The Murderers boh-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  It is obviously important to me that Mr. Ramerez understand that I am not carrying on with him, cop or stockbroker.

  They rode in silence and somewhat awkwardly to Amy’s apartment. She unlocked the door, and entered. He followed her.

  “Coffee? Or a drink?” she asked.

  “Neither, thank you. You said you wanted to talk about Matt.”

  “I think it important that he not be left alone.”

  “Tiny Lewis-he’s a police officer…”

  “I know who he is,” Amy interrupted.

  Peter nodded and went on: “…will be at Matt’s apartment at seven-fifteen in the morning. If you think he should not be alone tonight, I can go back.”

  “I think he’ll be all right tonight,” she said. “Can you keep him busy? Especially for the next few days?”

  Wohl nodded.

  “He blames himself for Penny,” Amy said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I don’t know if you appreciate it, but he is actually rather sensitive.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what he did tonight?” she asked, and went on without waiting for a reply. “He put his arms around me and asked who holds my hand when I need it.”

  “There has been at least one applicant for that job that I know about. As I recall, you didn’t seem interested.”

  “Damn you, Peter, you’re not making this easy.”

  “I don’t know if you appreciate it, but I am actually rather sensitive,” Wohl mockingly paraphrased what she had said about Matt.

  “You bastard!” she said, but laughed. “Honest to God, Peter, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  He shrugged.

  “I lied,” Amy said.

  “Not returning calls, not being in, having ‘previous plans’ when I finally got you on the phone is not exactly lying.”

  “I mean tonight,” Amy said. “Certainly to you, and probably to myself. I knew that you, the Ancient and Honorable Order of Cops, were going to gather protectively around Matt and do more for him than I could.”

  Wohl looked at her, waiting for her to go on.

  “I wanted somebody, to hold my hand. Penny Detweiler was my patient. I failed her.”

  He looked at her a moment.

  “Somebody? Anybody? Or me?”

  “I knew you would be there,” Amy said.

  Peter held his arms open. She took several hesitant steps toward him, and ultimately wound up with her face on his chest.

  “Amy, you did everything that could be done for that girl,” Peter said, putting his hand on the back of her head, gently caressing it. “Some people are beyond help. Or don’t want it.”

  “Oh, God, Peter! I feel so lousy about it!”

  He felt her back stiffen under his hand, and then tremble with repressed sobs.

  “Tell you what I’m going to do, Doc,” he said gently. “On one condition, I will accept your kind invitation to breakfast.”

  She pushed away from him and looked up at his face.

  “I made no such invitation.”

  “That I cook breakfast. The culinary arts not being among your many other accomplishments.”

  “You think that would help?”

  “I don’t think it would hurt.”

  “I don’t even know if there’s anything in the fridge.”

  “So I’ll open a can of spaghetti.”

  Amy tried to smile, failed, and put her head against his chest. She felt his arms tighten around her.

  “Would you rather tear off my clothes here, or should we wait until we get into the bedroom?”

  It was half past seven when the ringing of his door buzzer woke Matt Payne.

  He fumbled on his bedside table for his wristwatch, saw the time, muttered a sacrilege, and got out of bed.

  The buzzer went off again, for about five seconds.

  “I’m coming, for Christ’s sake,” Matt said, although there was no possibility at all that anyone could hear him.

  There was ten seconds of silence as he looked around for his discarded underpants-it being his custom to sleep in his birthday suit-and then another five seconds of buzzer.

  He was halfway through the kitchen when the buzzer sounded again.

  He found the button that activated the door’s solenoid, pushed it, and then continued through the kitchen and the living room to the head of the stairs. When he looked down, the bulk of Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., attired in a nicely cut dark-blue suit, nearly filled the narrow stairway.

  “Tiny, what the hell do you want?” Matt asked, far less than graciously.

  “What I want to do is be home in my bed,” Tiny Lewis replied. “What I have been told to do is not let you out of my sight.”

  “By who?”

  “Wohl,” Tiny said as he reached the head of the stairs. “God, are you always that hard to wake up? I’ve been sitting on that damned buzzer for ten minutes. I was about to take the door.”

  “I didn’t get to bed until three,” Matt said.

  Tiny looked uncomfortable.

  “Matt, I don’t think booze is the solution.”

  “I was with Washington at the Mall Tavern.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Ostensibly, it was so that he and I could listen to Homicide gossip. About the time he went home, I decided it was to introduce me socially to the Homicide guys; he was playing rabbi for me.”

  “My father said they’re really going to be pissed that the Mayor sent you over there.”

  “I think their reaction, thanks to Washington, has been reduced from homicidal rage, pun intended, to bitter resentment by Washington’s act of charity. Actually, they seemed to understand it wasn’t my doing.”

  “I would have been here yesterday,” Tiny said. “Personally, not because Wohl would have sent me. But Washington said there would be enough people here then, and I should come today.” Tiny paused. “I’m sorry about what happened, Matt.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyway, you’re stuck with me,” Tiny said. “And apropos of nothing whatever, I haven’t had my breakfast.”

  “See what’s in the refrigerator while I have a shower,” Matt said.

  Matt came back into the kitchen ten minutes later to the smell of frying bacon and percolating coffee, and the sight of Tiny Lewis neatly arranging tableware on the kitchen table. He had taken off his suit jacket and put on an apron. It was a full-sized apron, but on Tiny’s massive bulk it appeared much smaller. He looked ridiculous, and Matt smiled.

  “I’ll bet you can iron very well, too,” he said.

  “Fuck you, you don’t get no breakfast,” Tiny replied amiably.

  “When you’re through with that, you can vacuum the living room.”

  “Fuck you again,” Tiny said. “Tell me about the double homicide at the Inferno.”

  Over breakfast, Matt told him.

  “This Atchison guy is very good,” he concluded. “Smart and tough. And his lawyer is good, too. Just when Milham was starting to get him, the lawyer-”

  “Who’s his lawyer?”

  “A guy named Sidney Margolis.”

  Tiny snorted. “I know who he is. A real sleazeball. My father told me he’s been reported to the bar association so often he’s got his own filing cabinet.”

  “He’s smart. He saw Milham was getting to Atchison, and said, ‘Interview over. My client is in great pain.’”

  “Was he?”

  “After Margolis told him he was, he was. And that was it.”

  “I wish I could have seen the interview,” Tiny said.

  “Milham is very good.”

  “You heard about his lady friend’s husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with it?”

  “No,” Matt said immediately.

  “Neither does my father,” Tiny said. “He said it’s two-to-one it’s something to do with Narcotics. Heading the long list of things I was absolutely forbidden to do when I came on the jo
b was accept an assignment to Narcotics. He said those guys roll around on the pigsty floor so much, and there’s so much money floating around that he’s not surprised how many of them are dirty, but how many are straight.”

  “Charley and the Little Spic were undercover narcs, and so was Captain Pekach. They’re straight.”

  “The exceptions that prove the rule,” Tiny said. “So what do we do today?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do, but I’m going out to Chestnut Hill in half an hour. Jesus, I hate to face that! The funeral is this afternoon.”

  “You mean, we’re going to Chestnut Hill. I have heard my master’s voice, and it said I’m not to let you out of my sight.”

  “Family and intimate friends only,” Matt said. “I think it will be my family, the Detweilers, and the Nesbitts. And that’s it.”

  “So what do I tell Wohl, since the riffraff aren’t welcome?”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Matt, I don’t mind feeling unwelcome. With a suntan like mine, you get pretty used to it. If I can help some way…”

  “You’d make a lousy situation worse, Tiny, but thanks,” Matt said. He got up from the table and started toward the telephone, then stopped. He touched Tiny’s shoulder, and Tiny looked up at him. “I appreciate that, pal,” Matt said.

  “Somehow saying I’m sorry about what happened doesn’t seem to be enough.”

  Matt picked up the telephone and dialed Wohl’s home number. When there was no answer, he called the headquarters of the Special Operations Division to see if, as he often did, Wohl had come to work early. When Wohl’s private line was not answered by the fifth ring, the call was automatically transferred to the line of the tour lieutenant.

  “Special Operations, Lieutenant Suffern.”

  “Matt Payne, sir. Have you got a location on the Inspector?”

  “Yeah. I got a number. Just a minute, Matt,” Lieutenant Suffern said, and then his voice changed: “Matt, I was sorry to hear…”

  “Thank you.”

  “If there’s anything I can do?”

  “I can’t think of a thing, but thank you. I appreciate the thought.”

  “Here it is,” Suffern said, “One-thirty A.M. this morning until further notice.” He then read Matt the telephone number at which Inspector Wohl could be reached.

  A look of mingled amusement and annoyance flickered across Matt’s face. The number he had been given was familiar to him. It was the one number in Greater Philadelphia where calling Inspector Wohl at this time would be a very bad idea indeed. It was that of the apartment of his sister, Amelia Payne, M.D., Ph. D.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “When you feel up to it, Matt, we’ll go hoist a couple.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said. “I’d like to.”

  Matt hung up and turned to Tiny, a smile crossing his face at his own wit.

  “Wohl can’t be reached right now,” he said. “He’s at the doctor’s.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “When all else fails, tell the truth,” Matt said. “You go to the schoolhouse and when Wohl shows up you tell him I said ‘Thank you, but no thank you, I don’t want any company.’”

  “I don’t know, Matt,” Tiny said dubiously. “Wohl wasn’t making a suggestion. He told me to sit on you.”

  “Oh, shit,” Matt said, and dialed Amy’s number.

  “Dr. Payne is not available at this time,” her answering machine reported. “If you will leave your name and number, she will return your call as soon as possible. Please wait for the tone. Thank you.”

  “Amy, I know you’re there. I need to talk to Inspector Wohl.”

  A moment later, Wohl himself came on the line.

  “What is it, Matt?”

  “Tiny Lewis is here. Having him go with me to the Detweilers’ is not such a good idea. The funeral is family and intimate friends only.”

  “So your sister has been telling me,” Wohl said. “He’s there? Put him on the line.”

  Matt held the phone up, and Tiny rose massively from the table and took it.

  “Yes, sir?” he said.

  Tiny’s was the only side of the conversation Matt could hear, and he was curious when Tiny chuckled, a deep rumble, and said, “I would, too. That’d be something to see.”

  When he hung up, Matt asked, “What would be ‘something to see’?”

  “The Mayor’s face when somebody tells him he can’t get in. Wohl said he knows the Mayor’s going to the funeral.”

  “This one he may not get to go to,” Matt said. “My father said nobody’s been invited, period.”

  “Wohl also said I was to drive you out there, if you wanted, and then to keep myself available. I was going to do that anyway.”

  “You can take me over to the Parkway as soon as I get dressed. I’m going to drive my sister out there, in her car.”

  “Yeah, sure. But listen to what I said. You need me, you know where to find me.”

  Inspector Peter Wohl was examining the hole gouged in his cheek by Amy Payne’s dull razor-and from which an astonishing flow of blood was now escaping-when Amy appeared in the bathroom door.

  She was in her underwear. It was white, and what there was of it was mostly lace. He found the sight very appealing, and wondered if that was her everyday underwear, or whether she had worn it for him.

  That pleasant notion was immediately shattered by her tone of voice and the look on her face.

  “It’s for you,” she said. “Again. Does everyone in Philadelphia know you’re here?”

  “Sorry,” he said, and quickly tore off a square of toilet paper, pressed it to the wound, and went into her bedroom. He sat on the bed and grabbed the telephone.

  “Inspector Wohl.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” Jason Washington’s deep, mellifluous voice said.

  Washington’s the soul of discretion. When he got this number from the tour lieutenant-and with that memory of his, he probably knows whose number it is-unless it was important, he would have waited until I went to work.

  “No trouble. I’m just sitting here quietly bleeding to death. Good morning, Jason. What’s up?”

  “I just had an interesting call. An informant who has been reliable with what he’s given me-which hasn’t been much-in the past. He said the Inferno murders were a mob contract.”

  “Interesting. Did he give you a name?”

  “Frankie Foley.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Amy sat on the bed beside him and put her hand on his cheek. It was a gesture of affection, but only by implication. She had a cotton swab dipped in some kind of antiseptic.

  She pulled the toilet paper bandage off and professionally swabbed his gouge.

  “Neither have I. And neither has Organized Crime or Intelligence.”

  “Even more interesting.”

  “What do you want me to do with it?”

  It was a moment before Wohl replied.

  “Give it to Homicide. And then see if you can make a connection to Cassandro.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wohl had an unpleasant thought. There was a strong possibility that he would have to remind Washington that a new chain of command was in effect. Washington was used to reporting directly to him. He might not like having to go through Weisbach.

  “What did Weisbach say when you told him?”

  “He said he thought we better give it to Homicide, but to ask you first.”

  Thank God! Personnel conflict avoided.

  “Write this down, Jason. The true sign of another man’s intelligence is the degree to which he agrees with you.”

  Washington laughed.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hung up.

  “Who was that?” Amy asked.

  “Jason Washington.”

  “I thought so. How did he know you were here? What did you do, put an ad in the Bulletin? Who else knows where you spent the night?”

  “There is a very
short list of people who have to know where I am all the time. The tour lieutenant knows where to find me. Since only Matt and Jason called, to answer your question two people have reason to suspect I spent the night here.”

  “God!”

  “There is a solution to the problem,” Peter said. “I could make an honest woman of you.”

  “Surely you jest,” she said after a moment’s pause.

  “I don’t know if I am or not,” Peter said. “You better not consider that a firm offer.”

  She stood up. “Now I’m sorry I fixed your face,” she said, and walked toward the bathroom.

  “Nice ass,” he called after her.

  She gave him the finger without turning and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

  Jesus, where did that “make an honest woman of you” crack come from?

  He stood up and started looking for his clothing.

  Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., of the Ninth District, a very tall, well-muscled man, was sitting in a wicker armchair on the enclosed porch of his home reading the Philadelphia Bulletin when Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., of Special Operations, pushed the door open and walked in.

  Tiny, who knew his father was working the midnight-out tour, was surprised to see him. It was his father’s custom, when he came off the midnight-out tour, to take a shower and go to bed and get his eight hours’ sleep. And here he was, in an obviously fresh white shirt, immaculately shaven, looking as if he was about to go on duty.

  “I thought you were working the midnight-out,” Tiny said.

  “Good morning, son. How are you? I am fine, thank you for asking,” Lieutenant Lewis said dryly.

  “Sorry.”

  “I was supposed to fill in for Lieutenant Prater, who was ill,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “When I got to the office, he had experienced a miraculous recovery. And I thought you were working days.”

  “I’m working,” Tiny said, and gestured toward the car parked in the drive.

  “How can you be working and here?”

  “My orders, Lieutenant, sir, are to stay close to the radio, in case I’m needed.”

  “You needn’t be sarcastic, Foster, it was a reasonable question.”

  “Inspector Wohl told me to give Matt Payne some company,” Tiny said. “I wasn’t needed.”

  “What a tragedy!” Lieutenant Lewis said.