“How did you get something on him so fast?”
“He had car keys on him, and we located the car in the Waldorf’s parking garage. His name on the license led us to his apartment and we found material that indicates he was, until four months ago, a resident of Detroit. His ex-wife’s contact material was on hand, and we called her. She was not sad to learn of her ex’s demise, since he was an alimony cheat. She told us the police had been interested in him, and to make a long story shorter, I called a friend on the Detroit PD who told us a very familiar tale.”
“Not another insurance agent.”
“Travel agent. Robert Hastings, thirty-six. Suspected in several homicides thought to be killings for hire. Ex-military, no strings except the ex, no kids.”
“Okay, so it wasn’t a robbery.”
“You never thought it was.”
“No, I didn’t. But if people think that’s what it was, it’ll make investigating these kill attempts easier.”
“Don’t be a chump, Mike. This is the third try on you in a week, in case you didn’t hear me the other times, and the third hired gun you took down.”
“No, Velda took this one down.”
“Yes, yes, yes, I know. But the Hammer team took him down, okay?”
“Okay. What do you want from me, Pat?”
“Cooperation. Let’s work on this together.”
He couldn’t see me shaking my head, but it was in my voice. “Why don’t you pursue your investigation, and I’ll pursue mine, and we’ll compare notes when something comes up.”
“Compare notes, and then when you know, or think you know, who’s behind all this, you’ll kill the guy, just goddamn kill him, and I’ll get the self-defense phone call from you. Which is your idea of ‘comparing notes.’”
“Considering how many cases I’ve cleared up for you,” I said, “that’s not at all gracious.”
I hung up on him.
Velda, on her side facing away from me, now looked back with a smile. “You hung up on the Captain of Homicide again.”
“I thought he had a bad attitude.”
She was giggling when she fell asleep.
Not crying. That was a big improvement.
When the phone rang again, it woke both of us on the first trill, and we were bolt upright as if from a bad dream we’d somehow shared. She looked past me at the nightstand clock near the ringing phone — three-oh-five in the morning. She frowned at me. I shrugged and picked up the phone.
“This better be important, Pat,” I said, leaning on an elbow now.
“Oh, it’s important,” an unfamiliar voice said. A quiet, calm voice, male, medium-pitched, almost soothing, like a late night disc jockey playing the kind of records that helped insomniacs finally drift off.
But I was wide awake, and sitting up.
“Okay, buddy,” I said. “You got two choices — hang up and never call this number again, or give me a name and a reason for calling in the middle of the night.”
“Technically it’s morning,” the soothing voice said. “But I hope you won’t hang up. It’s time we talked. It’s really time.”
“Who is this?”
“An admirer. Oh, I know Mr. Woodcock was an admirer of your work, too, and I rather suspect that got in the way of him carrying out his assignment properly.”
Nothing like that had been in the papers.
I gave Velda a bug-eyed look, and covered the mouthpiece, whispering harshly, “Get the extension.”
She slipped out of bed and ran off to get the phone on the kitchenette wall.
“Is that Miss Sterling picking up another line?” he asked. “I’m a big fan of yours, as well, Velda... if I may. And Mike... again, if I may... I hope you know how lucky you are to have someone like Velda in your life. That’s something I’ve never had, never enjoyed.”
“What do you want?”
“Just to talk to you. I think it’s time I let you know what exactly is going on.”
“Why don’t you?”
“If you heard my name, it would mean nothing. And if I were to give you a list of those I’ve killed... personally killed... you would quickly put together that none of these homicides were ever connected by law enforcement. They have no idea of my existence. And many of my contracts... because I am the premiere contract killer who ever walked this dark, sad, miserable excuse for a planet... a good number were written off as accidents. But that’s not a fitting fate for you. Not for Mike Hammer. You’ve killed so many. In some respects I’m a piker, compared to you. That’s the point.”
If he’d called the office, I could have hit a switch and recorded the call. But he knew not to call there. Worse, he had Velda’s number. Neither of us were listed. Bad. Very bad.
“What is the point?” I asked.
“I’m going to be... retiring soon. I have been looking for a challenge, one last... not job, but kill... to feel, to know, that I’ve gone out on top. That no one was in my league, my class. So naturally you’ve been on my mind, Mike.”
“So this is no contract somebody took out on me. Just a lunatic at work.”
“No need to insult me, Mike. We’re never going to be friends, I realize, but we can certainly be colleagues in our shared pursuit. Friendly adversaries, let’s say, each with the proper respect for the other. I’m a killer, Mike, and you’re a killer, so we are brothers in blood. Do you understand?”
“I’m starting to.”
“As it happens, my decision was made for me by fate. Do you believe in fate, Mike? In destiny?”
“I call it kismet.”
“Ah. How poetic. Well, at the very time, very moment I was thinking of... let’s call it challenging you to a kind of game of wits, a duel of giants... I was approached by an individual who wanted you dead. Imagine that! Is this the hand of someone bigger than either of us, moving chess pieces? Are we merely pawns in some grander game than we can comprehend? Be that as it may, when I was hired to kill you, I knew I was meant to determine which of us was the killer among the killers. Like they say at the prize fights, Mike — the cham-peen.”
“Then why send Woodcock, and these other two clowns? Why the bogus robbery today?”
“I have my ways and I have my reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Well... as for the other three instances, I wanted to determine whether you were worthy of my challenge. If a journeyman contract man had no trouble wiping you out, well... you wouldn’t be worthy of my attention. So I’ve dispatched three such men... and you’ve dispatched them. I’m coming to the conclusion that you are indeed worthy.”
“Thanks. So let’s meet somewhere and see how this plays out. Or is your idea of a ‘challenge’ to shoot from a rooftop?”
“Are you suggesting there should be rules here? Now that’s disappointing. The great rule-breaker wants rules! No, it could come at any time, Mike. You should look up, down and around and behind you. Just know that if you look behind you, I’ll tag you from the front.”
And he clicked off.
Chapter Seven
At P.J. Moriarty’s steak and chop house on Sixth and Fifty-second, Velda and I sat in the bar across from Hy Gardner in a booth we were lucky to have. Mid-evening, the endless line of stools was full and the restaurant beyond was hopping, producing a drone of conversation punctuated by clinking glass and an occasional dropped dish, making for real privacy.
We ate first and talked no business. My kind of business, like what had happened yesterday afternoon in an elegant suite at the Waldorf-Astoria, did not make for polite table talk, even in my circles.