Menaced Assassin (6 page)

Hopper could have done plenty with the only other patrons in the place, a pair of easy riders in stomp boots and black leather cut off to show arms made tree trunks by endless hours of pumping iron in some jailhouse yard. Their Harley hogs, agleam with chrome, were illegally parked at the curb outside.

The two cops sat down and studied the menus brought by the dark slim intense waiter. Flanagan suddenly guffawed loudly.

“Hey, check out your horoscope. You’re a Christmas baby, ain’t you?” Before Dante could answer, he started reading. “‘Capricorn. You are conservative and afraid of taking risks. You don’t do much of anything. There has never been a Capricorn of any importance. Capricorns should avoid standing still too long as they tend to take root and become trees.’”

Flanagan roared with laughter again, but Dante was checking the back of his own menu.

“‘Scorpio,’” he read. “‘You are the artistic type and have a difficult time with reality. If you are a man you are most likely queer. Chances for employment and monetary gains are excellent.’” He looked at Flanagan over the menu. “Wait ’til Internal Affairs hears about that.” He looked down again. “‘Most Scorpio women are prostitutes. All Scorpios die of venereal disease.’” He nodded solemnly. “And wait until Maureen hears about
that
.”

“Up yours, chief,” said Flanagan as the waiter returned.

“Just coffee for me.” Dante sighed and jerked a thumb at the pay phone and said to Flanagan, “I’ve put it off too long, I’ve got to call her father in L.A.”

“I always have one of the detectives do that for me.”

“That’s why I make the big bucks, Tim,” Dante said sadly as Flanagan burst out with his big braying laugh once again.

Skeffington St. John (“Pronounce that Sinjin”) was on the phone with talent agent Charriti HHope when Dante’s call came in. Sinjin put Charriti on hold; after all, his business with her and her clients was long-standing and not in the strictest sense business. On the other line was someone who identified himself as a Dante Stagnaro of the San Francisco Police Department.

“Mr. St. John, I have some rather—”

“Please. It’s ‘Sinjin.’ The British pronunciation.”

A pause. “I see. Your daughter Margaret Dalton…”

“We prefer Molly Sinjin, Officer.”

Another pause. “Yeah. Well, your daughter, Molly Sinjin…”

“How’d St. John take it?” asked Flanagan when Dante got back to their table. He had a huge cheeseburger and fries in front of him, with a side of rings and a green salad. At this time of night all Dante could stomach was black coffee and a couple of Turns.

“It’s ‘Sinjin’—British, you know.”

“Yeah?” Flanagan nodded wisely. “An asshole.”

Dante sighed, trying to wash St. John’s unexpected sobs from his mind with the thought,
It’s just a game, pieces on a board
. But he knew it was starting again, that intense involvement with a case that robbed his sleep and soured his gut.

Flanagan bit hugely, wiped away beef juice with a paper napkin, gestured with the ruins of his burger.

“Sorry I called you in on this one, chief. It’s the fucking husband did it.” Flanagan shook salt on his onion rings, belched, amended, “Had it done, anyway.”

“What did I miss?”

“He was
too
broke up.”

“He explained that, Tim. He got held up on the Bay Bridge or he would have been there before the hitman. He was feeling guilty because—”

“Because he wasn’t there to take one up the snout himself?”

“I checked with the bridge cops. A four-car pileup closed down all westbound lanes just about the time Dalton said—”

“See? You were bothered by him, too.”

Dante nodded abstractedly, sipped his coffee. He should have asked for decaf. He’d be up half the night.

“There was
something
with him… maybe what you say,
too
upset… or maybe he was holding something back.”

“Yeah, like who he hired to do the dirty deed.”

Dante took out his notebook and checked it, even though he needed no refreshment as to what was written there.

“Just take a look at it for a minute, Tim. He’s a professor at Cal-Berkeley in paleoanthropology. His wife is—was—corporate counsel for some big entertainment conglomerate. No kids, he does a lot of field world out of the country…”

Flanagan looked up from his meal. “Yeah. So?”

“So where does this guy find a professional hitman?”

“Some of them perfessers might surprise you. Hell, he just cruises the Tenderloin bars, waves a few C-notes around—”

“And gets mugged and wakes up in an alley with a
headache and no C-notes.” Dante shook his head again, decisively this time. “No way, Tim.”

“So you’re buying it as big-time all the way.”

“All the way.” Dante marked off his points on his fingers. “One. The hitman walked into the place knowing she’d be there and what she looked like. Two. He used a Jennings J-22 that you can buy anywhere for seventy-five bucks but, amazingly enough, is still a hell of a reliable pistol. Even so, you have to be sure of yourself to know you can make a clean kill with a .22. Three—”

“He shot her in the back of the head to make sure.”

“I’ll get back to that in a minute, I’ve got a theory.” He paused, eyes almost dreamy. “You know it was Hymie Weiss back in 1922, working for the Dion O’Banion mob out of Chicago, who invented taking a guy for a ride? Invented the shot in the back of the neck with a .22 to finish him off, too.”

Tim stuffed in french fries. “Yeah? Fucking fascinating.”

“Anyway, three. He leaves the gun behind, serial numbers intact, which means he knows it’s clean, can’t be traced beyond some gun shop robbery. Four. Only two rounds in the gun—confident he isn’t going to need more than two. Five. The gun had been sprayed with Armor All, even though the witnesses say he was wearing gloves. You’ve got to admit that’s a pro’s touch.”

“Or a Hell’s Angel’s.”

“They’re not pros?”

Dante finished his coffee as Flanagan dabbed the last of his fries in his ketchup. Dante started over with his little finger again.

“Six. No elaborate disguise, just tinted glasses that hide his eyes and make a lineup identification virtually impossible. Seven. He
walked
out of the place. No running, no guilty looks over the shoulder. Delivering the mail. Pro hit all the way.” He leaned closer. “I’ll even tell you who he was.”

“A beer on league bowling night you don’t. But I gotta admit you could almost convince me the guy was pro. Except…”

“Except?”

“Pro hitters using guns do the old H and H—the head and the heart. But these days, most of ’em like to work close—a knife is so much more personal. Or they use ropes, garrotes, explosives… But
this
guy—”

“That’s why I know who he is. You ever hear of ‘Popgun’ Eddie Ucelli?”

Flanagan thought. “Back east, right? Jersey, like that?”

It was things like that made Dante like and respect Tim Flanagan, and work with him whenever he could. He nodded.

“He runs a legit meat wholesale business—as legit as anything a wise guy owns is ever legit. But the story is there’s sections of the Jersey Turnpike didn’t need any rebar—the bones of Eddie’s victims were enough to reinforce the concrete.”

“What makes this one Ucelli’s work?”

“The Jennings J-22—it’s a trademark of his, since the Colt Woodsman became a collector’s item, it’s why they call him Popgun. Other trademarks: One up the nose into the brain. Lightly tinted glasses. Armor All on the gun because he knew he would be leaving it. Walking out afterwards. I bet he gave his topcoat to the first guy he saw—Eddie always does. And he prides himself on never needing more than one shot to complete his contract.”

“This guy used two,” Flanagan pointed out again.

“That’s where my theory comes in. I think he was supposed to take out the wife
and
Dalton. Dalton wasn’t there so he used the second shot as a coup de grâce on the wife only to empty the gun, because he didn’t want some hero picking it up while he was on his way out the door and shooting him in the back with it.”

Flanagan drained his coffee, was silent for a long moment.

“That’s a pretty flaky theory you got there, chief.”

“But mine own.”

“You got that right,” said Tim with his big laugh.

The bikers turned and looked at him, hopeful of an excuse
to use their stomp boots, but saw cop in the bleak looks both men returned to them and hastily went back to their fries.

Flanagan got serious again. “Somehow, Dante, it just don’t scan. Same question you asked me a few minutes ago about her husband—where does the woman tie up with the wise guys?”

“She was a lawyer, what more do you need?”

“Yeah, what’s the difference between a spermatozoa and a lawyer?” Dante shook his head. “The spermatozoa has a one-in-400-million chance of becoming a human being.”

Tim guffawed loudly at his own joke, wiped his mouth with a fistful of napkins, and squealed his chair back.

“Okay, you go start drawing another one of your fucking flowcharts on your blackboard in the task force office, and I’ll track the husband and wife back to when they were wearing didies. Then maybe, a day or two depending what I find, we’ll go toss hubby around a little, see what falls out. Somehow I still favor him for it.” He gave another of his guffaws. “Either he was protesting too much, which means he hired it done and I don’t like him, or he meant all that pissing and moaning—which means he’s a sissy and I don’t like him.”

“So either way you don’t like him.”

“You think?” asked Flanagan in a mock-surprised voice.

Will had bought the old boxy two-story Victorian in the Berkeley flats at a bargain price after one of the periodic riots that bubble up to keep the area so volatile and alive. He spent little time there anyway, what with Moll so much at her penthouse in the city (down payment by her father), and his frequent field trips, and most of his research material being at his office. But here he was, staring out the living room window at the drizzly autumn afternoon.

Moll’s penthouse in the city
.

Oh God, if only he hadn’t gone there that day. Or had called her from the airport. Or, once there, had thrown that bastard Gounaris out and talked it through with Moll,
shouted it through, screamed it through, anything to get through it with her and out the other side.

Because adulteress, alive, dead, she was the only woman he’d ever love. Like a swan, he’d mated for life. And he knew she’d loved him too. Loved him, needed him—nobody could fake that kind of emotion… Yet she’d slept with Gounaris.

He felt a rage inside himself, felt it froth over even as he snuffled and realized his face was wet with tears.

Outside, the cold wind blew three female coeds down the gleaming street like autumn leaves. The phone started to ring. The women’s laughter tinkled distantly like icicles on fir boughs. There was a rattle and thunk at the front door as the mailman slid that day’s delivery through the slot. Will made no move to get it or the ringing phone.

He fought his anger. Gounaris was the one to blame for Moll’s infidelity, not Moll. She had always been ambitious in her career, he’d cut her out of the herd, focused all that power on her, made her feel important, unique, seduced her…

Hell, Will was as guilty of her death as Gounaris was. If he’d insisted on going over to the city as soon as she’d called him… or allowed enough time coming across the Bay so he wouldn’t have gotten held up on the bridge… Then that crazy guy with the gun would have had to find some other single woman to obsess on, and Moll would still be…

How in God’s name would he get through the funeral two days hence? Just three days ago Moll had been alive, vital…

The phone quit ringing. And he was sniveling again, for Godsake. He hadn’t done that since he was five years old.

Will Dalton wasn’t answering his phone at home, but the people at the Institute said that’s where he’d probably go when he’d finished with the funeral arrangements, so they drew an unmarked sedan from the police pool. Flanagan turned left into one-way Harriett Alley from the garage under
the Hall of Justice, made another left into Harrison, both men trying to talk at once.

“Ucelli was off somewhere on a—”

“Your fucking Professor Dalton—”

Flanagan made yet another left, into Eighth, stayed in the left lane for the final ring-around-the-rosie left into Bryant and the on-ramp for the Skyway. Once on their way to the Bay Bridge, he gave his big laugh and made a courtly hand gesture.

“Okay, you first,
mon capitaine
. Whatever you got is gonna look like shit when I get through talking.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Dante. “I checked with the Feebs—they’ve had a tap on Ucelli’s phone since Christ made corporal. They never get anything, but at least they know he was out of town for four days and just got back this morning. You have to admit, Tim, being gone like that spanning the time of the hit makes him look awful good for it.”

“’Cause he went fishing or something? Hell, if he was burying guys in the Jersey Turnpike, he must be old as water.”

“Made his bones with a barbershop hit in ’52,” said Dante with something like pride of race in his voice.

Flanagan hit the horn at a slow car in the fast lane on the bridge’s lower deck, then passed him on the inside. He always drove as if responding to a silent alarm; Dante was used to it.

“Fifty-two, huh? Over forty fucking years ago!”

“It was his sixteenth birthday.”

“So he’s pushing fucking sixty now. The old hand-eye coordination’s gotta be going—”

“According to the feds, the mob uses him for jobs where they need someone with the balls to do it up close and right the first time. You don’t need an Olympic marksman for that.”

They came out from under the top deck to the broad apron, nearly a quarter of a mile wide, where the tollbooths for traffic going the other direction were located. Water hit
the windshield. Flanagan turned on the wipers, turned up his hand.

“Don’t scan, Dante. You know the Mafia don’t do shit around here, it isn’t like Vegas or L.A. So what the hell would the woman know they’d need to kill her over? Atlas Entertainment sure as hell isn’t Mafia, it’s big Eurobucks. I got their brochures, financial statement, prospectus—not a sniff of mob. European money from Luxembourg or somewhere. I had a good reason to make a pain of myself, her murder and all, so I talked with the secretaries, the peons—finally went up against the big boss himself.”