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  She flashed the same smile once more, as if it was controlled by a switch. “Thank you.”

  The pudgy one said, “I’m Penny Ellis, Miss Delure’s assistant.” She waved a hand toward the far end of the room. “We’ll work at the desk, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she went over there and began arranging chairs.

  We? Mongo hadn’t anticipated that. He’d assumed the interview would be one-on-one, just him and Delure. But apparently the rodent was inviting herself to the party. Okay, so he’d just have to accommodate her.

  Ellis said, “Would you like something to drink? We have Pellegrino and diet soda.”

  Mongo declined, and he and Delure went to the desk. The two women sat on one side, and Mongo took a chair across from them. Opening his attaché case, he took out the tape recorder and placed it on the desk. He set the case on the floor.

  “How was the weather in LA?” he asked, fiddling with the buttons on the recorder.

  “Smoggy,” Delure said. “And it’s been hot the last few days.”

  “Which is only normal for this time of year,” Ellis added.

  Mongo wondered whether they were lesbians. Be a shame if Delure was wasting all that talent. Although maybe she swung both ways. He’d known a number of women like that, including two he’d hired in Chicago for the weekend last time he was there. The three of them had a ball. Something for everybody.

  “All set,” he said, looking up at them. “Let’s just take it nice and easy, okay? Make it real conversational.”

  “Sure, go ahead,” Delure said.

  He spoke in a strong clear voice, like the shitbirds you heard on the radio. “Catherine, it’s great to have you here in New York.”

  “Nice to be here. I love this city.”

  “And the fans here love you. We hear your new movie’s sure to be a big hit.”

  “It’s a very good picture. We had a sneak showing in Westwood, and the audience went wild.”

  “It’s called Hot Cargo, is that right?” He was getting a kick out of this.

  “Yes. It’s a thriller, and full of very exciting action. It was directed by Tony Gregarian, who’s just about the best there is.”

  Mongo adjusted the position of the tape recorder. “What’s the story about?”

  “The dope scene in LA. Smugglers try to bring a shipload of cocaine into Long Beach, and I mess up their plans by shooting some of the bad guys.”

  Should have used me as a consultant, Mongo thought.

  “So then the others turn on me,” she went on, “and there’s a marvelous chase sequence with cars on the Santa Monica Freeway. Tony had four cameras going, one of them in a helicopter.”

  “How about the male star—who’s he?”

  “That’s Terry Falcon, a fine actor.”

  “He’s the love angle?”

  “Right.”

  “They say he’s queer. Or is that just a rumor?”

  She looked startled but recovered quickly. “Terry is very talented.”

  “Uh-huh. Are there other beautiful women in the movie?”

  “There are some in supporting roles, but those are minor parts.”

  Mongo had to swallow a laugh. “I see. By the way, here’s something I’ve always wondered about: When you do a sex scene, do you really get it on?”

  She frowned. “No, nothing like that happens.”

  “Honest? I’ve heard they just keep a sheet over you so the camera doesn’t show you’re actually doing it.”

  The frown deepened. “Those are just stupid stories. Like what you find in trashy magazines, or the supermarket tabloids. But they’re certainly not true.”

  “Is that so? I remember seeing one of your movies one time, I forget the title. There was this scene where you and some guy were in bed, and he was pumping away. I could swear he had his dick in you. And you sure convinced me you liked it.”

  Her face again registered surprise, and then anger. She darted a glance at Ellis, who seemed astonished. Then her gaze swung back to Mongo. In a tightly controlled voice she said, “As I told you, nothing like that ever happens.”

  “No? You probably waited for a break, right? And then you did it in the dressing room. Anyhow, I had a hard-on that wouldn’t quit, just watching you.”

  Delure leaned forward. “Turn that thing off,” she snapped. “This interview is over.”

  “Fine with me,” Mongo said. He touched a button on the tape recorder, and the cover snapped open. “Just one more question. “How about dry-humping—can you come that way? Bet you can.”

  She showed the teeth again and glared at him. “Penny, go get Chuck. Tell him to throw this asshole out.”

  “Damn right I will.” Ellis rose from her chair and looked at Mongo. “You insolent bastard.”

  He touched another button and shot her.

  The report was a low-pitched chug as a charge of compressed air drove a fléchette deep into her chest. The impact slammed her back against the wall, an expression of pain and horror contorting her features.

  Delure’s mouth dropped open, but before she could scream, Mongo shot her as well.

  There could be no doubt he’d nailed them both. Each woman had been struck dead center, a fléchette punching straight into her heart. The steel projectiles were bigger and heavier than .45 slugs, and he knew nobody could survive taking a well-placed hit from one. The shock alone could kill you.

  He sat motionless, watching them. Ellis had slid to the floor in a crumpled heap, and Delure lay sprawled in the chair. Their bodies were twitching, their sightless eyes staring and glassy. Crimson pools were rapidly soaking the women’s clothing.

  After a moment he stood and reached over, holding his finger against the artery on the side of Delure’s neck. Even with the coating of glue on his fingertip he could tell there was no pulse. He did the same thing with Ellis and got the same result.

  There was another door in there, one he surmised led into a bedroom. He went to the door and opened it cautiously. A king-size bed was in the room, along with tables and lamps and a dresser and a chaise longue and an armchair. Closets lining one wall were packed with women’s clothing. Other garments were strewn about, draped over the chaise and on the bed. A bath was at the far end of the room, its door ajar.

  None of that interested him. On the dresser, however, he spotted two things he’d hoped to find. One was a black leather handbag with a clasp of interlocking Cs that identified it as a Chanel. The second object was a large jewelry box, also of leather, its color dark brown.

  Stepping over to the dresser, he opened the handbag and found a fat alligator wallet inside. Not bothering to check what it contained, he thrust the wallet into his pants pocket.

  Next he opened the jewelry box and scooped up handfuls of rings and necklaces and other pieces, jamming the loot into the pockets of his jacket. After cleaning out the box, he went back into the sitting room.

  He put the wallet and jewelry into his attaché case, along with the tape recorder. He closed and locked the case and took a deep breath, making sure he was calm and unruffled. When he was satisfied, he picked up the case and went to the door that led into the foyer.

  He opened the door and stepped out, saying over his shoulder, “Thanks again, Miss Delure. Enjoy your stay in New York.” Then he closed the door behind him.

  Laramie and Diggs were sitting in the foyer. Diggs was reading a newspaper, and Laramie was working with a laptop. Both got up as they saw Mongo.

  “All done?” Laramie asked.

  “All done,” he said. “And right on schedule. Even had a minute or two left over.”

  She smiled. “That’s fine. How did it go?”

  “Perfect, I’d say. Miss Delure said to tell you not to disturb her for a while. I think she wants to take a nap.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  He nodded
to Diggs. “See you, Chuck.”

  Diggs waved a massive paw. “Later, man.”

  Laramie walked with him to the entrance. As he left the suite she said, “I’ll look forward to hearing your interview on the radio.”

  “Best I’ve ever done,” he said.

  3.

  NYPD Detective Jeb Barker was in an apartment on Twenty-Eighth Street, interviewing a woman with long black hair and puffy lips. She wore a sleeveless top that was unbuttoned to her navel, and she was trying to charm him. According to a tip, she’d been the girlfriend of a dealer of smuggled cigarettes brought up from North Carolina by the truckload.

  The dealer had operated out of a basement in Murray Hill, and in addition to the smuggling rap, he was wanted for beating a rival’s head in and dumping the body into the East River. When the cops homed in on him, he disappeared.

  The girlfriend was playing dumb, answering each of Barker’s questions by saying she didn’t know. Or else she didn’t remember. As to the departed lover’s whereabouts, she didn’t have the faintest idea.

  Barker handed her his card. He told her to give her memory a jog and to call him. If she didn’t cooperate, he said, she could be in a lot of trouble.

  The threat was bullshit, of course, but sometimes it worked. Whether it would in this instance remained to be seen. Although judging from the smirk on her face, she wasn’t buying it.

  As he was leaving he glanced at the TV set, which she hadn’t bothered to turn off while they spoke. It was tuned to a soap opera, and at that moment, the show was interrupted suddenly by an announcer who spouted news of a double murder in the Sherry-Netherland Hotel.

  One of the victims, the announcer reported breathlessly, was purported to be the movie star Catherine Delure. Apparently, the murders had taken place in the course of a robbery.

  Barker didn’t wait to hear more. He bounded out of the apartment and took the elevator to the ground floor. From there, he ran to the street, where he’d parked his beat-up green Mustang hardtop.

  He jumped into the car, slapped the flasher onto the roof, started the engine, turned on the siren and both radios, and hit the gas. With the lights and the noise going, he pulled out into the eastbound traffic and began jinking his way through the river of cars, taxis, and trucks, pushing the Mustang as hard as he could.

  At Park he ran a red light and swung north, figuring the broad avenue would be the fastest route to the hotel. Other drivers showed little interest in moving over, even for an official vehicle.

  At one point he couldn’t get past a large black Mercedes that was hogging the left lane. Finally he nudged its rear end, and the schmuck at the wheel reluctantly moved over. When Barker went by, the guy glared at him and flipped him the bird.

  As he drove, Barker listened to the police radio with one ear and to WINS with the other. A dispatcher was giving units only the name and address of the hotel and a code 10-10, but the AM radio went on squawking news of the murder. Like the guy on TV, the radio announcer sounded excited enough to wet his pants. He probably had.

  And for once, Barker wouldn’t blame him. If the report was accurate, this would be big. Very big. A movie star killed in one of Manhattan’s most prestigious hotels? That was shocking news, on a national and even on an international level. Not only would the NYPD be in an uproar, right up to the police commissioner, but so would the mayor.

  Especially the mayor. His Honor would see the crime as a blot on the city’s reputation, and therefore politically damaging.

  And costly. Tourism was a huge source of income, and the case would surely put a dent in it. With the fears of terrorism and the memory of 9/11 still in people’s minds, who’d want to come to New York and be vulnerable to an attack?

  Also, a lot of money poured into the city from fees and other expenditures by entertainment companies using the city for locations. In fact, the NYPD had a special movie/TV unit to assist them. Seen from any angle, stars getting murdered here would not be a positive development.

  So the shit would indeed hit the fan, and the pressure from the top down would be intense. A good reason for Barker to reach the scene as quickly as he could.

  His cell phone buzzed. He dug it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

  The caller was his partner, Joe Spinelli. “Did you get word on the homicides in the Sherry?”

  “Yeah, I’m going there now. You still at the lab?”

  “No, I just got to the hotel. What a ratfuck. You wouldn’t believe what’s going on.”

  “Yes, I would. See you in a few minutes.” He stuck the phone back into his pocket and continued to maneuver his way through the mass of northbound vehicles. He and Spinelli had worked together for the past year, and Barker was the senior partner. They got along well, although they had little in common. Spinelli was married with two kids, and often tweaked Barker about his swinging bachelor lifestyle.

  Barker was navigating the Grand Central bypass when another call reached him. This one was put through on his police radio by a dispatcher. It was from his boss, Lieutenant Frank Kelly, commander of the Seventeenth Precinct Detective Squad. “You at the scene?” Kelly asked.

  “On my way, Lieu. Is it true the victim’s Catherine Delure?”

  “Yeah, that’s been confirmed. She was shot, and so was another female who was with her. Apparently the other one was her manager.”

  “Radio said they were robbed?”

  “Yes. The perp stole Delure’s jewelry.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Some of the people who work for her saw the guy. I sent detectives, but Homicide arrived and took over. Lieutenant Hogan’s in charge. You know him?”

  “Yeah. A double-barrel prick.”

  “Keep that opinion to yourself,” Kelly said. “Hogan might not even want you there.”

  “Maybe. Although I figure he’ll need all the help he can get.”

  “True enough. But I don’t want to hear him complaining you got out of line.”

  “That mean I have to take orders from him?”

  “Of course. I just told you, he’s in charge of the case. So cooperate.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Pick up everything you can,” Kelly said, “and then fill me in.” The call ended.

  Barker slipped the Mustang through a hole in the traffic and trod the accelerator. Park was a bit wider up here, and he could make better time. Asshole drivers or not.

  So the radio guy had it right: the famous Catherine Delure had been killed. And so had the other woman. But why? Had they resisted the robber?

  He tried to picture Delure, but the best he could come up with was an image of blond hair and a zaftig body. He’d probably seen her photo someplace, maybe on a magazine cover. He didn’t think he’d ever seen one of her movies.

  But then, the only films he watched were on late-night TV, and he only watched those if they were thrillers. He couldn’t stand the cop shows, pretending to be authentic and instead coming off as silly. And he didn’t know one actor from another.

  Gloria, his now-and-then girlfriend, was the opposite. She was familiar with every star and could tell you every movie they’d each appeared in. And like millions of other people, she was fascinated by details of their personal lives.

  When he reached East Sixtieth Barker turned left, thinking he’d get as close to the Sherry as possible. But he could see that there was already a jam-up at the corner of Fifth ahead of him. He pulled the Mustang into a no-parking space and shut it down. Picking the police plate off the floor, he dropped it onto the dash and got out of the car.

  Barker was six feet tall and powerfully built. He had a thatch of black hair and a square jaw that made him look aggressive, even when he wasn’t. His nose was slightly off-kilter and there was a jagged scar on his left cheek, keepsakes from an argument with a drug dealer back in his undercover days.

 
He had on his work clothes: a navy blazer and gray pants, a white button-down and a vaguely figured red tie. It was the same outfit he usually wore, in the belief that it made him look like a businessman. He was wrong; one glance and you’d make him for a cop.

  As he walked toward Fifth he took out his gold shield and clipped it to the pocket of his blazer. He saw that along with the throngs of civilians and uniformed police officers, there were patrol cars and an ambulance and an NYPD van in front of the hotel. Also two TV trucks.

  In the street, a line of taxis apparently had been caught in the backed-up stream of traffic and was now stuck in it. Some of the cabbies were blowing their horns and leaning out their windows and shouting. As if that would somehow extricate them from the mess.

  Shoving his way through the mob of civilians, Barker noted that the crowd was similar to what you encountered at most crime scenes, only much bigger. The rubbernecks were packed together, wide-eyed and openmouthed, many of them babbling eagerly as they stared at the hotel entrance. More were arriving each moment.

  What did they expect to see—a mad killer running out the doors with a gun in each hand? Or maybe Catherine Delure herself? Dripping blood and waving to her fans?

  At the entrance, TV cameramen were shooting the scene, red lights glowing on their cameras, and reporters were shouting questions at the cops who were holding back the crowd. One of the reporters was in an officer’s face, yelling that he should be allowed to go inside because the people had a right to know. The cop was not persuaded.

  Barker stepped past them and gave his name and rank to another uniform who was keeping the log. The guy scribbled on his clipboard, and Barker went into the lobby.

  There was a crowd in here as well, apparently hotel guests who wanted to leave but were being held in place by a cop while a detective questioned them. The guests were all well dressed, and some were obviously pissed off. Barker asked another cop for directions and went up in an elevator.

  A uniform was guarding the door of the suite. He looked at Barker’s shield and nodded, and Barker walked past him into a foyer. From there he went into a large living room filled with plainclothes detectives. Of the many people in the room, one of the first he recognized was his partner.