Fare Play (23 page)

“Who is Virgil?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Schumacher said.

Gloria Sanchez threw up her arms.

“This,” Marian said heavily, “is not a good start.”

“I never met Virgil,” Schumacher replied sharply. “I speak to him on the phone, but I've never seen him.”

Start at the beginning.

Thomas Schumacher was a sort of circuit contract killer. He'd work one city until his MO became noticeable and then move on. Periodically he'd change his MO and then work the circuit again. A lot of his earlier hits in New York had been made to look like accidents; he'd been paid extra for those. He had contacts in a dozen cities, and this time he'd come to New York from St. Louis.

Perry demanded the names of these other contacts. Jasper reminded her the deal was for Virgil only and his client was under no obligation to incriminate himself further. Captain Murtaugh pointed out that the NYPD's only interest was in putting Virgil out of business, but the Assistant DA was adamant; she'd seen a way to make a big case even bigger and she wasn't about to let go. Schumacher put an end to it by agreeing to provide the names of his contacts.

Everyone in the room stared at him. Jasper tried to caution his client but Schumacher shrugged him off. “But why?” the lawyer asked.

“I'm running out of time,” Schumacher answered cryptically.

Julia Perry was in seventh heaven; the killer had just handed her the case of her life. Schumacher recited a list of names—which were probably phony—and phone numbers, which were undoubtedly real.

Marian had watched all the bargaining with contempt, contempt for the procedure and even more contempt for the man Schumacher. “How did you first find Virgil?” she asked.

Virgil had found him, Schumacher said. Through a mutual contact in Chicago. All arrangements were made over the phone.

How did it work?

Virgil paid only when the contract had been fulfilled, Schumacher told them. He was to wait by his phone in his suite at the Regency at noon every day. If there was no call by twelve-fifteen, that meant Virgil had no work for him that day. Virgil had also made it clear that if ever Schumacher was not there to receive the phone call, he'd be off the payroll for good.

Gloria Sanchez said, “So that's why you're running out of time.” Suddenly a lot of things fell into place. Schumacher's only bargaining chip was his link to Virgil; if he missed the phone call that could come as soon as the next day, that link would be severed and Schumacher would be left with nothing. So he needed the quick bargaining, the quick statement. If the police were to catch Virgil, Schumacher would have to be sitting by his phone every day at noon until he called.

“So what does Virgil say in these phone calls?” Murtaugh asked.

Virgil would name a time and place and hang up. The time was always that same day, and the place always a public one. A courier would meet Schumacher with an envelope containing one or two photographs plus a data sheet identifying the target. Once the contract was fulfilled, another phone call would name another time and place where a different courier would bring him his money.

“Wait a minute,” Gloria Sanchez said. “You never saw the same courier twice?”

Frequently, Schumacher said. But the courier who brought π the information envelope was never the one who delivered the money. Virgil had two groups of couriers. The first was mostly women just trying to earn a buck who clearly had no idea of what Virgil's organization was. But the second group had to be different, Schumacher reasoned; they were entrusted with carrying large sums of money. Schumacher's theory was that the first group was undergoing a tryout unknown to themselves; Virgil probably hired people he judged to have a potential for corruption, who could be developed for more important positions in his organization.

Marian asked if Robin Muller had ever delivered an information envelope to him.

A flicker of surprise showed in Schumacher's hard eyes. No. He'd not known Muller was one of Virgil's people.

And that was it. That was what Schumacher had to offer.

The killer had had personal contact only with the outermost fringe of Virgil's organization, the couriers. But the couriers were the link to the man Robin Muller had called the paymaster. The police's next step was obvious.

Schumacher was returned to his cell; both lawyers departed. The detectives who'd observed the interrogation went home, leaving Marian, Captain Murtaugh, and Gloria Sanchez to work out the details. They decided to return the killer to his suite at the Regency the next morning; they'd keep him there under guard until Virgil called, thus avoiding the risks present in moving him back and forth from a jail cell every day. Detectives from both the Ninth Precinct and Midtown South would stay with Schumacher for every second. Murtaugh insisted on four-man shifts; the killer was just too dangerous to go with any fewer. Marian and Gloria drew up a schedule.

“An organization as efficiently run as Virgil's,” Marian remarked, “has got to keep records. Lots and lots of nice incriminating records.”

“Yeah,” Gloria said happily. “We're gonna close a lot of homicide cases once we get those records.”

“And maybe even more. I'm thinking of O.K. Toys. Maybe Virgil's records will tell us what kind of dirty business Oliver Knowles's company was up to.”

Murtaugh raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What makes you think Virgil is interested in the reasons people hire him?”

Marian shrugged. “It's a tremendous potential for blackmail, Captain. Virgil's in a great position to extract money from people. You think he's not going to use it?”

The captain conceded the probability. “But you can't count on it. Dave Unger's the only way you're going to find out what the toy company was being used for. And he's not talking.”

Gloria said, “But when Unger's name shows up in Virgil's records, we won't have to prove motive. Just the fact that he hired Virgil will be enough.”

“It's not right,” Marian grumbled. “We have to depend on a master criminal to solve a lesser crime for us? It shouldn't work that way.”

Murtaugh smiled. “Offends your sense of propriety, does it, Larch?”

“It's not right,” Marian repeated.

33

“You're in trouble,” the voice on the phone said.

Midmorning of the day following the capture of Thomas Schumacher, Elmore Zook had called Marian to issue a few legalistic-sounding threats. He blamed her for losing a client; it seemed Austin Knowles had followed Marian's advice and hired a different lawyer. That news heartened Marian so much that she barely heard Zook's threats. Another possible breakthrough?

“I don't think you understand what you've done,” Zook said icily. “I've represented the Knowles family ever since about two months after I received my law degree. And now I've lost Austin because some lady cop doesn't know what else to do and so plays at divide and conquer. You simply can't use your badge to meddle in private business.”

“Mr. Zook, I can give advice to anyone I please,” Marian said. “But I can't compel anyone to follow that advice. And don't threaten me. You're wasting your own time as well as mine.”

“We'll see whether it's a waste of time or not. I'm going to hit you with a civil suit unless Austin comes back. He listened to you once, he might listen again. You talk to Austin.”

“A civil suit?” she asked with interest. “Charging me with what?”

“Violation of police authority,” Zook said coolly. “You talk to Austin.” He hung up.

That was exactly what she was going to do: talk to Austin. She called his office; the architect's secretary said he was at the Wall Street construction site. Marian grabbed her coat and bag. Dowd wasn't at his desk; he and Walker were on this morning's guard duty at the Regency with two detectives from the Ninth. Sergeant Buchanan had been keeping out of her way—probably just as well. She told Perlmutter where she was going. He offered to come with her; she said get back to work. He grinned and shrugged; it was worth a try.

Marian took the subway, the quickest way of getting downtown. When she found the construction site, she saw it was mostly idle. A few men were at work putting up some temporary hurricane fencing. But none of the huge earth-moving machines Marian expected to see were on view; the ground must be too hard to work this time of year. Austin Knowles was in the foreman's shack going over blueprints.

When he saw Marian at the door, he asked the foreman to leave them alone for a few minutes. The other man left with a questioning glance at Marian. She perched on a tall stool and examined the man she'd come to see.

For the first time since she'd met him, Austin Knowles was not a bundle of nerves. He appeared resigned, depressed—but no longer jumpy.
He's decided to talk
, Marian thought with a surge of adrenaline. “Elmore Zook just called me,” she said.

Austin gave her a lopsided grin. “He's not too pleased with me.”

Nor with me
. “You've got a new lawyer.”

“Yes. And he's persuaded me to tell the police what I know about my father's business dealings. I can't tell you much, because I don't know much. But my attorney says it will be enough for you to know what to do.”

“That's what you should have done right at the start. When do we get to hear your statement?”

“My attorney's negotiating with the DA's office. We'll be in as soon as he's able to work out some sort of deal for me. I'm under orders not to talk to you at all unless he's present. So I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave.”

“Who is your new attorney?”

“James Archer. Archer, Carlisle, and Wickes.”

“That's a big firm. Archer—the head honcho's doing the negotiating? Not one of his associates?”

“He says he wants to handle it himself.”

Another lawyer sniffing out a big case
, Marian thought with distaste.

Austin Knowles misinterpreted the look on her face. “We
are
coming in, Lieutenant.” He looked sadly at the blueprints spread out on the worktable. “I just wanted to make sure that this last job is done right. Now, I can't talk to you anymore.”

Marian didn't argue; she knew a defeated man when she saw one. She left him alone.

It was getting on toward noon. Marian looked for an eatery that had a pay telephone and found a fairly clean lunch counter called Rusty's. She asked for a cup of coffee and sat waiting for her beeper to sound. But twelve-fifteen came and went with no signal from the device; Virgil had not called today. Marian ordered lunch.

When she'd finished, she thought that as long as she was out, she might as well drop in on Dave Unger. The air was brisk and cold, and something vaguely resembling sunlight was shining in the streets. Marian stopped a cab and gave the driver Unger's address.

She had nothing new to say to Unger, and Murtaugh would give her hell if he knew she was going to see a murder suspect alone. But Marian had never gotten a sense of personal menace from the man; he was a long-distance killer, hiring someone else to do his dirty work for him. The background check had turned up the information that Unger was a CPA who'd started in Billing at O.K. Toys and worked his way up to manager. Just another all-American success story. Nevertheless, Marian unfastened the flap on her shoulder holster. Maybe she should have brought Perlmutter after all.

Unger was at home alone, although the spacious apartment showed indications that both a woman and children were living there. “Zook told me not to talk to you,” Unger said.

“I'll talk,” Marian replied. “You listen.”

He didn't offer her a seat. “I'm listening.”

“You know your days are numbered, don't you?” she asked rhetorically. “This thing is coming to a head. It will go much easier for you if you cooperate now, when you still have something to offer. Deals are made every day.”

“I can't,” he said tightly.

“Sure you can. What are you afraid of? We'll keep our side of the bargain.”

He just shook his head.

Marian was exasperated. “I don't understand you! The IRS is going to send you away for a thousand years and we'll add another thousand on top of that with a homicide charge. You can get yourself reduced sentences on both charges just by talking now before it's too late—and you don't say a word!”

Unger spread his hands helplessly. “Lieutenant, I'm an accountant. I'm not a policy-maker.”

You had your policy-maker killed, you sonuvabitch
. The two stared at each other until Marian gave it up as hopeless and left, thinking the trip hadn't been worth the cab fare.

Back at the station, she dumped her coat and bag in her office and went to see Murtaugh. She told him about Elmore Zook's threatened civil action.

“He's blowing smoke,” Murtaugh scoffed. “There's nothing he can sue you for—he's just trying to intimidate you.” He squinted at her. “Did he?”

“No. But I thought you ought to know.”

“Right.” A pause. “How's the Buchanan problem?”

Marian smiled wryly. “He's hiding from me.”

When she'd reported the incident in the records department, Murtaugh had exploded; Marian had never seen him so angry. The denigrating sexist talk was bad enough, but innuendo that Murtaugh had engineered Marian's promotion in exchange for sexual favors was what really got to him; the captain was just as jealous of his good name as Marian was of hers. His first impulse had been to have it out with Buchanan, but Marian had asked him not to. Buchanan would undoubtedly take a reprimand from a man more seriously than he'd taken one from her; but he had to learn that he
must
listen to her. Getting the captain to fight her battles for her would just reinforce Buchanan's attitudes toward women in authority.