Badge of Honour 06 - The Murderers (33 page)

“The funeral’s over,” Amy said.

“I was hoping you’d call. How did it go?”

“Matt has a way with words. When we got here, he said it was ‘intimate friends, and the morbidly curious, with a
soupçon
of social climbers thrown in for good measure.’”

“How did he handle it?”

“He broke down when he saw her in the casket. Really broke down. Chad Nesbitt and his very pregnant wife had to practically carry him out of the room.”

There was a moment’s silence before Wohl said:

“You said last night you expected something like that to happen.”

“That was a clinical opinion; professionally, I’m relieved. It’s the first step, acceptance, in managing grief. Personally, he’s my little brother. It was awful. I felt so damned sorry for him.”

“How’s he now? Where is he now?”

“Oh, now he’s got his stiff upper lip back in place. He and Chad are into the booze. There’s quite a post-interment party going on out here.”

“You want me to send someone out there and get him? I sent Tiny Lewis to sit on him, but…”

“I know,” Amy said. “What I was hoping to hear was you volunteering to come out here and get the both of us.”

“It was bad for you?”

“As we were coming back here from the cemetery—I thought Grace Detweiler might need me, so I rode with them—I caught her looking at me as if she had just realized that if I had done my job, Penny would still be here.”

“That could be an overactive imagination.”

“I don’t think so. I got the same look here in the house when I was getting a tranquilizer out of my purse for her. She’s decided—seeing how Matt collapsed completely probably had a lot to do with it—that he’s still an irresponsible boy, who can’t be blamed. She needs somebody to blame. I make a fine candidate to be the real villain, because I really didn’t help Penny at all.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Wohl said, “I’m on my way, Amy,” and the line went dead in her ear.

“Meaning what?”

“The folklore among us laypersons is don’t mix booze and pills.”

“That’s a good general rule of thumb,” Amy said. “What I gave Matt is what we doctor persons prescribe as a sedative when the patient person has been soaking up cognac like a sponge. It is my professional opinion that that patient person will be out like a light for the next twelve to eighteen hours without side effects. Any other questions, layperson?”

Wohl smiled at her.

“How about dinner tonight?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I guess that makes breakfast tomorrow out of the question.”

“I didn’t say that,” Amy said. “I said no dinner. I have to make my rounds, and then there’s a very sick young woman I want to spend some time with. But I didn’t say anything about breakfast, or, for that matter, a midnight supper with candles and wine, being out of any question.”

“My place or yours, doctor person?”

She didn’t reply directly.

“We left my car at the Detweilers’s.”

“Give me the keys. I’ll have someone run me out there, and I’ll drop it by—where? The hospital? Your place?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you took it to your place? When I leave the hospital, I’ll catch a cab out there. It’ll probably be after eleven.”

“Done,” he said, putting his hand out for the keys.

“You’re headed for the hospital now?” he asked. She nodded. “You want a ride?”

“Where are you going?”

“Wherever you need to go is right on my way.”

“I’ll catch a cab,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

Their eyes met, and held. Somewhat hesitantly, Wohl moved his face closer to hers.

“Don’t push me, Peter,” Amy said, and then moved her face closer to his and kissed him on the lips.

Then she quickly walked away from him, out the door and onto Rittenhouse Square. He started to follow her, then changed his mind.

He went to the receptionist’s desk and asked to use her telephone.

“Of course,” she said with a smile that suggested she did not find him unattractive.

He smiled at her and dialed a number from memory.

“Inspector Wohl,” he said as he watched Amy get into a cab. “Anything for me?”

“Chief Lowenstein’s been trying to reach you all afternoon, sir,” the tour lieutenant reported.

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll call Chief Lowenstein and get back to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wohl broke the connection with his finger and dialed Chief Lowenstein’s private number.

“Lowenstein.”

“Peter Wohl, Chief.”

“Where are you, Peter?”

“Center City. Rittenhouse Square.”

“With Matt Payne?”

“I just left him.”

“How is he?”

“His sister gave him a pill she said will knock him out until tomorrow.”

“I really feel sorry for him,” Lowenstein said, and then immediately added: “I need to talk to you, Peter.”

“I’m available for you anytime, Chief.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the bar in the Warwick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ten minutes, Peter,” Lowenstein said. “Thank you.”

“What will you have, Peter?” Lowenstein asked, ignoring the apology.

“I would like a triple scotch, but what I’d better have is a beer,” Wohl said.

“Bad day for you?” Lowenstein asked, chuckling, and got the bartender’s attention. “Give this nice young man one of these. A single.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“I turned in my papers this morning,” he said. “You hear about that?”

Wohl nodded.

“Carlucci came out to the house and made me a deal to stay.”

Wohl’s face was as devoid of expression as he could make it.

“The deal,” Lowenstein said, “is that I have his word that you will bring me in on anything interesting his personal detective squad, now called Ethical Affairs Unit, comes up with, and I get to define the term ‘interesting.’ You have any problem with that, Peter?”

“I had a problem with keeping you out of the Cazerra investigation. That wasn’t my idea, Chief.”

“So Carlucci told me. I asked you, do you have any problems with the new arrangement?”

“None at all.”

“Tell me what interesting things you have heard today, Peter.”

“How about yesterday, Chief?”

“Start with yesterday.”

“I had lunch with Armando C. Giacomo, Esquire, at the Rittenhouse Club. Weisbach and I did. Mr. Paulo Cassandro really doesn’t want to go to jail. As a public-spirited citizen, he is willing to testify against Cazerra in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”

Lowenstein snorted.

“Giacomo is pissing in the wind. He knows he has nothing to deal with. And if he did, he would have gone to the District Attorney with it. Why you?”

“I thought that was interesting. Weisbach told him that, offhand, the only thing he could think of that we were interested in was the Inferno doer, or doers. And/or the Kellog doer.”

“And how did the dapper little dago react to that?”

“He didn’t say no.”

“You think either one was a mob hit, Peter?”

“I didn’t until Giacomo didn’t say no.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. And then Jason Washington called me this morning. One of his informants said that the Inferno was a mob hit, and gave him a name. Frank—Frankie—Foley.”

There was a just-perceptible pause as Lowenstein searched his memory.

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither has Washington. Or Harris. Or me. Or Intelligence or Organized Crime.”

“Who’s the informant?”

“Washington said that what this guy has given him in the past—which wasn’t much—was reliable. I think he would have said something if there was a mob connection.”

“Huh!” Lowenstein snorted.

“Going back even further than yesterday, the day Kellog was shot, that night, his widow showed up at Washington’s apartment. Did you hear about that?”

“Tell me about it,” Lowenstein said.

Which means either that you did hear about it or didn’t hear about it, but if you did, you want to hear my version of it anyway
.

“She told Washington (a) her husband was dirty, (b) the entire Narcotics Five Squad is dirty, and (c) that they did her husband.”

“What did Washington think about it?”

“He said he believes she thinks she’s telling the truth.”

“So what are you going to do with this? All of this?”

“I told Washington to give the Frankie Foley name to Homicide. By now, they probably have it.”

“And the Five Squad allegations?”

“Before Ethical Affairs popped up, I was going to have a quiet word with a staff inspector I know pretty well, and ask him to please keep me out of it.”

Lowenstein chuckled. “A staff inspector named Weisbach?”

“Yeah.”

“And now?”

“This is the first time I’ve really thought hard about it. It seems to me the lines of authority are fuzzy. Dirty cops on the Narcotics Five Squad would seem to be Ethical Affairs’ business. Somebody on the Narcotics Five Squad doing Officer Kellog would seem to belong to Homicide.”

“Are you asking me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s Washington’s role going to be in Ethical Affairs?”

“I have been ordered to give Weisbach whatever support he needs. So far as I’m concerned, that means he gets the Special Operations Investigation Section, which means he gets Washington.”

“Why don’t you leave it that way? Let Washington run that down independently of Homicide? If he’s investigating corruption, and comes across something that looks like the Kellog homicide, he can pass it along.”

“That’s fine with me.”

“And I will have a word with Henry Quaire and suggest that he have Wally Milham run down this—what was the name?—Frankie Foley lead. Assisted by Detective Payne.”

“Can I ask why?”

“I think there may be something to it. Gut feeling.”

“Really? Why?”

“I just told you: gut feeling. Write this down, Peter: When you don’t have a clue, go with your gut feeling.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Wohl said, smiling.

“And I would like Milham to come up with something, to prove to Carlucci that a detective can have a very active sex life and still be a good detective.”

“I’ve known that all along,” Wohl said.

“I’ll bet you have.” Lowenstein laughed. “I think that when we finally get the true story of Mr. Atchison’s recent tragedy, it will turn out that money was involved. Insurance on the wife, maybe. Business problems with the partner. If that’s so, that means he would not have the dough to hire a professional hit man. And the mob only does that sort of thing for adequate compensation. And I don’t think they’d be interested in doing a contract hit for somebody like Atchison in the first place.”

Wohl nodded his head in agreement.

“And following that lead will be instructional for Payne,” Lowenstein went on. “He will learn that most homicides are solved wearing out shoe leather, not by brilliant reasoning. Or, in this case, by an anonymous tip that takes a hell of a lot of legwork to come up with what’s necessary to make it stand up in court.”

“Who do you think did Officer Kellog?”

“If I had to bet, I’d bet on Washington’s gut feeling. He thinks the widow’s telling the truth. I hope to hell the Narcotics Five Squad is not involved, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there was a Narcotics connection.”

“Neither would I,” Wohl said, somewhat sadly.

He looked at his drink. It was empty. He idly moved the glass so that ice cubes spun inside.

“Another, Peter?” Lowenstein asked.

“I shouldn’t, but I will,” Wohl said, and held up the glass to attract the bartender.

At the time, he hadn’t been thinking too clearly. The only thing he had been sure about was that he hadn’t wanted one of Amy’s pills. Pretending to swallow it while she watched was easier than arguing with her about it.

What he would do, he originally thought, was have a couple of drinks, enough to make him sleepy, and then fall in bed.

But by the third Famous Grouse, he thought that maybe it would be a good idea to go to the Fraternal Order of Police bar. By the fifth drink, it seemed to be a splendid idea. So he went down and got in the Porsche.

By the time he got to Broad and Market, going to the FOP bar seemed less a splendid idea. Everybody in the place would have heard about Penny; everybody he knew would be offering sympathy, and he didn’t want that.

He drove around City Hall, and headed down South Broad Street, headed for Charley McFadden’s house. Charley was working days, he would get him out of bed, and they would have a couple of drinks someplace.

Five blocks down South Broad, he realized that would also be a bad idea, an imposition. Charley would, out of pity, get out of bed and be a good guy. Not fair to Charley.

Dropping in on Peter Wohl was similarly a bad idea. For one thing, Peter lived way the hell out in Chestnut Hill. More importantly, he might have—probably did have—company, spelled A-m-y, and not only would he be an unwelcome guest, but they would correctly surmise that he had not swallowed Amy’s pill.

And then he thought of Wally Milham. Milham was working midnight to eight. And Milham’s personal life was nearly as fucked up as his own. The Mayor had gotten up on a moral high horse at Martha Peebles’ party because Milham had gotten involved with his wife’s sister, and, worse, was using this as a basis to suspect that Milham was somehow involved in the Kellog shooting.

Milham, Matt reasoned, would not only be up and awake, but might welcome some company.

Matt made an illegal U-turn on South Broad Street and headed for the Roundhouse.

Matt had been to Homicide often enough to know how to get past the wooden barrier. There was a little button on the inside of the barrier, which activated the solenoid that opened the gate.

There were half a dozen detectives in the room, one of whom looked up, registering surprise, when he saw Matt. And then he gestured with his finger across the room to where Wally Milham sat at a desk before a typewriter.

Matt walked over to him. It was a moment before Milham became aware that he was standing there.

“Well, I expected you, but not so soon,” Wally Milham said.

“Excuse me?”

Milham pushed a memorandum across his desk. Matt picked it up.