The Killing Man

After a shower I got dressed and grabbed a cab to the hospital. This time the overnight parkers had left cleared space and there was no Mercedes parked with wheels turned away from the curb. Oddly, I wondered what my muggers' options would have been if I had grabbed a cab at the entrance that night.

Downstairs I picked up a vase of flowers, took the elevator up to Velda's floor and walked to the desk. For one second I almost dropped the flowers. Pat was there talking to Burke Reedey and all I could think of was something had happened to Velda. When he half turned, saw me and nodded agreeably, I knew there was no trouble.

'What're you doing here?' I asked him.

'Same as you, pal, bringing flowers to a friend.' But he knew what I had been thinking and added, 'She's okay.'

I glanced at Burke for confirmation and he grinned. 'It's a good recovery, Mike. We had her for some other tests this morning and the prognosis looks fine.'

'Can I see her?'

'Sure, but she's asleep. Leave your flowers and we'll tell her you were here.'

Even though the cop on the door saw me talking to Pat, he waited for him to nod okay before he let me in. I put the flowers down quietly, then stood beside the bed watching her. The swelling had gone down some and the discoloration had taken on a different hue, but the improvement was noticeable. Her breathing was strong and regular, and I said, 'Sleep well, kitten,' in a barely audible whisper.

Pat and I found the visitor's lounge, got some coffee and a table away from the main crowd. 'You look like something's bugging you,' I said.

'I spoke to Ray Wilson this morning.'

'And now I'm in deep shit, I suppose.'

'No more than usual.'

'What's the beef then?'

'Just cool the use of departmental facilities, Mike. The word has come in loud and clear. This Penta business is being taken out of our hands.'

'The hell it is,' I told him. 'The DiCica murder comes under NYPD jurisdiction.'

'Not when Uncle Sammy thinks otherwise.'

'So why tell me about it?'

'Because you're still the fly in the ointment. You're a principal in the case and even though you're licensed under the state laws, you're still a civilian, a US citizen, and there's nobody harder to keep quiet than one of our own.'

'You can do better than that, Pat.'

'Okay, our CIA pal, Lewis Ferguson, has asked for an audience in' -- he looked at his watch -- 'forty-five minutes.'

'Where?'

'In one of those cute little places the State Department reserves for quiet conferences. Take your time. Finish your coffee.'

Pat had an unmarked car and we drove up Sixth Avenue to the Fifties, parked in a public garage and went into the side entrance of the half-block-wide building. The elevator took us up to the ninth floor and we turned left to the frosted glass doors marked SUTTERLIN ASSOCIATES, ARCHITECTS.

Inside, a glass booth surrounded the receptionist, and when Pat spoke to her through the cutout in the window, she told us to wait, spoke into the phone, and a minute later a young guy in a business suit with the body language of the State Department came out, ushered us down the hallway and knocked on an unlabeled door, waited for the buzzer to click it open and waved us in.

Bennett Bradley and Ferguson were there already, Bradley behind his desk and Ferguson pacing beside him, ignoring three chairs already positioned. There was no handshaking, just perfunctory nods, and we all sat down at once.

Bradley didn't waste any time. He leaned forward on his desk, his fingers clasped together, the expression on his face as if his shorts were too tight. 'Gentlemen,' he started, 'before we begin, I want it understood that this meeting, and what is said here, is strictly confidential. Three of us represent government agencies and understand that position, so to you, Mr. Hammer, I want to make myself clear. Is that understood?'

I said, 'I hear you.'

'Good. I believe Mr. Ferguson has something to say.'

The CIA agent shifted in his chair to face Pat. He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope I recognized right away. 'Captain Chambers, I have an item here that was routed through our office for identification.'

He dumped the tooth I had found into the palm of his hand.

Pat's face hardened and he said tightly, 'I was supposed to get a report in my office.'

'Let's simplify things,' Ferguson said. This time he looked at me. 'I understand you found this.'

I hedged a little. 'I came by it, yes.'

'How?'

'Let's say I'm in the business of looking for clues. I was a victim of a crime of aggravated nature and made it my business to look for my assailants. That is what is called a clue.'

'I don't need sarcasm, Mr. Hammer.'

'None intended,' I said soberly. The hardness eased out of Pat's face.

'You assumed this came from the mouth of an assailant?'

'Something did. This was the only thing that could have.'

'And you took it right to Captain Chambers.'

'Correct.' I knew what was coming and got there first. 'The mugging on me wasn't any street crime, so don't let's beat that dead horse. This went down as a very knowledgeable venture by people who knew all the ropes. They had teamwork, knew drug handling, didn't bother to confiscate my money or weapon . . . hell, they even wore spook shoes that could handle any surface efficiently and quietly.'

'You are referring, of course, to the CIA?'

Pat spoke up and said, 'That's where the identification finally came from then, didn't it?'

Ferguson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 'Yes.' When he had gathered his thoughts, he went on: 'The recipient of that partial had the work done at a government facility after he lost it on a CIA operation. It was listed in his file and recorded on the computers.'

'Who was he?' Pat asked.

When Ferguson didn't answer immediately, I said, 'Want me to leave the room?'

A touch of scorn was in Ferguson's voice. 'I don't think that would make any difference at this point, would it, Captain Chambers?'

'You said it in the beginning, pal. He's in this pretty damn deep and if he wants to make anything public he can do it. Just remember that he's still a good guy.'

'Well put. All right, the partial belonged to an agent named Harry Bern. He was an old hand who came into the agency in 1961. He had a military background, was well rated but considered a little reckless out on assignments. When there was all that fury about extremes in our covert operations, certain agents considered touchy were released. He was one of them.'

Pat said, 'I suppose you checked his passport?'

Ferguson seemed surprised at that. To him cops weren't expected to think that far ahead. 'He made numerous trips abroad. Apparently he's in this country now.'

'Apparently,' I muttered. 'And he's not alone.'

This time Ferguson squirmed in his chair again. 'Another one we released was his partner, Gary Fells. They came in together and they went out together. They had almost identical background and personality profiles.'

For the first time Bradley let out a hrumph to get our attention and when he had it, said, 'Their quizzing you, Mr. Hammer, as to the whereabouts of Penta is what brings the State Department's interest into the picture.'

'You can't locate either of these guys?' I asked.

'Remaining invisible if they have to is one of their specialties.'