inclined to agree with her. Besides, she sounded so
certain.

Leon
Walsh watched the two police investigators leave the
Summit
offices with a distinct lifting of the spirits. That hadn't been too bad. It wasn't over yet, he knew—but it hadn't been too bad.

Of course they're going to suspect you
—
it's only natural,
Leila had said.
You've got to prepare yourself for that.

How do you prepare yourself for being suspected of murder?

Tell the truth,
Leila had advised.
Don't try to pretend that you and Jerry Sussman were friends or even that you had an amicable working arrangement. They'll find out how it was from other people. Just tell the truth.

So he'd told the truth, even to the point of confessing his shameful pleasure upon hearing of Sussman's death—which was probably going farther than Leila meant. But it had felt
so good
to tell that police Lieutenant what he really thought of Sussman. Confession must still be good for the soul.

Leila had been a rock, an absolute rock. (If only she'd been that caring while they were still married!) When he'd thought he was losing
Summit,
she'd talked him out of his near-suicidal depression and arranged for both of them to get out of the city for a few days. They hadn't turned on the TV or looked at a newspaper the whole time they were in Connecticut, and it was only through an accidental encounter at the inn with someone Walsh knew that he learned his traitorous partner had been deliberately killed by person or persons unknown.

Their rush back to New York had been colored by both anxiety and cautious hope; Leila had had to drive, he'd been in too much of a daze. When he found out the deal with UltraMedia had not been "finalized"—one of Sussman's favorite junk words—Walsh had almost fainted
from
the relief.
Summit
was still his! In fact, it was more his now than it had been ever since the day he'd struck his Faustian bargain with Sussman.

The contract Walsh had signed had one little clause in it that now put him in complete control of his magazine. That clause said that when one partner died, the other had first option on the deceased's shares. Walsh wouldn't even have to buy all of Sussman's shares—just enough to give himself majority ownership. He could raise that much money easily. Then
Summit
would be his, answerable to no one except Leon Walsh.

No more toadying to advertisers, no more slop articles catering to a constantly changing readership that wanted everything made easy. And best of all, Hartley Dunlop and the trendy freakishness of UltraMedia could never touch him now. Walsh picked up a manuscript from his desk, one that had been commissioned on the basis of a Sussman "suggestion"—and dropped it into the out-basket. All those times he'd given in to pressure from Sussman—they didn't matter now. Now he had a chance to redeem himself. How many people ever got a true second chance? Now
Summit
could go back to being what it was always meant to be: a
literary
magazine, by God.

He put in a long and full day, happily doing what he did best. Walsh couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good. One act of violence and all his problems were solved—and he hadn't even had to commit the act himself. And since he didn't know who
did
commit it, he didn't even have to worry about his conscience bothering him.

When he got home that night, his body hurt with the kind of tiredness that felt good after a good day's work. And the apartment looked good to him; it was the same
apartment
where he and Leila had lived when they were married. Even
that
was looking good again.

Seven pieces of mail were waiting in the box. One was clearly a bill, in a window envelope, but it was such an odd slate-blue that it caught Walsh's eye. Something else odd: no return address. He opened the envelope.