The Murderers boh-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  Martinez looked at Wohl.

  Matt bounced off the curb and, tires chirping, entered the stream of traffic.

  “I should have sent you with him,” Wohl thought aloud.

  “Sir?”

  “Penelope Detweiler overdosed about an hour ago.”

  “ Madre de Dios! ” Martinez said, and crossed himself.

  “Yeah,” Wohl said bitterly, then walked back to his car.

  Martinez walked to the car but didn’t get in.

  “Get in, for Christ’s sake,” Wohl snapped, and was immediately sorry. “Sorry, Jesus. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Martinez shrugged, signaling that he understood.

  “That poor sonofabitch,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Wohl agreed.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Inspector Peter Wohl said to Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach as he walked in his office. “Something came up.”

  “The Detweiler girl?” Weisbach asked, and when Wohl nodded, added: “Sabara told me. Awful. For her-what was she, twenty-three, her whole life ahead of her-and for Payne. He was really up when you put out the call for him.”

  “Up? What for, for having put the cuffs on a crooked cop? He liked that?”

  “No. I think he felt sorry for Captain Cazerra. I think he felt vindicated. He told me that you, and Washington and Denny Coughlin, had really eaten his ass out for going out on that ledge.”

  “I wasn’t going to let it drop, either-it was damned stupid-until this…this goddamned overdose came along.”

  “I imagine he’s pretty broken up?”

  “I don’t know. No outward emotion, which may mean he really has one of those well-bred stiff upper lips we hear about, or that he’s in shock.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out at the estate. He’s coming here. I’m going to see that he’s not alone.”

  “There was a kid in here, McFadden, from Northwest Detectives, looking for him.”

  “Good. I was going to put the arm out for him. They’re pals. You think he knows what happened?”

  “I’m sure he does. When O’Mara told him Payne wasn’t here, he said something about him probably being in Chestnut Hill, and that he would go there.”

  Wohl picked up his telephone and was eventually connected with O’Connor.

  “Captain O’Connor. Inspector Wohl calling,” he said, and then: “Peter Wohl, Tom. Need a favor.”

  Weisbach faintly heard O’Connor say, “Name it.”

  “If you could see your way clear to give your Detective McFadden a little time off, I’d appreciate it. He and my Detective Payne are friends, and for the next couple of days, Payne, I’m sure you know why, is going to need all the friends he has.”

  Weisbach heard O’Connor say, “I already told him to take whatever time he needed, Inspector.”

  “I owe you one, Tom.”

  “I owe you a lot more than one, Inspector. Glad to help. Christ, what a terrible waste!”

  “Isn’t it?” Wohl said, added, “Thanks, Tom,” and hung up.

  He had a second thought, and pushed a button on the telephone that connected him with Officer O’Mara, his administrative assistant.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Two things, Paul. Inspector Weisbach and I need some coffee, and while that’s brewing, I want you to call Special Agent Jack Matthews at the FBI. Tell him I asked you to tell him what happened in Chestnut Hill this morning, and politely suggest that Detective Payne would probably be grateful for some company. That latter applies to you, too. Why don’t you stop by Payne’s apartment on your way home?”

  Weisbach heard O’Mara say, “Yes, sir.”

  Wohl looked at Weisbach as he hung up.

  “Busy morning. I feel like it’s two in the afternoon, and it’s only ten to eleven.”

  “Busier even than I think you know. Did you hear about Lowenstein turning in his papers?”

  “Jesus, no! Are you sure?”

  The door opened and Paul O’Mara walked in with a tray holding two somewhat battered mugs of coffee, a can of condensed milk, and a saucer holding a dozen paper packets of sugar bearing advertisements suggesting they were souvenirs from McDonald’s and Roy Rogers and other fast-food emporiums.

  “That was quick,” Wohl said. “Thank you, Paul.” He waited until O’Mara had left, and then said, “Tell me about Lowenstein.”

  “The first thing this morning, Harry McElroy delivered Lowenstein’s badge and a memorandum announcing his intention to retire to the Commissioner. I got that from McElroy, so that much I know for sure.”

  “God knows I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m not surprised that he’s going out-”

  Weisbach held up his hand, interrupting him.

  “Just before I came out here,” he said, “Lowenstein put out the arm for me. I met him at the Philadelphia Athletic Club on Broad Street. And not only did he not mention going out, but he didn’t act like it, either.”

  “Interesting,” Wohl said. “What did he want?”

  “I got sort of a pep talk. He told me this Ethical Affairs Unit was a good thing for me, could help my career, and that all I had to do to get anything I wanted from the Detective Division was to ask.”

  “Lowenstein and the Mayor got into it at David Pekach’s engagement party. Got into it bad. Did you hear about that?”

  “The Mayor had just seen that Charley Whaley story in the Ledger. The ‘more unsolved murders, no arrests, no comment’ story. You see that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For some reason, it displeased our mayor,” Wohl said, dryly. “The Mayor then announced he wouldn’t be surprised if Wally Milham was involved in the Kellog murder, primarily because he thinks that Milham’s morals are questionable. You’ve heard that gossip, I suppose?”

  “Milham and Kellog’s wife? Yeah, sure.”

  “The Mayor asked Lowenstein why he hadn’t spoken to him about his love life. Lowenstein told the Mayor he didn’t think it was any of his business. Then, warming to the subject, defended Milham. And then, really getting sore, Lowenstein made impolitic remarks about, quote, the Mayor’s own private detective squad, unquote.”

  “Ouch!”

  “Whereupon the Mayor told him if he didn’t like the way things were being run, he should talk it over with the Commissioner. And then-he was really in a lousy mood-to make the point to the Chief who was running the Department, he told him ‘the Commissioner’ was going to send Matt Payne, who knows zilch about Homicide, over to Homicide to (a) help with the double murder at that gin mill on Market Street-”

  “The Inferno?”

  “Right. And (b) to see what he could learn about other Homicide investigations, meaning, of course, how Homicide is handling the Kellog job.”

  “My God!”

  “I thought Lowenstein was going to have a heart attack. Or punch out the Mayor. It was that bad. I’m not surprised, now that I hear it, that he turned in his papers.”

  “I got it from Harry McElroy that he did. But then he didn’t act like it when he sent for me.”

  “OK. How’s this for a scenario? Czernich ran to the Mayor with Lowenstein’s retirement memorandum. The Mayor hadn’t wanted to go that far with Chief Lowenstein. Christ, they’ve been friends for years. He didn’t want him to quit. So they struck a deal. Lowenstein would stay on the job if certain conditions were met. They apparently were. And since they almost certainly involve you and me, we’ll probably hear about them sometime next month.”

  Weisbach considered what Wohl had said, then nodded his head, accepting the scenario.

  “So what do I do this month? Peter, you can’t be happy with me-the Ethical Affairs Unit-being suddenly dumped on you.”

  “I don’t have any problems with it,” Wohl said. “First of all, it, and/or you, haven’t been dumped on me. All I have to do is support you, and I have no problem with that. I think the EAU is a good idea, that you are just the guy to run it, and I think your work is already cut out for you.” />
  “You really think it’s a good idea?” Weisbach asked, surprised. Wohl nodded. “And what do you mean my work is already cut out for me?”

  “The Widow Kellog showed up at Jason Washington’s apartment the night her husband was killed with the announcement that everybody in Five Squad in Narcotics-you know about Five Squad?”

  “Not much. I’ve heard they’re very effective.” He chuckled, and added: “Sort of an unshaven Highway Patrol, in dirty clothes, beards, and T-shirts-concealing unauthorized weapons-reading ‘Legalize Marijuana,’ who cast fear into the drug culture by making middle-of-the-night raids.”

  “Everybody in Five Squad, according to the Widow Kellog, is dirty, and she implied that they did her husband.”

  “My God!”

  “Washington believes her, at least about the whole Five Squad being dirty. Before all this crap happened, I was going to bring you in on it.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “Practically speaking, our priorities are the Mayor’s priorities. I don’t think he wants to be surprised again by dirty Narcotics people the way he was with Cazerra and company. Internal Affairs dropped the ball on that one, and I don’t think we can give them the benefit of the doubt on this one. Yeah, it looks to me that you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

  “What kind of help can I have?”

  “Anything you want. Washington and Harris, after getting their hands dirty on the Cazerra job, would love to work on a nice clean Homicide, especially of a police officer. And if there is a tie to Narcotics…Jesus!”

  “What?”

  “I forgot about the Mayor ordering Payne into Homicide,” Wohl said. He reached for his telephone, pushed a button, and a moment later ordered, “Paul, would you get Chief Lowenstein for me, please?”

  He put the telephone down.

  “Drink your coffee, Mike,” he said. “The first thing you’re going to have to do is face the fact that your innocent, happy days as a staff inspector are over. You have just moved into the world of police politics, and you’re probably not going to like it at all.”

  “That thought had already run through my mind,” Weisbach said. He picked up his mug and, shaking his head, put it to his mouth.

  The telephone rang. Wohl picked it up.

  “Good morning, Chief,” he said. “I wanted to check with you about sending Detective Payne to Homicide. Is that still on?”

  He took the headset from his ear so that Weisbach could hear the Chief’s reply.

  “Denny Coughlin just told me what happened to the Detweiler girl,” Lowenstein said. “I presume you’re giving Matt some time off?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, when he comes back, send him over whenever you can spare him. I’ve spoken to Captain Quaire. They’re waiting for him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And please tell him I’m sorry about what happened. That’s really a goddamn shame.”

  “I’ll tell him that, sir. Thank you.”

  “Nice talking to you, Peter,” Chief Lowenstein said, and hung up.

  “He didn’t sound like someone about to retire, did he?” Weisbach said.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  One of the telephones on Wohl’s desk rang.

  “This is what happens when I forget to tell Paul to hold my calls,” he said as he reached for it. “Inspector Wohl.”

  “Ah, Peter,” Weisbach overheard. “How is the Beau Brummell of Philadelphia law enforcement this morning?”

  “Why is it, Armando, that whenever I hear your voice, I think of King Henry the Sixth?”

  “Peter, you are, as you well know, quoting that infamous Shakespearean ‘kill all the lawyers’ line out of context.”

  “Well, he had the right idea, anyhow. What can I do for you, Armando?”

  “Actually, I was led to believe that Inspector Weisbach could be reached at your office.”

  “I’d love to know who told you that,” Wohl said, and then handed the telephone to Weisbach. “Armando C. Giacomo, Esquire, for you, Inspector.”

  Giacomo, a slight, lithe, dapper man who wore what was left of his hair plastered to the sides of his tanned skull, was one of the best criminal lawyers in Philadelphia.

  Wohl got up from his desk and walked to his window and looked out. He could therefore hear only Weisbach’s side of the brief conversation.

  “I’ll call you back in five minutes,” Weisbach concluded, and hung up.

  Wohl walked back to his desk.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Giacomo has been asked to represent Mr. Paulo Cassandro.”

  “I’ll bet that he has,” Weisbach said. “But he didn’t say so. What he said was that it would give him great pleasure if I would have lunch with him today at the Rittenhouse Club, during which he would like to discuss something which would be to our mutual benefit.”

  “I’d go, if I were you,” Wohl said. “They set a very nice table at the Rittenhouse Club.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I’m not in the mood for lunch, really, even at the Rittenhouse Club.”

  “He’s looking for something, which means he’s desperate. I’d like to have you there.”

  “Yeah,” Wohl said, thoughtfully. “If he’s looking for a deal, he would have gone to the District Attorney. It might be interesting.”

  He pushed the button for Paul O’Mara.

  “Paul, call Armando C. Giacomo. Tell him that Inspector Weisbach accepts his kind invitation to lunch at the Rittenhouse Club at one, and that he’s bringing me with him.”

  THIRTEEN

  Peter Wohl pushed open the heavy door of the Rittenhouse Club and motioned for Mike Weisbach to go in ahead of him. They climbed a wide, shallow flight of carpeted marble stairs to the lobby, where they were intercepted by the club porter, a dignified black man in his sixties.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  “Mr. Weisbach and myself as the guests of Mr. Giacomo,” Peter said.

  “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Wohl,” the porter said, and glanced at what Peter thought of as the Who’s Here Board behind his polished mahogany stand. “I believe Mr. Giacomo is in the club. Would you please have a seat?”

  He gestured toward a row of chairs against the wall, then walked into the club.

  The Who’s Here Board behind the porter’s stand listed, alphabetically, the names of the three-hundred-odd members of the Rittenhouse Club. Beside each name was an inch-long piece of brass, which could be slid back and forth in a track. When the marker was next to the member’s name, this indicated he was on the premises; when away from it that he was not.

  Peter saw Weisbach looking at the board with interest. The list of names represented the power structure, social and business, of Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s upper crust belonged to either the Rittenhouse Club or the Union League, or both.

  Peter saw that Carlucci, J., an ex officio member, was not in the club. Giacomo, A., was. So was Mawson, J., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, who competed with Giacomo, A., for being the best (which translated to mean most expensive) criminal lawyer in the city. Payne, B., Mawson, J.’s, law partner, was not.

  And neither, Wohl noticed with interest, was Payne, M.

  I didn’t know Matt was a member. That’s new.

  Possibly, he thought, Detweiler, H., had suggested to Payne, B., that they have a word with the Membership Committee. Since their offspring were about to be married, it was time that Payne, M., should be put up for membership. Young Nesbitt, C. IV, had become a member shortly before his marriage to the daughter of Browne, S.

  Wohl had heard that the Rittenhouse Club initiation fee was something like the old saw about how much a yacht cost: If you had to ask what it cost, you couldn’t afford it.

  The porter returned.

  “Mr. Giacomo is in the bar, Mr. Wohl. You know the way?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Peter said, and led Weisbach into the club bar, a quiet, deeply carpeted, w
ood-paneled room, furnished with twenty or so small tables, at each of which were rather small leather-upholstered armchairs. The tables were spaced so that a soft conversation could not be heard at the tables adjacent to it.

  Armando C. Giacomo rose, smiling, from one of the chairs when he saw Wohl and Weisbach, and waved them over.

  Wohl thought Giacomo was an interesting man. His family had been in Philadelphia from the time of the Revolution. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the Yale School of Law. He had flown Corsairs as a Naval Aviator in the Korean War. He could have had a law practice much like Brewster Cortland Payne’s, with clientele drawn from banks and insurance companies and familial connections.

  He had elected, instead, to become a criminal lawyer, and was known (somewhat unfairly, Wohl thought) as the Mob’s Lawyer, which suggested that he himself was involved in criminal activity. So far as Wohl knew, Giacomo’s personal ethics were impeccable. He represented those criminals who could afford his services when they were hauled before the bar of justice, and more often than not defended them successfully.

  Wohl had come to believe that Giacomo held the mob in just about as much contempt as he did, and that he represented them both because they had the financial resources to pay him, and also because he really believed that an accused was entitled to good legal representation, not so much for himself personally, but as a reinforcement of the Constitution.

  Giacomo was also held in high regard by most police officers, primarily because he represented, pro bono publico, police officers charged with police brutality and other infractions of the law. He would not, in other words, represent Captain Vito Cazerra, because Cazerra could not afford him. But he would represent an ordinary police officer charged with the use of excessive force or otherwise violating the civil rights of a citizen, and do so without charge.

  “Peter,” Giacomo said. “I’m delighted that you could join us.”

  “I didn’t want Mike to walk out of here barefoot, Armando, but thank you for your hospitality.”

  “I only talk other people out of their shoes, Peter, not my friends.”

  “And the check is in the mail, right?” Weisbach said, laughing as they shook hands.