16 Hitman (9 page)

"You blame MacAullif for the situation?"

"I don't blame MacAullif."

"You say he falsely accused you."

"He didn't accuse me of anything"

"Really? He says you were involved with the dead man."

"That's not an accusation"

"Just a simple statement of fact?"

"Just a simple misassumption. As a result of having jumped to a
conclusion. Without sufficient evidence to back it up"

"That sounds like bad police work. Are you saying MacAullif's
a bad cop?"

No.

"Are you saying this was good police work?"

I sighed. "And you say I'm giving you a headache."

"You deny you work for Victor Marsden?"

"That's right."

"Who do you work for?"

"Richard Rosenberg."

"Who?"

"Richard Rosenberg, of Rosenberg and Stone. He's the negligence lawyer I work for."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Who do you work
for in this case?"

"I don't work for anyone in this case."

"What?"

"My job is over."

"What was your job?"

"Keeping Victor Marsden alive."

"You were hired to keep a hitman alive?"

"Ironic, isn't it?"

"Who hired you?"

"I don't think I can answer that."

"I'm not playing games here. There's a been a murder.You talk,
or I'll charge you with obstruction of justice."

The stenographer never blinked an eye.

"At which point I would have the right to an attorney."

"Except your attorney doesn't want to represent you. Can't say
that I blame him."

I said nothing, sat, waited for Crowley to reload.

He did. "Where were you between twelve and one?"

"Oh, please."

"Where were you between twelve and one?"

"I can't remember."

"You can't remember where you were between twelve and
one?"

"I can tell you where I wasn't between twelve and one."

"Where is that?"

"East Eighty-ninth Street. I wasn't anywhere near East Eightyninth Street."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "You think you may be accused of
the crime?"

"No, I don't."

"Yet you go out of you way to deny it."

"Give me a break. You asked me where I was at the time of
the murder. I told you I was nowhere near the scene. Does that
imply guilty knowledge on my part? No, it implies dumb suspicion on yours.

"You're getting worked up."

"It's somewhat frustrating answering stupid questions that have
nothing do with the investigation."

"Oh, I assure you my questions have something to do with the
investigation. They may not jibe with your theory, but then you're
not in charge. To go back to the question you've been evading,
where were you between twelve and one?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No. It's been a busy day. I've been in Brooklyn and Queens. I
stopped in at the office. I stopped in to see Sergeant MacAullif."

"What time was that?"

"What?"

"When you saw MacAullif?"

"I don't know."

"Was it between twelve and one? It was after, wasn't it?"

"I don't know."

"How do you get paid?"

The change of subject threw me. "What?"

"The law firm you work for. How do they pay you? By the job?"

"By the hour."

"Does that include travel time?"

"Of course"

"Let's see your time sheet."

I hesitated.

"I could get a subpoena duces tecum, force you to produce it."

"That would be pretty stupid, don't you think?"

Crowley had a great deal of poise for a youngster. He didn't get
niad. He merely waited patiently. Which was harder to deal with
than some aggressive prick trying to break me down.

I popped open my briefcase, produced my time sheets.

"Okay," Crowley said. "The case in Brooklyn you put down for
two hours. Ditto the one in Queens. If you start at nine, that would
take you to one. You had a meeting at the lawyer's, and a meeting
with MacAullif. Which came first?"

"The lawyer."

"And that was after you did the cases?"

"That's right."

"Well, say those two cases took you nine to one. Two hours
each is an estimate, and probably a generous one. If each case was
actually an hour and a half, that would leave you an extra hour. For
whatever mischief you might be up to."

"Geez, it's bad enough being accused of a crime without you
messing with my time sheets."

"Here's the thing. Say you knock off Brooklyn-Queens in three
hours, not four. Well, that leaves you an hour to get into trouble. If
you did, I imagine you'd contact your lawyer. If, as you say, he
wants nothing to do with it, you might want to contact your
police buddy. Only cops don't condone murder. Even when it's a
friend."

"Your theory is that on my lunch hour, which I stole from my
boss by manipulating my time sheets, I murdered a mob hitman.
Then I ran and told my lawyer, who wanted nothing to do with
me, so I went and told a cop, who turned me in. Is that what you
think I did?"

"No. That's the club I hold over your head to get you to tell
what you know. If that doesn't scare you, we throw in the fact your
cop buddy's in a lot of trouble for trying to cover for you."

It occurred to me long about then that in attempting to function as my own attorney I'd been trying to act like a lawyer and
talk like a lawyer instead of thinking like a lawyer. I'd sort of lost
sight of the main object. I asked myself, what would Richard do?

"Am I under arrest?"

"You're just answering questions"

"I'm not under arrest?"

"No.

"Good. Then I'm leaving."

I got up and walked out.

No one stopped me.

I STAKED OUT HARMON HIGH. First I made damn sure I wasn't
being followed. In solving the murder of Victor Marsden, I had
one small advantage on the cops. I knew who did it.

It was no use telling Crowley, because he wouldn't believe me.
Kessler had no record. Convincing the cops that a professor, whose
biggest concern should be grading papers, had just carried out a
mob hit was going to be a tough sell.

I needed proof. I didn't know how I was going get it. That
wasn't my concern. My main concern was looking the son of a
bitch in the eyes and telling him off.

What a prick. The guy didn't need me. I served no useful purpose. Clearly, he intended to go through with the hit all the time.
He wasn't even straight with me about not doing it in the apartment. He had lied to me every step of the way, and made sure my
employment did no good. What had he needed me for?

Three forty-five and students began streaming out of the school building. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Laughing and smoking, and
shouting obscenities and bopping to iPods and giving the general
impression that any learning that had just transpired was entirely
coincidental and not to be inferred.

Scattered among the youth of our nation were a few growntips, who tended to fall into two categories: the younger, earnest,
and idealistic; the older, jaded, and cynical.

Martin Kessler was not among them. By four o'clock it was clear
he had not emerged. I wondered if he had been to school at all.

A couple of black students were having an argument outside
the gate. Girlfriend and boyfriend, most likely, from the names they
were calling each other, such as bitch and nwtlierf+ckcr. The girl had
her top knotted under her breasts. The boy had the waist of his
pants hanging under his ass.

I went over, said, "Excuse nie."

The boy said, "Whoa!" and took a big step back. He was lucky
he didn't trip on his jeans.

I forgot what I looked like. The kid was probably holding drugs
and thought I was a plainclothes cop. I said, "You know Mr.
Kessler, the English teacher?"

His eyes were wide. Was this a trick? That was his first assumption.
It took a second to realize that would be a mighty strange trick.

"Yeah," he said. "So what?"

"You know him?"

That put him on the defensive again. "I'm in his class. So?"

"Was he in school today? I didn't see him leave."

"'Scuse me?"

"I didn't see him come out just now. Was he here?"

The girl was either smarter or couldn't resist dumping on hint.
"Duane, you stupid or what? Man wanna know if the teacher here.
He here, but he left."

"When?"

"Enda class. Bell's three forty-five."

"You're saying he taught his afternoon class?"

The girl looked at me the way she'd looked at Duane. "Shee-it."

The two of them were laughing so hard I might as well not
have been around. "Where is he?" I interrupted.

"He gone."

"Is there another door?"

She shrugged. "Onliest one I know."

"Any chance he stayed around after school, talked to someone?"

"Man, he gone."

I thought that over, and I didn't like it. If Kessler got out of
school without me seeing him, that meant he didn't want me to see
him. Which was understandable under the circumstances. He
knew I could stake out his classroom. So avoiding me had to be a
short-term goal. Taking pains not to see me now.

While I was thinking that, the teacher most likely to induce
passion in students, though not necessarily for her subject, came
out. She was dressed conservatively enough, in a loose cotton shirt
and mid-calf-length skirt. Her hair was back in a ponytail. She
wore large-framed glasses.

Does that describe a raving beauty? No. Quite the opposite. It
describes a quite ordinary woman.

Wrong again.

This was a woman to die for. Or to kill for. Even the most
unobservant couldn't help but notice that those casual clothes concealed young, perky breasts, with nipples like ...

But I digress.

Anyway, the girl I'd been talking to saw her and called, "Hey,
ma'am. He lookin' for Mr. Kessler."

She flashed a smile. "Just missed him," she said, and kept on
going.

It occurred to me, the whole thing could not have been better
staged to create the illusion Martin Kessler had been there. What a
ridiculous thought. And shame on me for having thought it. These people were not conspirators, sent to play a part. I'd approached
thenm. The woman wasn't in on it. She'd only said something
because the girl said something. A conspiracy theory made
absolutely no sense. The only reason I'd come to it was I'd been
watching the door, and I was sure Martin Kessler hadn't come out.

Unless ...

And this is where we start getting into paranoia run wild. I recognized it as such. I knew that's what it was. But somehow that
didn't help.

It was a sound paranoid thought.

I knew Martin Kessler killed Victor Marsden. I was the only one
who knew Martin Kessler killed Victor Marsden. I could finger
Martin Kessler. I could connect him to the crime. I was a liability,
a threat, a serious danger to Martin Kessler, notorious hitman.

I was expendable.

I had to go.

Kessler had snuck out of class today because he was a pro who
knew all the tricks of the trade. He spotted me waiting for him, and
he avoided me. He avoided me just the way he had avoided the
doorman when he had gone in to kill Victor Marsden. He avoided
me so he could stalk me. He was probably watching me right now.

My stomach felt hollow. My back tingled like it was in the
crosshairs of a high-powered rifle. Or a laser beam, that's what they
used now, a tiny pinpoint of light between my shoulder blades,
guiding the bullet into my heart. I wouldn't even know it happened. One moment I'd be standing here, the next moment I
wouldn't.

Poor Alice.

Would I feel it?

Would I hear it?

I heard it, and I jumped a mile.

I AVOID THE MORGUE AS much as possible. Though, in this
instance, I wasn't that unhappy to be here. Mostly because I'd
walked in of my own accord instead of being carried in feetfirst,
which was my expectation when I hear that sound. But, no, it
wasn't the whine of a bullet from an assassin's gun; it was merely
Wendy/Janet beeping me to tell me to call Detective Crowley. I
did, and it turned out he was sending a police cruiser to pick me
up. The medical examiner had finished the autopsy, and they
wanted me to ID the body. I'm not squeamish, but Il)ing dead
mob hitmen is not my idea of a good time.

"I don't even know the man," I protested.

"You saw him in his apartment building."

"So?'

"In the company of the man who allegedly killed him. We need
your ID to put the two together"

"Can't the doorman do that?"

"The doorman doesn't know the man who killed him."

That didn't make sense to me, but then I didn't want it to make
sense to me. I wanted to go home, get in bed, pull the blanket up
over my head, and pretend this wasn't happening. Maybe that's not
heroic, but, excuse me, what would you do, arm yourself and go
looking for a hitman from the mob? One with the stealth to get
in and out of the apartment building without being spotted. Not
to mention a public school. I gotta tell you, I wouldn't like my
chances. I know some asshole's always doing it in the movies, but
that's a movie. And the asshole presumably has talent. He may be
a civilian, but he's brawny, or smart, or some combination of the
two, and he has nerves of steel, and never considers the fact he
might get killed in his enterprise, because, of course, he doesn't.
Sorry, bub, that's not the way it works.

Anyway, it wasn't just the smell of formaldehyde and the
harsh flourescent lighting and the cold white marble that was
giving me chills.

Crowley noticed. "Never been in a morgue before?"

I ignored the comment. "Where's the damn corpse?"

Crowley jerked his thumb at the wall of pullout drawers they
keep the bodies in. "One of these"