Don't Look Behind You (17 page)

He drew back in his chair, sucking in breath, agape. Well, why not? Hadn’t I sucker-punched him?

From my inside suit coat pocket, I withdrew the two cancelled checks and I put them in front of him. “Leif Borensen made these generous donations, both in recent months. Take a look.”

Frowning, he did so, without touching them. Maybe he was afraid of catching something. “I do remember these.”

“What do you remember about Leif Borensen?”

“Why, nothing.”

“He wasn’t a patient? Or don’t you have patients here?”

His eyes and nostrils flared. “Do I have to tell you, Mr. Hammer, that patient confidentiality—”

So they did treat sufferers, or experiment on them.

“Doc, you already said you didn’t remember anything about Borensen. Can you confirm he
wasn’t
a patient?”

He thought about that so long, I thought his beard might grow. But finally he nodded.

“Is there anyone close to him that you know of,” I said, “a friend or relative who may have contracted Phasger’s, perhaps suffering now or possibly already dead from it, that might inspire Mr. Borensen to make such a generous contribution?”

Another sigh. “Frankly, no.”

“Well, isn’t this kind of contribution unusual?”

“It is.” Something about the contribution did seem to bother him. “Mr. Hammer, there is generally paperwork we must provide to the effect that our institute is an organization funded by charity, giving the donor a tax benefit. Mr. Borensen did not pursue that avenue. My sole contact with him were these two checks.”

I thought about that.

Then I asked, “Doctor, have you received any similar contributions, from donors otherwise unknown to you, over the past, say, five years?”

Impatience was tightening his face. “I don’t know that I want to answer that, Mr. Hammer. I am willing to respond to you on the basis of the cancelled checks you presented me… and, frankly, I read the newspapers, and know that Mr. Borensen died a suicide recently… but I see no reason for our conversation to go further…” He rose. “Now, if you’ll
excuse
me, I have rather important work to get back to.”

He came around his desk and I got up and faced him, blocking the way. Not threateningly, just blocking it.

“I have important work to do, too, Doc. You’re chasing a killer called Phasger’s Syndrome. I’m chasing down a killer who doesn’t have a name yet, but he’s killed many times, and will continue doing so until I eradicate this human disease.”

He studied my face. “Mr. Hammer, have you ever seen a psychiatrist?”

“Once,” I said. “Didn’t work out. Answer my question, Doctor—have you received similar contributions in recent years, possibly not always twenty-five thousand but certainly in that vicinity?”

“…Yes.”

“Any repeat contributions from any of those donors?”

“Occasionally, as with Mr. Borensen, there have been several donations of that size. But nothing regular. And no personal contact.”

“None of them wanting help claiming a fat tax deduction?”

This was something that clearly had bothered him. He said, “No, sir. Not one. Do you… do you have an idea why they might do that?”

“Yes. These people wanted to attract a minimum amount of attention. They paid their money and disappeared.”

“
Paid
…?”

“Just a theory I’m working on, Doc. Would you be willing to provide a list of names and addresses for these other big donors?”

His chin came up. “Well, no. Why should you expect me to? You’re just a private investigator, Mr. Hammer.”

“That makes me an officer of the court.”

“Be that as it may—no.” He was firm. “Bring me a court order, however, and I’ll provide that list.”

I moved away from him, easing toward the door. “Fair enough. You’ll be hearing from Patrick Chambers, Captain of Homicide, NYPD. When exactly, I can’t say. But I would go ahead and get that list together. And might I make another suggestion?”

A bitter little smile formed. “I’m quite sure I can’t stop you, Mr. Hammer.”

“Take on some security. Twenty-four hour security.”

“We have a security man who…”

“Not ‘man.’
Men
. With guns and military experience. I can give you the name of a good agency out of Manhattan—I’m part of only a two-person operation and couldn’t handle it for you.”

He was shaking his head. “This is
incredible
… Why on earth—”

“The human disease I mentioned might consider you a loose end and come looking for you. You could get infected. It wouldn’t hurt like Phasger’s, Doc, but I promise you, it’ll be just as fatal.”

He took the name.

* * *

Newburgh was less than half an hour from Cold Spring, and by mid-afternoon I was pulling into the driveway of Valley Vista Sanitarium, right up to the unwelcoming gate.

I went through the usual protocol, and then I was in Billy’s room at his bedside with Velda just across from me. The little guy looked good, eyes bright, his smile ready, though he occasionally winced (“It’s these damn ribs, Mike—they got me bound up tighter than a bundle of
Sunday News
right off the truck”).

I said, “Velda tells me you’ve identified Borensen from those crime scene photos.”

He nodded emphatically. “Oh, that’s the hit-and-run bastard, all right. But Velda says, Sunday night, the guy did the Dutch act. So I guess the point’s, whatchacallit … moot?”

I shook my head. “No, Billy, that suicide was really a homicide.”

He shrugged just a bit—probably hurt his ribs to do more. “Either way you slice it, Mike, I’m off the firin’ line. You gotta get me back to my stand! That kid Duck-Duck’s an okay fill-in, but over the long haul, he’ll put me outa business.”

I patted his shoulder. “You’ll be out of here soon, Billy. But I spoke to the doc and he wants you a few more days. So hang in there.”

Velda was frowning at me, just a little.

I said, “I’m going to grab a smoke. Kitten, you want to keep me company?”

Then Velda and I were again down at the end of the hall, me on a chair and her on the nearest cushion of the couch, in the company of ancient magazines but no other visitors. I plucked a Lucky out of a half-gone pack. She had her arms folded and was giving me something very near a cross look. She was in a green jumpsuit this time, looking even more like a curvy commando.

“Okay, Mike, enough’s enough. I like Billy fine, but sharing a room with him for… how many days now? Sleeping in a recliner? I’m ready to break out of this joint.”

I waved out a match, drew in cigarette smoke, exhaled it. “I know, doll. Real soon.”

“
How
soon?”

“Like I told Billy, a couple of days.”

Her frown deepened. “What’s the
point
, with Borensen dead?”

“The point, baby, is somebody
made
that Viking dead.”

“…Our middle-of-the-night caller?”

“Bet on it.”

The frown eased off a tad. “I get that, Mike, but with Borensen out of the picture, how is Billy still a target?”

“A couple of ways. This killer is a nut, but he’s also a professional. He got paid for taking Billy out, and—even after personally killing the guy who hired it—he may feel he has to carry out the contract.”

She wasn’t buying it. “That’s crazy.”

“Well, so’s our killer. But more likely he views Billy as a loose end, and he’s definitely tying those off. Ask Borensen—just don’t expect much of an answer.”

The frown was gone but her eyes were tight. “How is Billy a loose end with Borensen gone?”

“Billy can confirm that Borensen drove the hit-and-run car, and if Pat mounts an exhaustive investigation into the full picture of the late Leif, Billy would provide the motive for Borensen hiring a contract on yours truly.”

She just stared at me, arms folded, the beautiful brown eyes cold. “How dumb do you think I am?”

“Not dumb at all, baby.”

Her eyes were slits now and the full lips managed to set themselves in a narrow line. “It’s not
Billy
you want on ice. Not at this point.” She jerked a thumb at the shelf of her bosom. “It’s
me
.”

I held up my hands in surrender. She had me. She did have me.

I said, “I won’t deny that’s a factor. I’m a target for a madman, a madman who—despite being a twisted piece of shit—has been a successful professional killer for some time. You want me out there worrying about you, and getting my own head blown off?”

Her mouth turned into lush lips again, and the eyes warmed. “I know, Mike. I understand. But I’m not some helpless female. You remember me, don’t you? Your partner in crime? The broad who shot down the last assassin sicced on you?”

I put the cigarette out prematurely and went over to sit by her on the couch. I slipped my arm around her, drew her close.

“Let me handle this, kitten. Please. Just for a few days. Then if I haven’t brought this mess to a successful conclusion, you can come back and join in. Play Tonto to my Lone Ranger.”

She smiled some, then gave me a little nod that was a big capitulation.

“You think those two slept together?” I asked her. “You know, around the campfire?”

“Shut up,” she said, smiling some more. Then she asked, “What’s the latest?”

I told her about my visit to the institute in nearby Cold Spring, including a thorough breakdown of the disease they were currently researching round the clock.

She shivered. “Spare me the gruesome details, Mike. Why go into that, anyway? Maybe you are the sadistic bastard some people think you are.”

“Probably, and there’s nobody researching a cure for that. The thing is, I think Phasger’s Syndrome is the key here.”

She cocked her head and an arc of dark hair swung. “In what way?”

“Understand, doll, this is a theory, and the paint on it isn’t even dry.”

Tiny smile. “Okay. I won’t sit down on it and I won’t touch anything. But what are you thinking, Mike?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that our hitman among hitmen has this very disease.”

“
What?
”

I grinned at her. “I think he has Phasger’s Syndrome, and the clock has been ticking, and right now it’s ticking louder and louder, and the calendar pages of his existence are flying off faster and faster, like in an old movie.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Leif Borensen, who had no personal connection to the disease, wrote two checks for twenty-five thousand bucks to that institute.”

A thoughtful frown. “Why?”

“Because he was paying off two murder-for-hire contracts with our middle-of-the-night caller.”

Her eyes showed white all around now. “You mean… the pro killer Borensen hired insisted on payment by way of contributions to that research institute?”

“You got it, honey. And I think for some time now, months certainly, possibly years, this very successful hitman has channeled everything he earns into that institute, hoping against hope for a cure. The checks go directly to Dr. Beech’s facility.”

Now the lovely eyes were narrow. “Two checks from Borensen of twenty-five grand each. Two contracts? First, the faked suicide of Martin Foster, and second…”

“Wiping out a guy named Hammer,” I said.

She thought about it. “And you figure, if you can get the institute’s records, we’ll find more high-ticket checks from other clients of the killer’s.”

“Exactly right, doll. That will be a job for Pat and his troops, though. But a whole lot of open homicides are going to get cleared up, and the slobs who hired them done will get rounded up and face life without parole or better still get a ride on Old Sparky.”

She shook her head, as if trying to get the absurdity and the enormity of it all to gel. “How does this lunatic calling you and challenging you to a duel of sorts figure into this?”

“Don’t you see it, Velda? It figures
right
in. He’s dying. I’m guessing in a matter of weeks, the serious Phasger’s stuff starts kicking in. Well, before that ignoble ending, he wants to go out on a high goddamn note. He sees me as the only other killer around worthy of that honor.”

“If you’re right,” she said, “maybe… maybe he
wants
you to kill him.”

“If so,” I said, “he came to the right place.”

* * *

Before I left Valley Vista, I stopped by Billy’s bedside again, with Velda opposite me once more.

“Bill buddy,” I said, “is there anything you can think of, however small, that might be of help? Maybe something you mentioned to the police and they didn’t seem excited, so you forgot about it?”

The wrinkled face wrinkled further. “You know, there
is
something. Not something I ever told the cops, ’cause I didn’t know what it had to do with the price of beans. But there was this girl, this kind of… hippie chick. Glasses, short black hair, nice build, though.”

Velda smirked at me. “Sounds like your kind of lead.”

I ignored that. “What about this hippie chick?”

“She came around to the newsstand, a day or two after the hit-and-run. She wanted to know anything at all about how this Blazen guy died. How the damn thing happened. I asked her why I should tell her anything—I mean, she was nobody to me.”

“And?”

“She said she’d been working with Blazen. Sort of his legman and, you know, researcher, helping on the writing. She does freelance for that giveaway rag, the leftie thing… what is it?”

“
The Village Voice
?” Velda asked.

“That’s it. She was sad. She’d been crying. You could tell she really liked the old boy. A week later, she come back with a bunch of questions written down, but I didn’t have any more for her than I did the other time.”

I leaned in. “She ever give you a name, Billy?”

“Yeah. She did. Marcy. Never got a last name, or if so, I forgot the damn thing. But she, you know, looked like a Marcy, so I remembered it. Does that help, Mike?”

“It just might,” I said.

The state of mind that was Greenwich Village was changing, beatnik black giving way to rainbow tie-dye, finger-snapping egocentric poetry getting drowned out by clap-along protest folk songs. Other things stayed the same, like the zigzag streets, art-gallery sidewalks, espresso joints, intimate jazz clubs, and theater ranging from Circle in the Square respectability to strip-joint sleaze.