The Murderers

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I intended no offense, Wallace,” Washington said. “Nevertheless, my observations were in order. It would offend me if, because of some procedural error, Mr. Foley and Mr. Atchison got away with what they did.”

  “OK,” Milham said.

  “I have the feeling that neither of you feel Foley was involved with Officer Kellog’s murder. Is that—”

  “He’s tied to the Inferno,” Milham said. “Atchison says he doesn’t know Frankie, and Frankie tells us he’s going to work there as a bouncer.”

  “Unless, of course, he is in fact a contract killer,” Washington said. “While I was waiting for you two to show up, I considered the anomaly of a nice Irish boy being so employed by the mob. Unusual, of course, but not impossible. I read the 75-49s on the Kellog job. There was nothing of great value stolen from the house. The only thing Mrs. Kellog reported as missing were her wedding and engagement rings. She left them there when she left Officer Kellog. Some other minor items are missing: a silver frame, holding their wedding picture; a portable television; and a silver coffee service. The street value of everything would not exceed two or three hundred dollars. And, of course, the tapes from the telephone recording device. Not enough for a burglar to kill over. The manner, the professional manner, so to speak, in which Officer Kellog was shot suggests assassination, rather than anything else. Perhaps the tapes were what his murderer was after.”

  “Narcotics Five Squad?” Milham said doubtfully. “Jason, I have trouble thinking…”

  “As do I. Unless what was on those tapes was so incriminating that desperate measures were required. Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “What was on those tapes was incriminating vis-à-vis the mob. The decision was made to eliminate Officer Kellog and get the tapes. And to put distance between the mob and any Narcotics involvement, or involvement between the mob and the Narcotics Five Squad, an outside contract killer was employed. Perhaps Matt’s admirer. I don’t think we should conclude that Mr. Foley was not involved with Officer Kellog’s murder.”

  “If this character is a hit man, and I have trouble with that—he’s not that smart—why the hell is he working at Wanamaker’s?” Milham said.

  “Interesting question,” Washington said. “There are all sorts of possible explanations. For example, let us suppose that Mr. Foley has been engaged, by the mob, as a loan shark among the Wanamaker’s warehouse labor force. He secured the repayment of a loan under such violent conditions that it came to the attention of the mob that here was a young man of reliability and ambition, perhaps suited for more important things.”

  “Hell, why not?” Milham said.

  “Letting my imagination run free,” Washington said, “I tried to come up with a credible scenario as to why Mr. Atchison lied to us about Mr. Foley. He is no fool, and he must have known that we would learn from the bartender that Mr. Foley was in there that night. Let us suppose that Mr. Atchison knows, or suspects, that Mr. Foley has a mob connection. Let us suppose further that Mr. Atchison has been having difficulty of some sort with the mob. Or Mr. Marcuzzi was in some sort of difficulty with them. Mr. Marcuzzi was hit, with Mrs. Atchison as an innocent bystander, so to speak. Mr. Atchison was spared, with a warning, explicit or implied, to keep his mouth shut. Knowing or suspecting that Mr. Foley has a mob connection, he was reluctant to point a finger at him. I was taken with his lack of concern for Mr. Marcuzzi. It is possible that he knew what Marcuzzi had been up to and decided that he had gotten his just deserts.”

  “You mean, you don’t think Frankie did the Inferno job?” Matt asked.

  “I didn’t say that,” Washington said. “What I’m saying is that we have yet to come up with a motive for Mr. Atchison being involved in the deaths of his wife and partner. No large amount of recently acquired insurance, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “And if we confront Atchison with lying about Foley, he confesses to running a loan-shark operation with Foley as the enforcer,” Matt said.

  “Precisely,” Washington said. “And we have little physical evidence, except for the bullets removed from the bodies of Mrs. Atchison and Mr. Marcuzzi. That’s useless unless we have the guns and can tie them to Foley or somebody else. Maybe there were two robbers.”

  “Well, we could send Matt to have a drink with Frankie and talk about guns,” Milham said jokingly.

  “He might not be too sharp, but he’s shrewd,” Matt said. “I don’t think I’d get anything from him.”

  “Neither do I, but let’s think that through,” Washington said.

  “Jesus!” Matt said. “Can I let my imagination run free?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Foley likes to talk. Boast. I have the feeling that working in Wanamaker’s embarrasses him.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe he would boast to somebody else.”

  “I don’t follow you, Matthew,” Washington said. There was a tone of impatience in his voice.

  “A guy comes up to him in a bar. Tells him he’s heard that Frankie has connections. Maybe tells him he wants to buy a gun.”

  “That’s stretching, Payne,” Milham said. “You don’t think he’s going to sell the guns he used at the Inferno, do you? They’re probably at the bottom of the river.”

  Matt met Washington’s eyes.

  “Hay-zuz,” he said. “Wearing all his gold chains.”

  It was a full thirty seconds before Washington spoke.

  “I think Matthew may have something.”

  “Hay-zus?” Milham asked.

  “Detective Jesus Martinez,” Washington said. “Let me run this past Lieutenant Natali, maybe Captain Quaire, too. It would help if I could say the assigned detective had no objections.”

  “Anything that works,” Milham said.

  “I would suggest to you, Matthew, that while Mr. Foley presented a picture of complete composure in the Roundhouse, he may start to worry when he has had time to think things over. It is also possible that he may communicate with Mr. Atchison, or vice versa, which may make Mr. Atchison less confident than he was when we left him. In any event, there is nothing else that I can see that any of us can do today. I suggest we hang it up for the night.”

  “I’ll see if I can get anything out of Helene,” Milham said. “And I’ll check with Homicide and see if anything new has come up.”

  Every evening except Sunday, between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M. an automobile, most often a new Buick, stopped near the middle of the 1200 block of Ritner Street in South Philadelphia. A man carrying a small zipper bag would get out of the passenger seat, walk to the door of the residence occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Francis “Sonny” Boyle, and ring the bell.The door would be opened, the man would enter, and the door would be closed. Usually less than a minute later, the door would reopen, and the man, still carrying what appeared to be the same small zipper bag, would appear, descend the stairs, and get back in the car, which would then drive off.

  There were, in fact, two bags. The bag the man carried into the house would more often than not be empty. The bag the man carried from the house would contain the records of Mr. Boyle’s business transactions of that day, and the cash proceeds therefrom, less Mr. Boyle’s commission.

  Mr. Boyle was in the numbers business. His clientele would “buy a number,” that is select a number between 000 and 999. The standard purchase price was one dollar. If the number selected “came up,” that is, corresponded to the second comma-separated trio of numbers of activity on the New York Stock Exchange for that day, the lucky number holder received $500. For example, if 340,676,000 shares were traded on the stock exchange on one particular day, the winning number would be 676, and anyone who had purchased number 676 could exchange his receipt for his purchase for $500.

  The operation of Mr. Boyle’s business was quite simple. Most of the sales were conducted through small retail businesses, candy stores, grocery stores, newspaper stands, and the like. Individual customers would buy a number and be given a receipt. The storekeepe
r would turn over his carbon copy of the number selected, and his cash receipts (less a ten percent commission for his trouble), to one of Mr. Boyle’s runners. The numbers runner would in turn pass the carbons and the receipts to Mr. Boyle, for which service he was paid five percent of total receipts. Mr. Boyle would prepare a list of numbers purchased from the carbons, and put the carbons and the cash, less ten percent for his commission, into the zipper bag for collection by the gentleman who called at his home each evening.

  Sale of numbers was closed off at half past two in the afternoon. The New York Stock Exchange closed at three. By three-fifteen, the day’s transactions had been reported on radio and television, and Mr. Boyle was made aware which number had hit, if any. Or, far more commonly, that no number had been hit. Or, far less commonly, that two or three individuals had purchased numbers that had hit. Only once in Mr. Boyle’s experience (and he had been a runner before becoming a “numbers man” himself) had five individuals bought a number that had hit. He considered it far more probable that he would be struck by lightning than for it to happen that six individuals would select the same winning number.

  But in any event, the laws of probability were not Mr. Boyle’s concern. All winning numbers were paid by his employers and did not come out of his pocket. When a number did hit, Mr. Boyle almost always had sufficient funds from that day’s receipts to pay it. If winnings exceeded receipts, a rare happenstance, he would make a telephone call and there would be enough cash in the zipper bag brought to his door to make payment, which was religiously made the next business day.

  At 7:15 P.M. Mr. Boyle was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his kitchen table concluding the administration of the day’s business when he heard the doorbell ring.

  He was idly curious, but did not allow it to disturb his concentration. His work was important, and he took pride in both his accuracy, his absolute honesty, both to his clients and to his employers, and his timeliness. He had failed only twice to be ready when the man with the bag appeared at his door. His wife, Helen, moreover, had strict orders that he was not to be disturbed when he was working unless the house was on fire.

  The kitchen table was covered with carbons of numbers selected that day, which would be forwarded, and with stacks of money, folded in half, and kept together with rubber bands. The folded stacks of money—the day’s receipts—were predominantly dollar bills, but with the odd five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills assembled in their own stack. There were also three stacks of tens, crisp new bills, bound by paper strips bearing the logotype of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, and marked “$500.”

  These crisp new ten-dollar bills would be used to pay yesterday’s winners, those whose number had come up. This, Mr. Boyle believed, had a certain public relations aspect.

  He could have, of course, paid the winners from the day’s receipts. There were a lot of people who would say money is money, it doesn’t matter where it comes from, so long as it can be spent. But Sonny believed that winners were happier to receive a stack of crisp new bills than they would be had he paid them with battered old currency, no telling where the hell it’s been. It made them feel better, and if they felt better, they would not only keep picking numbers, but would flash the wad of new bills around, very likely encouraging their friends and neighbors to put a buck, or a couple of bucks, on the numbers.

  The swinging door from the dining room opened.

  “Honey,” Helen said, to get his attention.

  Sonny looked up at her with annoyance. She knew the rules.

  “What?” he asked, less than politely.

  “Mr. D’Angelo is here,” Helen said.

  Marco D’Angelo was Mr. Boyle’s immediate supervisor. He normally drove the Buick which appeared ritualistically between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M., looking up and down the street as his assistant went into the Boyles’ residence.

  As Sonny understood the hierarchy, Mr. D’Angelo worked directly for Mr. Pietro Cassandro. Mr. Pietro Cassandro was the younger brother of Mr. Paulo Cassandro, who was, as Sonny understood it, a made man, and who reported directly to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, who was, so to speak, the Chairman of the Board.

  Sonny didn’t know this. But it was what was said. And he had not considered it polite to ask specific questions.

  Sonny glanced at his watch. Marco D’Angelo was not due for another forty-five minutes.

  “He’s here? Now? What time is it?”

  Mr. D’Angelo appeared in the kitchen.

  “Whaddaya say, Sonny?” he said. “Sorry to barge in here like this.”

  “Anytime, Marco,” Sonny replied. “Can I get you something?”

  “Thank you, no,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Sonny, Mr. Cassandro would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”

  “I’m doing the day’s business,” Sonny said, gesturing at the table.

  “This won’t take long,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Just leave that. So we’ll be a little late, so what, it’s not the end of the world. Finish up when you come back.”

  “Whatever you say, Marco,” Sonny said. “Let me get my coat.”

  Mr. Boyle was not uncomfortable. He had seen Mr. Pietro Cassandro on several occasions but did not know him. He searched his memory desperately for something, anything, that he had done that might possibly have been misunderstood. He could think of nothing. If there was something, it had been a mistake, an honest mistake.

  The problem, obviously, was to convince Pietro Cassandro of that, to assure him that he had consciously done nothing that would in any way endanger the reputation he had built over the years for reliability and honesty.

  Sonny did not recognize the man standing by Marco D’Angelo’s black Buick four-door. He was a large man, with a massive neck showing in an open-collared sports shirt spread over his sports-jacket collar. He did not smile at Sonny.

  “You wanna get in the back, Sonny?” Mr. D’Angelo ordered. “Big as I am, there ain’t room for all of me back there.”

  “No problem at all,” Sonny said.

  He got in the backseat. Mr. D’Angelo slammed the door on him and got in the passenger seat.

  They drove to La Portabella’s Restaurant, at 1200 South Front Street, which Sonny had heard was one of Mr. Paulo Cassandro’s business interests. The parking lot looked full, but a man in a business suit, looking like a brother to the man driving Marco D’Angelo’s Buick, appeared and waved them to a parking space near the kitchen.

  They entered the building through the kitchen. Marco D’Angelo led Sonny past the stoves and food-preparation tables, and the man with the thick neck followed them.

  Marco D’Angelo knocked at a closed door.

  “Marco, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “Yeah,” a voice replied.

  D’Angelo pushed the door open and waved Sonny in ahead of him.

  It was an office. But a place had been set on the desk, at which sat another large Italian gentleman, a napkin tucked in his collar. He stood up as Sonny entered the room.

  The large Italian gentleman was, Sonny realized with a sinking heart, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Pietro’s brother. He had just had his picture in the newspaper when he had been arrested for something. The Inquirer had referred to him as a “reputed mobster.”

  “Sonny Boyle, right?” Mr. Cassandro asked, smiling and offering his hand.

  “That’s me,” Sonny said.

  “Pleased to meet you. Marco’s been telling me good things about you.”

  “He has?”

  “I appreciate your coming here like this.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Get him a glass,” Paulo Cassandro ordered. “You hungry, Sonny? I get you up from your dinner?”

  “No. A glass of wine would be fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want something to eat?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, maybe after we talk. I figure I owe you for getting you here like this. After we talk, you’ll have something. It’s the least I can do.”


  “Thank you very much.”

  “Marco tells me you’re pretty well connected in your neighborhood. Know a lot of people. That true?”

  “Well, I live in the house my mother was born in, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “The name Frank Foley mean anything to you, Sonny?”

  Sonofabitch! I didn’t even think of that!

  “I know who he is,” Sonny said.

  “Me asking looks like it made you nervous,” Paulo said. “Did it make you nervous?”

  “No. No. Why should it?”

  “You tell me. You looked nervous.”

  Sonny shrugged and waved his hands helplessly.

  “Tell me about this guy,” Paulo said.

  “I don’t know much about him,” Sonny said.

  “Tell me what you do know.”

  “Well, he’s from the neighborhood. I see him around.”

  “I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Mr. Cassandro, can I say something?”

  “That’s what I’m waiting for, Sonny.”

  “I sort of thought you knew all about him, is what I mean.”

  “I don’t know nothing about him; that’s why I’m asking. Why would you think I know all about him?”

  “I got the idea somehow that you knew each other, that he was a business associate, is what I meant.”

  “Where would you get an idea like that?”

  “That’s what people say,” Sonny said. “I got that idea from him. I thought I did. I probably misunderstood him. Got the wrong idea.”

  “Sonny, I never laid eyes on this guy. I wouldn’t know him if he walked in that door right this minute,” Paulo said.

  “Well, I’m sorry I had the wrong idea.”

  “Why should you be sorry? We all make mistakes. Tell me, what sort of business associate of mine did you think he was?”

  “Nothing specific. I just thought he worked for you.”

  “You don’t know where he works?”

  “He works at Wanamaker’s.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. In the warehouse, I think.”

  “Just between you and me, did you really think I would have somebody working for me who works in the Wanamaker’s warehouse?”