The Murderers boh-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I thought I told you to close your mouth,” the Mayor said, then looked at Fellows. “Jack, call down to the courtyard and see if there’s an unmarked car down there. If there is, I want it. You drive. If there isn’t, call Special Operations and have them meet us with one at Broad and Roosevelt Boulevard.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fellows reported, and picked up the telephone again.

  The Mayor watched, his face expressionless, as Fellows called the sergeant in charge of the City Hall detail.

  “Inspector Taylor’s car is down there, Mr. Mayor,” Fellows reported.

  “Go get it. I’ll be down in a minute,” the Mayor ordered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Mayor watched Fellows hurry out of his office and then turned to Commissioner Czernich.

  “How many people know about that memo?”

  “Just yourself and me, Mr. Mayor. And now Jack Fellows.”

  “Keep-” the Mayor began.

  “And Harry McElroy,” Czernich interrupted him. “It wasn’t even sealed. The envelope, I mean.”

  “Keep it that way, Tad. You understand me?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Mayor.”

  The Mayor stood up and walked out of his office.

  “Sarah,” the Mayor of the City of Philadelphia said gently to the gray-haired, soft-faced woman standing behind the barely opened door of a row house on Tyson Street, off Roosevelt Boulevard, “I know he’s in there.”

  She just looked at him.

  She looks close to tears, the Mayor thought. Hell, she has been crying. Goddamnitalltohell!

  “What do you want me to do, Sarah?” the Mayor asked very gently. “Take the door?”

  The door closed in his face. There was the sound of a door chain rattling, and then the door opened. Sarah Lowenstein stood behind it.

  “In the kitchen,” she said softly.

  “Thank you,” the Mayor said, and walked into the house and down the corridor beside the stairs and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.

  Chief Matthew L. Lowenstein, in a sleeveless undershirt, was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee. He looked up when he heard the door open, and then, when he saw the Mayor, quickly averted his gaze.

  The Mayor laid Lowenstein’s badge and photo ID on the table.

  “What is this shit, Matt?”

  “I’m trying to remember,” Lowenstein said. “I think if you just walked in, that’s simple trespassing. If you took the door, that’s forcible entry.”

  “Sarah let me in.”

  “I told her not to. What’s on your mind, Mr. Mayor?”

  “I want to know what the hell this is all about.”

  Lowenstein raised his eyes to look at the Mayor.

  “OK,” he said. “What it’s all about is that you don’t need a chief of detectives you don’t trust.”

  “Who said I don’t trust you? For God’s sake, we go back a long way together, twenty-five years, at least. Of course I trust you.”

  “That’s why you’re running your own detective squad, right? And you didn’t tell me about it because you trust me? Bullshit, Jerry, you don’t trust me. My character or my professional competence.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “And I don’t have to take your bullshit, either. I’m not Taddeus Czernich. I’ve got my time on the job. I don’t need it, in other words.”

  “What are you pissed off about? What happened at that goddamned party? Matt, for Christ’s sake, I was upset.”

  “You were a pretty good cop, Jerry. Not as good as you think you were, but good. But that doesn’t mean that nobody else in the Department is as smart as you, or as honest. I’m as good a cop, probably better- I never nearly got thrown out of the Department or indicted-than you ever were. So let me put it another way. I’m sick of your bullshit, I don’t have to put up with it, and I don’t intend to. I’m out.”

  “Come on, Matt!”

  “I’m out,” Lowenstein repeated flatly. “Find somebody else to push around. Make Peter Wohl Chief of Detectives. You really already have.”

  “So that’s it. You’re pissed because I gave Wohl Ethical Affairs?”

  “That whole Ethical Affairs idea stinks. Internal Affairs, a part of the Detective Bureau, is supposed to find dirty cops. And by and large, they do a pretty good job of it.”

  “Not this time, they didn’t,” the Mayor said.

  “I was working on it. I was getting close.”

  “There are political considerations,” the Mayor said.

  “Yeah, political considerations,” Lowenstein said bitterly.

  “Yeah, political considerations,” Carlucci said. “And don’t raise your nose at them. You better hope I get reelected, or you’re liable to have a mayor and a police commissioner you’d really have trouble with.”

  “We don’t have a police commissioner now. We have a parrot.”

  “That’s true,” the Mayor said. “But he takes a good picture, and he doesn’t give you any trouble. Admit it.”

  “An original thought and a cold drink of water would kill the Polack,” Lowenstein said.

  “But he doesn’t give you any trouble, does he, Matt?” the Mayor persisted.

  “You give me the goddamned trouble. Gave me. Past tense. I’m out.”

  “You can’t quit now.”

  “Watch me.”

  “The Department’s in trouble. Deep trouble. It needs you. I need you.”

  “You mean you’re in trouble about getting yourself reelected.”

  “If I don’t get reelected, then the Department will be in even worse trouble.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the Department wouldn’t be in trouble if you let the people who are supposed to run it actually run it?”

  “You know I love the Department, Matt,” the Mayor said. “Everything I try to do is for the good of the Department.”

  “Like I said, make Peter Wohl chief of detectives. He’s already investigating everything but recovered stolen vehicles. Jesus, you even sent the Payne kid in to spy on Homicide.”

  “I sent the Payne kid over there to piss you off. I was already upset about these goddamned scumbags Cazerra and Meyer, and then you give me an argument about your detective who got caught screwing his wife’s sister, and whose current girlfriend is probably involved in shooting her husband.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  “I wish I did know it.”

  Lowenstein looked at the Mayor and then shook his head.

  “That’s what Augie Wohl said. And Sarah said it, too. That you did that just to piss me off.”

  “And it worked, didn’t it?” the Mayor said, pleased. “Better than I hoped.”

  “You sonofabitch, Jerry,” Lowenstein said.

  “Augie and Sarah are only partly right. Pissing you off wasn’t the only thing I had in mind.”

  “What else?”

  “I gave Ethical Affairs to Peter Wohl for political considerations, and even if you don’t like the phrase, I have to worry about it. Peter’s Mr. Clean in the public eye, the guy who put Judge Moses Findermann away. I needed something for the newspapers besides ‘Internal Affairs is conducting an investigation of these allegations.’ Christ, can’t you see that? The papers, especially the Ledger, are always crying ‘Police cover-up!’ If I said that Internal Affairs was now investigating something they should have found out themselves, what would that look like?”

  Chief Lowenstein granted the point, somewhat unwillingly, with a shrug.

  “What’s that got to do with Payne, sending him in to spy on Homicide?”

  “Same principle. His picture has been all over the papers. Payne is the kind of cop the public wants. It’s like TV and the movies. A good-looking young cop kills the bad guys and doesn’t steal money.”

  There was a faint suggestion of a smile on Lowenstein’s lips.

  “So I figured if I send Payne to spend some time at Homicide (a) he can’t really do an
y harm over there and (b) if it turns out your man who can’t keep his dick in his pocket and/or the widow-and get pissed if you want, Matt, but that wouldn’t surprise me a bit if that’s the way it turns out-had something to do with Kellog getting himself shot, then what the papers have is another example of one of Mr. Clean’s hotshots cleaning up the Police Department.”

  “I talked to Wally Milham, Jerry. I’ve seen enough killers and been around enough cops to know a killer and/or a lying cop when I see one. He didn’t do it.”

  “Maybe he didn’t, but if she had something to do with it, and he’s been fucking her, which is now common knowledge, it’s the same thing. You talk to her?”

  “No,” Lowenstein said.

  “Maybe you should,” the Mayor said.

  “You’re not listening to me. I’m going out. I’m going to move to some goddamned place at the shore and walk up and down the beach.”

  “We haven’t even got around to talking about that.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “You haven’t even heard my offer.”

  “I don’t want to hear your goddamned offer.”

  “How do you know until you hear it?”

  “Jesus Christ, can’t you take no for an answer?”

  “No. Not with you. Not when the Department needs you.”

  The kitchen door swung open.

  “I thought maybe you’d need some more coffee,” Sarah Lowenstein said a little nervously.

  “You still got that stuff you bought to get rid of the rats?” Chief Lowenstein said. “Put two heaping tablespoons, three, in Jerry’s cup.”

  “You two have been friends so long,” Sarah said. “It’s not right that you should fight.”

  “Tell him, Sarah,” the Mayor said. “I am the spirit of reasonableness and conciliation.”

  “Four tablespoons, honey,” Chief Lowenstein said.

  TWELVE

  Brewster Cortland Payne II had stopped in a service station on City Line Avenue and called his home. Mrs. Newman had told him there had been no call from Violet, the Detweiler maid, telling him to which hospital Penny had been taken.

  If she hadn’t been taken to a hospital, he reasoned, there was a chance that the situation wasn’t as bad as initially reported; that Penny might have been unconscious-that sometimes happened when drugs were involved-rather than, as Violet had reported, “gone,” and had regained consciousness.

  If that had happened, Dick Detweiler would have been reluctant to have her taken to a hospital; she could be cared for at home by Dr. Dotson, the family physician, or Amy Payne, M.D., and the incident could be kept quiet.

  He got back behind the wheel of the Buick station wagon and drove to West Chestnut Hill Avenue.

  He realized the moment he drove through the open gates of the estate that the hope that things weren’t as bad as reported had been wishful thinking. There was an ambulance and two police cars parked in front of the house, and a third car, unmarked, but from its black-walled tires and battered appearance almost certainly a police car, pulled in behind him as he was getting out of the station wagon.

  The driver got out. Payne saw that he was a police captain.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the Captain called to him as Payne started up the stairs to the patio.

  Payne stopped and turned.

  “I’m Captain O’Connor. Northwest Detectives. May I ask who you are, sir?”

  “My name is Payne. I am Mr. Detweiler’s attorney.”

  “We’ve got a pretty unpleasant situation here, Mr. Payne,” O’Connor said, offering Payne his hand.

  “Just how bad is it?”

  “About as bad as it can get, I’m afraid,” O’Connor said, and tilted his head toward the patio.

  Payne looked and for the first time saw the blanket-covered body on the stretcher.

  “Oh, God!”

  “Mr. Payne, Chief Inspector Coughlin is on his way here. Do you happen to know…?”

  “I know the Chief,” Payne said softly.

  “I don’t have any of the details myself,” O’Connor said. “But I’d like to suggest that you…”

  “I’m going to see my client, Captain,” Payne said, softly but firmly. “Unless there is some reason…?”

  “I’d guess he’s in the house, sir,” O’Connor said.

  “Thank you,” Payne said, and turned and walked onto the patio. The door was closed but unlocked. Payne walked through it and started to cross the foyer. Then he stopped and picked up a telephone mounted in a small alcove beside the door.

  He dialed a number from memory.

  “Nesfoods International. Good morning.”

  “Let me have the Chief of Security, please,” he said.

  “Mr. Schraeder’s office.”

  “My name is Brewster C. Payne. I’m calling for Mr. Richard Detweiler. Mr. Schraeder, please.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Payne. How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Schraeder, just as soon as you can, will you please send some security officers to Mr. Detweiler’s home? Six, or eight. I think their services will be required, day and night, for the next four or five days, so I suggest you plan for that.”

  “I’ll have someone there in half an hour, Mr. Payne,” Schraeder said. “Would you care to tell me the nature of the problem? Or should I come out there myself?”

  “I think it would be helpful if you came here, Mr. Schraeder,” Payne said.

  “I’m on my way, sir,” Schraeder said.

  Payne put the telephone back in its cradle and turned from the alcove in the wall.

  Captain O’Connor was standing there.

  “Dr. Amelia Payne is on her way here,” Payne said. “As is my wife. They will wish to be with the Detweilers.”

  “I understand, sir. No problem.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Payne said.

  “Mr. Detweiler is in there,” O’Connor said, pointing toward the downstairs sitting room. “I believe Mrs. Detweiler is upstairs.”

  “Thank you,” Payne said, and walked to the downstairs sitting room and pushed the door open.

  H. Richard Detweiler was sitting in a red leather chair-his chair-with his hands folded in his lap, looking at the floor. He raised his eyes.

  “Brew,” he said, and smiled.

  “Dick.”

  “Everything was going just fine, Brew. The night before last, Penny and Matt had dinner with Chad and Daffy to celebrate Chad’s promotion. And last night, they were at Martha Peebles’s. And one day, three, four days ago, Matt came out and the two of them made cheese dogs for us. You know, you slit the hot dog and put cheese inside and then wrap it in bacon. They made them for us on the charcoal thing. And then they went to the movies. She seemed so happy, Brew. And now this.”

  “I’m very sorry, Dick.”

  “Oh, goddamn it all to hell, Brew,” H. Richard Detweiler said. He started to sob. “When I went in there, her eyes were open, but I knew.”

  He started to weep.

  Brewster Cortland Payne went to him and put his arms around him.

  “Steady, lad,” he said, somewhat brokenly as tears ran down his own cheeks. “Steady.”

  The Buick station wagon in which Amelia Payne, M.D., drove through the gates of the Detweiler estate was identical in model, color, and even the Rose Tree Hunt and Merion Cricket Club parking decalcomanias on the rear window to the one her father had driven through the gates five minutes before, except that it was two years older, had a large number of dings and dents on the body, a badly damaged right front fender, and was sorely in need of a passage through a car wash.

  The car had, in fact, been Dr. Payne’s father’s car. He had made it available to his daughter at a very good price because, he said, the trade-in allowance on his new car had been grossly inadequate. That was not the whole truth. While Brewster Payne had been quietly incensed at the trade-in price offered for a two-year-old car with less that 15,000 miles on the odometer and in showroom condition, the real reason was th
at the skillful chauffeuring of an automobile was not among his daughter’s many skills and accomplishments.

  “She needs something substantial, like the Buick, something that will survive a crash,” he confided to his wife. “If I could, I’d get her a tank or an armored car. When Amy gets behind the wheel, she reminds me of that comic-strip character with the black cloud of inevitable disaster floating over his head.”

  It was not that she was reckless, or had a heavy foot on the accelerator, but rather that she simply didn’t seem to care. Her father had decided that this was because Amy had-always had had-things on her mind far more important than the possibility of a dented fender, hers or someone else’s.

  In the third grade when Amy had been sent to see a psychiatrist for her behavior in class (when she wasn’t causing all sorts of trouble, she was in the habit of taking a nap) the psychiatrist quickly determined the cause. She was, according to the three different tests to which he subjected her, a genius. She was bored with the third grade.

  At ten, she was admitted to a high school for the intellectually gifted operated by the University of Pennsylvania, and matriculated at the University of Pennsylvania at the age of thirteen, because of her extraordinary mathematical ability.

  “Theoretical mathematics, of course,” her father joked to intimate friends. “Double Doctor Payne is absolutely unable to balance a checkbook.”

  That was a reference to her two doctoral degrees, the first a Ph. D. earned at twenty with a dissertation on probability, the second an M.D. earned at twenty-three after she had gone through what her father thought of as a dangerous dalliance with a handsome Jesuit priest nearly twice her age. She emerged from this (so far as he knew platonic) relationship with a need to serve God by serving mankind. Her original intention was to become a surgeon, specializing in trauma injuries, but during her internship at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital, she decided to become a psychiatrist. She trained at the Menninger Clinic, then returned to Philadelphia, where she had a private practice and taught at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine.

  She was now twenty-nine and had never married, although a steady stream of young men had passed through her life. Her father privately thought she scared them off with her brainpower. He could think of no other reason she was still single. She was attractive, he thought, and charming, and had a sense of humor much like his own.