Mike Hammer--King of the Weeds Page 5

  Normally I wouldn’t let a remark like that pass. This time I just looked at these two, wondering what the hell was going on, and ate my oysters.

  Pat took a break from his Finnan haddie for a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving the veteran reporter. “I’m not retiring just yet.”

  “There’ve been rumors. And it’s mandatory in, what? Five years?”

  “A lot can happen in five years,” Pat said.

  “Like you finally making inspector?” Tim said, with a grin that wasn’t exactly nasty. “Don’t count on it—not with this Rudy Olaf crap hanging over your head.”

  “Nothing’s hanging over me,” Pat said, just shy of testy.

  “Sure,” Tim said with a full-on shrug. “But even without it, there are some hotshot lads coming up fast who would be glad to have the job you currently hold.”

  “So that’s a newsman’s idea of news?”

  “Everything old is new again. Like politics, pal.”

  This time Pat gave him the almost nasty grin back. “I have a union contract. Those ‘hotshot lads’ of yours, playing politics, can kiss my ass.”

  “Just looking for a reaction, Pat,” Tim said affably. “There may be a story on the horizon. A good one. A real one.”

  “Bullshit,” Pat said, pushing aside his half-eaten fish. “You got something else on your mind. Stop farting around and spill it.”

  Tim’s smile was almost impish. He nodded, finished the last of his corned beef, took a gulp of coffee and squinted at the both of us. “Let’s talk Rudy Olaf.”

  For a second Pat turned and glanced at me, the guy who’d been there when he made the now controversial bust. “Must we?”

  “If what I have to say isn’t worth it to you,” Tim said, the blarney making musical tones in his voice, “I’ll pick up the tab myself.”

  I said, “You must have something.”

  “There’s a very colorful aspect of the original case that never made it into the media. Forty years ago, some topics were off-limits.”

  Pat looked at him blankly. “You mean his victims were gay. So what?”

  “This killer stalked his victims outside gay bars in a rundown area of the city. He knocked them off with one shot to the head, took their wherewithal and left a corpse.”

  “Wherewithal,” Pat repeated. “Is that your vocabulary word for the day, Tim?”

  “Most of his victims were slum-dweller types, and Rudy boy probably got a few bucks for his trouble, and a kick out of who he was killing. But two of them were loaded. And I don’t mean drunk.”

  Pat nodded. “One of his last victims supposedly had over fifteen thousand on his person. The first cops on the scene found an empty money belt. The other flush vic had jewelry taken and a pretty fair roll of maybe five grand, gone—an out-of-towner, with a family who didn’t know the head of the house’s predilections.”

  Tim grinned over his coffee. “That must be your vocabulary word of the day.”

  “What’s your point, Tim?”

  “This is a very famous old case with a background story that has never been told. That will help it explode all over my paper and everywhere else in the media.”

  “So?” Pat said.

  “Tell him, Mike.”

  I was stirring a couple of Sweet’n Lows into my second cup of coffee. “The homosexual aspect makes this a modern story. It’s what they call a ‘hate crime,’ and it tips the scale over from homicidal robberies to a kind of serial-killing spree.”

  Pat winced. “Thanks to the movies, everybody sees serial killers under their bed, these days.”

  Tim leaned in, his voice more hushed now. “This is a case without a confession, a case built on one eyewitness with a questionable background who died in stir over thirty fucking years ago. To this day, Rudy Olaf claims those victim wallets were planted in his apartment.”

  I said, “Guilty guys claim all kinds of shit, Tim my boy.”

  “Wallets they found,” the reporter reminded us, “but one thing was missing.”

  “The gun,” Pat put in irritably. “They never could find the damn thing.”

  I said, “That’s the only thing that kept Olaf out of the hot squat. Where you going with this, Tim?”

  Tim had a mad leprechaun twinkle in his eyes. “It’s looking like Brogan really did do those killings.”

  Pat frowned and batted at the air. “Bullshit! I am fairly well-connected in the department, Mr. Darcy, as you damn well know, and what’s got back to me is that Brogan doesn’t know anything he couldn’t have got from the papers.”

  I said, “Sounds like another run-of-the-mill Confessin’ Sam to me.”

  The reporter leaned back. “I don’t question that you’re hooked up well within your own department, Pat. But I’ve long been owed a big favor by a certain party over at One Police Plaza. And he’s paying it off with some pretty sensitive inside information.”

  Pat was fed up. “You’re saying my own department is keeping me out of the loop on this thing?”

  Softly, Tim said, “Well, maybe I’m misinformed. Maybe you’re so well-connected, Pat, that you already know.”

  “Know what, damnit!”

  Tim’s eyes narrowed, any amusement in them gone. “The other day, Brogan led some of your fellow cops to the gun. And the slugs matched those in the victims’ bodies.”

  Pat looked like he’d taken a punch. A hard one.

  I asked, “The gun wasn’t rusted or anything?”

  “No. It was wrapped in an oil cloth, shoved into a sheepskin-lined carrying case that was inside a large sealed plastic bag. It had all the earmarks of being kept well-preserved so it could be used again. Brogan’s prints were on everything. On top of that, he’s been detailing every kill for your NYPD brethren. No two ways about it—old Olaf is going to walk very soon, and New York City will have to come up with a bundle of cash to compensate for bungled police work and forty years worth of false imprisonment.”

  Pat and I exchanged glances. In this new era, a case like this could be a powder keg that could blow a city apart. If Captain Chambers had sent the wrong man to prison, and left at large a serial killer who had been targeting gays out of hate, a great career would be cut short. Never mind retirement—think resignation. In disgrace.

  Pat asked, “Who knows about this?”

  “A dozen over at One Police Plaza, including one in ballistics. I know, and now so do you and Mike.”

  I asked Pat, “Where are they keeping the perp?”

  He said, “I don’t know. I’ve been kept away from the case for obvious reasons.”

  Reasons that were getting more and more obvious.

  “Right now,” Tim said, “Brogan’s at Bellevue in an intensive care unit. The old fart is dying of cancer. They don’t give him long.”

  “Damn,” Pat said quietly.

  Tim leaned in again. “Come on, Pat, that’s why the old boy gave himself up! He said he couldn’t die with this on his conscience. He has a couple of grandkids he says he adores, and he wants to go to the grave, clean.”

  “That doesn’t cut it,” Pat said, almost petulant, a rarity in him. “Why would he want his grandkids to know Grandpa was a gay-hating serial killer?”

  Pat had a point, but so did Tim. If Brogan really was about to buy the farm, maybe he did have his grandkids in mind. Selling his story to the media could make a small fortune, whether he really was the killer or just pulling off a scam.

  I said, “Tim, are you going to print all this?”

  For ten seconds he stared over my head, as if the wooden booth might provide some advice, then dropped his eyes to mine. “What do you think I called you guys for? I owe you both for more favors than I can remember.”

  Pat found a small smile. “Thanks, Tim. I guess I do owe you lunch at that.”

  His shoulders made an almost imperceptible shrug. “Pat, everybody’s going to be looking for a scapegoat and it sure as hell seems like you’re elected.”

  “It is looking that way.” />
  “You think they’ll come hammering at you, right out of the gate? Hand you off to Internal Affairs and the story to the media?”

  Pat shook his head. “I doubt it. This’ll stay bottled up until they’ve looked into every detail. Believe me, this won’t get out to the public until the top brass are ready to let it out.”

  I said, “This one’s got you by the short and curlies, doesn’t it, Tim?”

  Tim grunted. “Are you kidding? I’m sitting on top of the best local crime story in a decade, and instead of running with it, I’m dropping it right in your lap.” He sighed, grinned back at me, and said, “Good thing I got a soft spot for you old dinosaurs. My editor would kick my ass if he knew.”

  “You should be ready,” I said, “when it breaks. It’s not going to stay quiet.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Tim looked at Pat nervously. “You think you can keep a lid on this, your end of it, I mean?”

  “It’s in my best interest to try,” Pat said. “I can play it cool and cozy. Check in with ballistics. Say I heard rumors, and work it that way. I can do a lot of things within the confines of regular police work.”

  Nodding, Tim said, “I get you, but do what you have to do, Pat, just do it fast. It’s going to come to a head before you know it.”

  I spoke for Pat when I said, “You’ll get the story, pal. It may not come to you from official sources, but it’ll be the straight scoop. There’s not much the politicos can hit me with, if I leak a few suppositions. Right, Pat?”

  “No comment,” my buddy said.

  “And Tim,” I went on, “I may be a little long in the tooth, but it’s just possible I can scare up some action that’ll give you some nice headlines.”

  “Related to this story?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe something else that hasn’t got out yet. Now, don’t look at me like that, Tim. I’ll clue you in when the time comes.”

  He laughed. “You are a little long in the tooth, Mike, to go on one of your shooting rampages.”

  I shrugged. “I may not have any rampages left in me. But shooting assholes one or two at a time, that I can still manage.”

  Pat said, “I didn’t hear any of that.”

  Tim handed each of us a card. “These numbers are new. My private number and cell, in case you need me… or have something for me. Now, can we have dessert?”

  * * *

  That afternoon, Pat called at my office to say he’d been asked to take a meeting in forty-five minutes with a representative of the District Attorney’s office at One Hogan Place. The subject was the Rudy Olaf case, and he wanted me along, even though the D.A. hadn’t invited me.

  Sounded like fun.

  The interview room was a small modern nondescript yellow-walled windowless affair with a rectangular table that would seat six. But there were only three of us—no stenographer. Pat sat opposite me with Assistant D.A. Mandy Clark at the head of the table.

  I’d not met Ms. Clark, a tall, lovely thirty-something redhead already imprinted with the hard-to-impress legal-eagle look that playing on the seamy side of New York streets lays on you. Her severe tweedy dark green suit did a damn poor job of concealing a compact, shapely frame. I gave her a friendly smile, but the direct stare she leveled at me meant she wasn’t there to play games.

  She spoke to Pat without looking at him, her eyes on mine. “This man is a well-known and frankly fairly notorious private investigator, Captain Chambers. What’s he doing here?”

  “Why don’t you ask him, Ms. Clark? He speaks English, more or less.”

  Her eyes held steady on mine. I didn’t blink.

  “Well?” Her tone was a demand.

  I hardly made a movement, but she knew I had shrugged. “I haven’t heard a question yet,” I said.

  Five seconds passed before she asked, “What are you doing here?”

  So I let another five seconds pass before telling her, “I was with Captain Chambers, forty years ago, when he made the Olaf collar.”

  A small frown crossed her face and Pat caught it at once. He said sharply, “You haven’t gone over the reports yet, have you, Ms. Clark?”

  His question threw her attack mode button into a fast reverse and she shook her head. A little of her severity melted. “Frankly, Captain, my boss threw this thing at me and told me to get over here and shake it out.”

  I glanced at Pat. “Shake what out?”

  “It’s a new expression,” he said. “It’s like getting rid of a body that won’t stay buried.”

  I grinned at her. “That definition on target, Ms. Clark?”

  Mandy Clark gave me another of those several-second pauses before she agreed with, “Relatively speaking.”

  “Well, Ms. Clark, I may be ‘fairly notorious,’ but Captain Chambers here is among the most decorated police officers in NYPD history. He deserves more than a hasty interview from an unprepared pup.”

  Her eyes, which were light blue, flashed; I bet there were cute freckles under that face powder. “Mister Hammer,” she began, “may I suggest we not get off on the wrong foot. I could have you ejected right now.”

  “Then you’d just have to call me and ask nicely for me to return. Because if you had taken the time… or giving you the benefit, had you been allowed the time to read the proper materials… you would know why Captain Chambers brought me along. And it was not to hold his goddamn hand.”

  Her nostrils flared and she looked around as if wishing there were a judge she could make an objection to.

  Pat said, “In Ms. Clark’s defense, Mike, the original documents have to be pretty well buried under the paperwork of a lot of decades. This goes back way before departmental computers, and the transfer of materials from paper to electronic form is a long, ongoing process.”

  “So?” I asked him.

  He flashed her a polite smile, then said to me, “So let’s cut Ms. Clark some slack. This case is so damn explosive I can understand that they have to get it taken care of fast. Real fast.”

  I kept looking steadily back at Ms. Clark. Then, just when my eyes were about to start watering, I relaxed in my hard chair and finally blinked. “Be nice, Ms. Clark,” I said. “It’s an election year.”

  Finally, she let a smile touch her lightly glossed lips. “I heard you were a smart-ass, Mr. Hammer,” she said quietly. “You live up to that much of your reputation, anyway.”

  “All part and parcel of being fairly notorious.”

  Her chin crinkled a little as she suppressed a real smile. “If you’re going to be part of this conversation…”

  Pat said, “He is.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll need some background from you first, Mr. Hammer. But keep in mind this is just an informal interview.”

  “Is that why we’re in a room rigged for the kind of recording that picks up ice melting? Slowly?”

  “Why, do you object to being recorded, Mr. Hammer?”

  “No.”

  “Do you, Captain Chambers?”

  “No.”

  She took my P.I. license number, rolled her pretty eyes hearing the year of my first licensing, had a look at my permit to carry a concealed weapon and my driver’s license. That was when Pat called a halt.

  I complained to him, “She didn’t get to the good parts yet.”

  “You can bet they’ve got all the ‘good parts’ on file here, Mike,” he said. “They may even have taken the time to transfer your history to computer.”

  I grinned at her again. “That right, Ms. Clark?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said.

  “But then none of us are under oath here, are we?”

  She ignored that and said, “Captain Chambers… at the time Officer Chambers… was off-duty when Rudolph Olaf entered the Star Diner.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Was Mr. Olaf sober?”

  “Yes, I thought so.”

  “Thought?”

  “He looked like he might want a drink. He was living on the Bowery, Ms. Cla
rk. A skid row area. And he was what we used to call a ‘denizen’ of the slums.”

  “What would make you classify him as such?”

  “I’ve seen enough of that type.”

  “More specific please.”

  “His shabby clothing, his poor grooming.”

  “Are you a professional in making such judgments?”

  “I’ve been a professional investigator for forty years, Ms. Clark.”

  “You were new on the job, though, at the time, Mr. Hammer. Like Captain Chambers.”

  “He was walking a beat, I had just opened my P.I. office. We’d just finished fighting the war to preserve your freedoms.”

  “Well, thank you both.”

  “Anyway, I guarantee a jury would take my word about Olaf’s social status at the time of his arrest. You could smell who he was.”

  “You mean there was an odor about him?”

  “He had an odor, all right.”

  “In what way?”

  “A wino smell. Don’t ask me the brand name. That much an expert I’m not.”

  She let that go. “Was he belligerent?”

  “No. He just spotted Officer Chambers in that blue uniform, coming at him, and got the hell out of there. Officer Chambers ran after him, tackled him half a block down.”

  “There was violence?”

  “Not beyond what I just said.”

  “What was Mr. Olaf’s manner at this point?”

  “When Officer Chambers helped him to his feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he was pretty meek, I’d say. Resigned to the situation. There were two of us, remember. I’d come up behind Pat. He may have assumed I was a plainclothes officer.”

  “Did you represent yourself as such?”

  “No. Olaf saw two big guys, one a uniformed cop, and he just… acquiesced… quietly.”

  “Were you armed?”

  “Yes. I was already licensed to carry.”

  “Did Mr. Olaf see your weapon?”

  “No. There was no need to display it. Officer Chambers did all the work. It was a very clean arrest. Identification was immediate. All the proper procedures were observed.”