The Killing Man (17 page)

Enough of a crowd had collected to make it an interesting spot in the late news coming up and the girl said, “Any further comment on this, Mr. Hammer?”

At least she remembered my name.

“They just tried to mug the wrong guy,” I said. Then I winked into the lens and walked away.

Upstairs I called Pat, but somebody had already given him a buzz. I ran through the story again, then added, “It’s all coming back to DiCica, buddy. They’re making sure I know they’re watching.”

“You don’t scare them, Mike.”

“If they think I have access to what Anthony had I can sure shake them up. Did Candace Amory get in touch with you?”

“Sly dog.”

“That’s what Peppermint Patty says to Charlie Brown.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit, you’re going nuts, y‘know?”

“How about Candace?”

“She’ll stay busy. I assigned two damn good men to clue her in.”

“Good.”

“Listen, buddy... you have a problem.”

“No way. I’m going to hit the sack.”

“You see the time? That TV newscast will be on in one hour. That’s how fast they can get that tape in . . .”

“So?”

“If Velda sees it, she is going to be upset as hell.”

“Baloney, I did a funny at the end.”

“They edit, idiot. They’ll keep it hard and tight as they can. You know those two.”

He was right. I said, “Look, I’ll grab a cab and head up there.”

“I’m closer,” he told me. “I’ll see if I can get there first.”

“Keep her quiet.”

“Will do.”

I hung up. This time I took my own trenchcoat when I went back out into the night. It was a heavier mist now. Soon it would start to rain.

It was faster getting to Velda’s room from emergency admitting, so I had the cab drop me off there. I went through the handful of people waiting to be helped, pushed through the double doors, took the stairs two at a time to the floor I wanted and half ran down the corridor.

The cop on duty was the one who had checked me out before. He grinned and waved to slow me down, his motions indicating everything was okay. I came to a walk to get my breath back and stood there a second, listening. I looked at my watch. The show would be running, but there was no sound from the room at all.

“What’s all the hurry?” the cop asked me.

“Didn’t want her watching television,” I panted.

“Hell, the captain took care of that twenty minutes ago. He went in and pulled the plug on her set.” He rubbed his jaw and frowned. “The show’s all that bad?”

“Just didn’t want her getting excited.”

“Nothing should bother her. Her doctor sedated her an hour ago. She just had a couple of orderlies in checking on her.”

“For what?”

“Beats me.”

“You know them?”

“I think I’ve seen them around. They had their ID badges on anyway.”

I said, “Damn,” and went through the door. The same night-light was on and she was still there in the shaded glow of it, her breathing soft and regular. I took her wrist, felt her pulse, then let the tension go out of my shoulders.

The nurses had combed her hair out, and makeup had erased some of the discoloration on her face. The bandage was smaller and all the beauty that was Velda was beginning to reappear. A sheet was drawn up to her chin, but it didn’t hide what was under it at all. She still swelled out beautifully in all the right places.

She smiled first, then opened her eyes. “I know what you were thinking,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but wavering, the sedation heavy on her.

“You ought to. That’s the way I always think.”

“What are you doing here ... so late?”

“Just checking.”

She closed her eyes in a drowsy fashion, then seemed to force them open. “Mike . . .”

“Yeah, doll?”

“There was ... a doctor here.”

“I know ... Burke Reedey. He gave you a sedative.”

Her head rolled slightly on the pillow. “No . . . another doctor.”

“An orderly?”

“He . . . looked like ... a doctor. He said . . .” Her eyes drifted shut again.

“What did he say, honey?” I took her hand and squeezed it.

Sleepily, her eyes opened again. “He was going to ... give me ... another shot.”

My hands suddenly went clammy. “What!”

Once again, she shook her head. “He didn’t ... do it.” Her lids started to close again, then jerked open. “He told me it would make ... me sleep better . . . and he took . . . my arm . . . when the other doctor came in.”

“Another orderly?”

“Like . . . a doctor. Maybe. That first one . . . said something and ... and left.”

I said, “Son of a bitch!” and tried to let her hand go, but her fingers had a determined grip.

“Mike ...”

I stopped trying to ease her fingers loose and looked at her. She was fighting to talk through the sedative and everything was wearing her out.

“When he spoke”—her eyelids wavered—“he sounded like . . . the one on the phone . . . Saturday . . . who wanted to meet you . . . at the office.”

I dropped her hand, patted her cheek gently and, when her eyes closed, I ducked through the door. The big cop looked at me quizzically and I nodded an okay, then asked him, “Describe that first orderly who went in there.”

“Big guy, real heavyset,” he said. “About five-eleven, two hundred forty pounds, dark hair going gray, Vandyke beard and mustache. Real doctor stuff. Almost like a black-and-white movie caricature.”

“You said you saw him before.”

“I did. I’ve been thinking about that. He went by here twice in the past couple of days.”

“He say anything?”

“No. He just went by. The first time he was pushing a cart of surgical instruments.”

“How about that second orderly?”

The cop knew something was going down and he had an anxious expression on his face. “Hell, man, he’s over at the nurse’s desk right now.” He pointed toward the middle of the corridor and I didn’t wait to hear any more.

His name was David Clinton, address on the West Side. He had been an employee of the hospital for three years, which the head nurse documented. I gave him back his ID card and took him away from the desk.

“The police officer told me you checked the lady’s room tonight.”

“That’s right. I clean up, make sure nothing is left on the table, the lavatory is serviced ...”

I didn’t let him finish. “There was another orderly in there tonight too.”

“Oh, him. That jerko was on the wrong floor.

Imagine that. Those new people don’t even know which button to push on the elevator.“

“You report him?”

“For being on the wrong floor?”

“Never mind. Had you seen the guy before?”

He shrugged and spread his hands apart. “Well ... I don’t think so. But people come and go . . .”

“With Vandyke beards and real doctor faces?”

“I must admit, he
did
have a look about him ... but no, I never saw him before.”

There are times you want to spit and your mouth goes dry and this was one of those times. I went back to the desk, picked up the phone and got security. I gave a description of the guy to the officer in charge downstairs and told him to cover all exits. If the Vandyke crap was a disguise, he’d be big enough to recognize by height and weight.

One more call and a small argument got the operator to put a call in for Pat on the PA system. A minute later there was a click and he said, “Chambers here.”

“Mike, pal. Where are you?”

“At the main desk downstairs waiting for you to come in. Where the hell have you been?”

“Hang on. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

The elevator took me down to the foyer and when I stepped out I saw Pat in a three-way conversation with Burke Reedey and Bennett Bradley.

I waved to the group, then pointed at Pat and motioned for him to get over to me. Quickly, I told him what had happened and said to be easy, I had alerted hospital security and Velda was all right.

“You sure?”

“Positive. The sedation might have slowed her down, but she recognized the voice. She didn’t identify the face, but by damn, if Velda laid an ID on the voice it’s good enough for me.”

“But why go for her, Mike?”

“We got a fast-thinking killer, that’s why. He tried whacking her out the first time so there would be nobody to identify him, and even if he did get a good shot at her, there’s a probability she could make an identification, and that probability he can’t take a chance on.”

“That’s what Bradley said,” Pat told me. “He made an appointment to meet Burke here tonight and possibly talk to her, but your doctor buddy had already given her the sedative and didn’t think it advisable.”

“Nobody told me about that.”

“Relax. Bradley spoke to me this evening and I told him to speak to Burke. Your girl’s okay, pal. She never saw the show, she won’t think the smartasses nailed you ...”

“Then get some of your guys to cover this place. Hospital security—”

“Relax,” Pat said again. “Most of the security here are retired NYPD guys.” He went over to the phone, made two calls and came back. “Any more orders?”

I shook my head.

“What a pisser you are. With a time lapse like that, don’t you think the guy would have been out of here? What kind of pussy you think we’re dealing with?”

Burke and Bennett Bradley had been watching us curiously, so we cut it short and walked over to the desk. Burke said, “What’s with you two?”

I told them what had gone on upstairs and Bradley’s face went tight, his eyes drawing almost closed, and he breathed out the word “Penta” like he was saying “shit” in a foreign language.

All I could think of was that I had heard enough of Penta for a lifetime. It was a damned red-herring myth screwing up the works and nobody wanted to listen to me at all. I was the one it all started over, just me and Anthony DiCica, and now everything gets woven into a fairy-tale spider-web.

I said, “Bradley, don’t give me this Penta bullshit. You got no prints, no witnesses, no motive ... you don’t have a damn thing to bring this Penta into this except a fucking stupid note that was left on my desk beside a mutilated corpse.”

He let the hardness out of his face, grimaced gently and said, “Put it this way ... we’re all looking for a killer.”

“He almost did it again,” I said. “Velda might possibly identify his voice, but that’s not hard evidence. If we could nail him with a voiceprint on tape, that’s another story.”

“You have a tape to match it?” Burke asked.

“We’re not sure,” Pat said.

“I wish somebody would be sure of something,” Bradley told us. “I’d like the years I’ve spent following this Penta to come to something. A punctured career is no way to leave the service.” He looked at the date on his watch, holding it up close so he could read the miniature letters. “I have one more week before my replacement takes over.” He dropped his arm. “But it has been an exciting life, gentlemen.”

Burke said, “I’ll be here at eight A.M., Mr. Bradley. She should be alert enough to talk to and maybe the both of us can get her to remember something. That all right with you, Captain?”

Pat glanced at me for confirmation and I nodded. “Do what you want. I don’t think you’ll get anywhere, but it won’t hurt trying.”

“We’ll go easy on her,” Burke told me.

A tall, slim guy in a hospital security uniform turned the corner and walked up to Pat. Until he got close you wouldn’t think he was over forty, but this one had all the markings of an old street cop and he sure knew Pat all right. He knew me too, but I couldn’t place him. His men had covered the exits, checked out the premises and questioned people on every floor, but there was no sign of anybody to answer the description of the guy in Velda’s room. Pat thanked him, gave me a resigned look and I put on my hat.

Pat said, “You want a lift?”

“No . . . I’m going to my office and get the directions to our old buddy’s place. I’ll see you when I get back.”

“When you going out?”

“First thing in the morning.”

I said so long to everybody there and got a cab that was just pulling up to the door. The rain had let up, but the sky was rumbling away and at irregular intervals the overcast would brighten momentarily with a hidden lightning stroke inside the clouds.

The cabbie bobbed his head when I gave him my office address and we went down the drive past the row of cars that were packed bumper-to-bumper again. I looked at the place where the black Mercedes with one taillight out had been parked. This time there was a white Thunderbird and it was jammed in too tightly to go anywhere.

9

For fifteen minutes I had been poking through my desk and the assorted boxes on the shelves looking for General Rudy Skubal’s address. I found everything I didn’t need, but not the single sheet of a loose-leaf notepad I remembered writing it down on. My filing habits were strictly garbage-style, and if I had given it to Velda in the beginning I would have had it by now. I kicked the bottom drawer shut with my foot and sat on the edge of my chair feeling like a damn idiot.

Sometimes ... sometimes without being asked, Velda would put things away she thought I might have use for. A piece of folded-over paper would be too much to ask for, but I gave it a try anyway. I went outside to her filing cabinet, pulled out the drawer marked S and thumbed through the bank of folders.

And there it was, single folder, SKUBAL, RUDOLPH, GENERAL. Inside a single piece of unfolded paper from a loose-leaf notepad with directions to the old mansion on Long Island where the powerhouse from the old, wild days was kept like an aged lion, regal, but raggedy from conflict, scarred, worn and with too many years for head-to-head fieldwork. Here was where he was putting together a lifetime of notes, cryptic data now unclassified that would turn out to be the manual of manuals for covert espionage or the hairiest piece of fiction ever.