The Murderers boh-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  Wohl smiled again.

  “Going along with your ‘menacing forces of exposure and punishment’ theory, Jason, it seems to me that you are the most menacing of all.”

  “I will interpret that as a compliment,” Washington said.

  “You and Matt were in on the Inferno job from the beginning. So why don’t you two go see Mr. Atchison first? Right now, McFadden can go see Joe D’Amata and tell him what Mr. Boyle has had to say, and that I suggest it might be helpful if you were there when he speaks with Mr. Foley.”

  Washington nodded.

  “And then McFadden can go to see Milham at Matt’s apartment-”

  “Where I devoutly hope he is having at least a modicum of success in trying to convince the Widow Kellog that she should not regard me as menacing,” Washington interrupted. “And tell me what she knows about Five Squad.”

  “-and tell him what McFadden’s friend has told us about Mr. Foley,” Wohl continued. “That will also place Charley at Matt’s apartment, where he can work out the sitting-on-Mrs. Kellog schedule with Martinez and Tiny Lewis.”

  “A masterful display of organizational genius,” Washington said.

  “And meanwhile, I’ll bring Inspector Weisbach in on all this. Any questions?”

  McFadden held up his hand.

  “How do I get from here to Matt’s place, Inspector?”

  “Take the car Matt’s driving.”

  “If I went with him, and met Jason…where are we going to see Atchison?”

  “In the beast’s lair,” Washington said. “At his home.”

  “I could pick up my car at the apartment, if I went with Charley.”

  “Meet me at the Media police station,” Washington said. “Where I will be stroking the locals.”

  “I’ll call out there if you like, Jason,” Wohl offered.

  “Thank you, no. Lieutenant Swann and I are old friends,” Washington said. He got to his feet. “I am reluctant to say this, aware as I am of your already monumental egos, but you two done good.”

  McFadden actually blushed.

  “I ally myself with the comments of Sergeant Washington,” Wohl said. “Especially the part about your already monumental egos.”

  Detective Matthew Payne had been inside the Media Police Headquarters before, the circumstances of which came to mind as he pulled the Porsche into a visitors’ parking slot outside the redbrick, vaguely Colonial-appearing building in the Philadelphia suburb.

  It had been during his last year at Episcopal Academy. He had been in the company of Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV and two females, all of them bound for the Rose Tree Hunt Club. One of the females had been Daffy Browne, he remembered, but he could not recall either the name or the face of the one he’d been with in the backseat of Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt III’s Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow.

  He remembered only that he had finally managed to disengage the fastening of her brassiere only moments before a howling siren and flashing lights had announced the presence of the Media Police Department.

  Chad was charged with going sixty-eight miles per hour in a forty-mile-per-hour zone; with operating a motor vehicle under the influence of alcohol; with operating a motor vehicle without a valid driver’s license in his possession; and operating a motor vehicle without the necessary registration documents therefore.

  Chad didn’t have a driver’s license in his possession because it had been confiscated by his father to make the point that failing two of four Major Curriculum subjects in Mid-Year Examinations was not socially acceptable behavior. He didn’t have the registration for the Rolls because he was absolutely forbidden to get behind the wheel of the Rolls under any circumstances, not only while undergoing durance vile. He was driving the Rolls because his parents were spending the weekend in the Bahamas, and he thought they would never know.

  Everyone in the Rolls had been charged with unlawful possession of alcoholic beverages by minors. The Rolls was parked on the side of the Baltimore Pike, and all four miscreants (the females sniffling in shame and humiliation) were hauled off to Media Police Headquarters and placed in a holding cell.

  It had been necessary to telephone Brewster Cortland Payne II at five minutes to two in the morning. Mr. Payne had arrived at the police station a half hour later, arranged the appropriate bail for the females, and taken them home, leaving a greatly surprised Matt and Chad looking out from behind the holding cell bars.

  Brewster Cortland Payne II had a day or two later informed Matt that he had decided spending the night in jail would have a more efficacious effect on Matt (and Chad) than anything he could think of to say at the time.

  Matt got out of the Porsche and walked into Police Headquarters.

  “Help you?” the sergeant behind the desk asked.

  “I’m Detective Payne,” Matt said. “I’m supposed to meet Sergeant Washington in Lieutenant Swann’s office?”

  “Down the corridor, third door on the right.”

  Washington and Lieutenant Swann, a tall, thin man in his forties, were drinking coffee.

  “How are you, Payne?” Lieutenant Swann said after Washington made the introduction. “I know your dad, I think. Providence Road, in Wallingford?”

  “Yes, sir,” Matt said.

  “Known him for years,” Lieutenant Swann said.

  Is he laughing at me behind that straight face?

  “Lieutenant Swann’s been telling me that Mr. Atchison is a model citizen,” Washington said. “An officer in the National Guard, among other things.”

  “When we heard about what happened, we thought it was the way it was reported in the papers,” Swann said. “This is very interesting.”

  “Strange things happen,” Washington said. “It may have been just the way it was reported in the papers.”

  “But you don’t think so, do you, Jason?”

  “I am not wholly convinced of his absolute innocence,” Washington said.

  “You want me to go over there with you, Jason?”

  “I’d rather keep this low-key, if you’ll go along,” Jason said. “Just drop in to ask him about Mr. Foley.”

  “Whatever you want, Jason. I owe you a couple.”

  “The reverse is true, Johnny,” Washington said. “I add this to a long list of courtesies to be repaid.”

  Lieutenant Swann stood up and put out his hand.

  “Anytime, Jason. Nice to see you-again-Payne.”

  Goddamn it, he does remember.

  “It was much nicer to come in the front door all by myself,” Matt said.

  “Well, what the hell,” Lieutenant Swann said, laughing. “We all stub our toes once in a while. You seem to be on the straight and narrow now.”

  “I don’t know what that was all about,” Washington said, “but appearances, Johnny, can be deceiving.”

  320 Wilson Avenue, Media, Pennsylvania, was a two-story brick Colonial house sitting in a well-kept lawn on a tree-lined street. A cast-iron jockey on the lawn held a sign reading “320 Wilson, Atchison.” There was a black mourning wreath hanging on the door. Decalcomania on the small windows of the white door announced that the occupants had contributed to the Red Cross, United Way, Boy Scouts, and the Girl Scout Cookie Program. When Washington pushed the doorbell, they could hear chimes playing, “Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home.”

  A young black maid in a gray dress answered the door.

  “Mr. Atchison, please,” Jason said. “My name is Washington.”

  “Mr. Atchison’s not at home,” the maid said. The obvious lie made her obviously nervous.

  “Please tell Mr. Atchison that Sergeant Washington of the Philadelphia Police Department would be grateful for a few minutes of his time.”

  She closed the door in their faces. What seemed like a long time later, it reopened. Gerald North Atchison, wearing a crisp white shirt, no tie, slacks, and leaning on a cane, stood there.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said cordially. “Do you remember me?�
�

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “How’s the leg?” Washington asked.

  For answer, Atchison raised the cane and waved it.

  “You remember Detective Payne?”

  “Yeah, sure. How are you, Payne?”

  “Mr. Atchison.”

  “We really hate to disturb you at home, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “But we have a few questions.”

  “I was hoping you were here to tell me you got the bastards who did…”

  “We’re getting closer, Mr. Atchison. It’s getting to be a process of elimination. We think you can probably help us, if you can spare us a minute or two.”

  “Christ, I don’t know. My lawyer told me I wasn’t to answer any more questions if he wasn’t there.”

  “Sidney Margolis is protecting your interests, as he should. But we’re trying to keep this as informal as possible. To keep you from having to go to Mr. Margolis’s office, or ours.”

  “Yeah, I know. But…”

  “Let me suggest this, Mr. Atchison, to save us both time and inconvenience. I give you my word that if you find any of my questions are in any way inconvenient, if you have any doubt whatever that you shouldn’t answer them without Mr. Margolis’s advice, you simply say ‘Pass,’ and I will drop that question and any similar to it.”

  “Well, Sergeant, you put me on a spot. You know I want to cooperate, but Margolis said…”

  “The decision, of course, is yours. And I will understand no matter what you decide.”

  Atchison hesitated a moment and then swung the door open.

  “What the hell,” he said. “I want to be as helpful as I can. I want whoever did what they did to my wife and Tony Marcuzzi caught and fried.”

  “Thank you very much,” Washington said. “There’s just a few things that we’d like to ask your opinion about.”

  “Whatever I can do to help,” Atchison said. “Can I have the girl get you some coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “I don’t know about Matt here, but the detective in me tells me it’s very likely that a restaurateur would have some drinkable coffee in his house.”

  “I have some special from Brazil,” Atchison said. “ Bean coffee. Dark roast. I grind it just before I brew it.”

  “I accept your kind invitation,” Washington said.

  “And so do I,” Matt said.

  “Let me show it to you,” Atchison said.

  They followed him into the kitchen and watched his coffee-brewing ritual.

  Washington, Matt thought, looked genuinely interested.

  Finally they returned to the living room.

  “Sit down,” Atchison said. “Let me know how I can help.”

  Washington sipped his coffee.

  “ Very nice!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” Atchison said.

  “Mr. Atchison,” Washington began. “As a general rule of thumb, in cases like this, we’ve found that usually robbers will observe a place of business carefully before they act. And we’re working on the premise that whoever did this were professional criminals.”

  “They certainly seemed to know what they were doing,” Atchison agreed.

  “So it would therefore follow that they did, in fact, more than likely, decide to rob your place of business some time, days, weeks, before they actually committed the crime. That they (a) decided that your establishment was worth their time and the risk involved to rob; and (b) planned their robbery carefully.”

  “I can see what you mean,” Atchison said.

  “Would you say that it was common knowledge that you sometimes had large amounts of cash on the premises?”

  “I think most bars and restaurants do,” Atchison said. “They have to. A good customer wants to cash a check for a couple of hundred, even a thousand, you look foolish if you can’t accommodate him.”

  “I thought it would be something like that,” Washington said. “That’s helpful.”

  “And I never keep the cash in the register, either, I always keep it downstairs in the safe. You know that neighborhood, Sergeant, I don’t have to tell you. Sometimes, when there’s a busy night, I even take large amounts of cash out of the register and take it down and put it in the safe.”

  “In other words, you would say you take the precautions a prudent businessman would take under the circumstances.”

  “I think you could say that, yes.”

  “We’ve found, over the years-and I certainly hope you won’t take offense over the question-that in some cases, employees have a connection with robberies of this nature.”

  “I guess that would happen.”

  “Would you mind giving me your opinion of Thomas Melrose?” Washington asked. “He was, I believe, the bartender on duty that night?”

  “Tommy went off duty before those men came in,” Atchison replied, and then hesitated a moment before continuing: “I just can’t believe Tommy Melrose would be involved in anything like this.”

  “But he was aware that you frequently kept large amounts of cash in your office.”

  “Yes, I guess he was,” Atchison said reluctantly.

  “How long has Mr. Melrose been working for you?” Washington asked.

  “About nine months,” Atchison replied, after thinking about it.

  “He came well recommended?”

  “Oh, absolutely. You have to be very careful about hiring bartenders. An open cash drawer is quite a temptation.”

  “Do you think you still have his references? I presume you checked them.”

  “Oh, I checked them, all right. And I suppose they’re in a filing cabinet someplace.”

  “When you feel a little better, Mr. Atchison, do you think we could have a look at them?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Mr. Melrose said that business was slow the night of this incident.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “He said there was, just before he went off duty, only one customer in the place; and that when that last customer left, you took over for him tending bar.”

  “That’s right. I did. You have to stay open in a bar like mine. Even if there’s no customers. There might be customers coming in after you closed, and the next time they wanted a late-evening drink, they’d remember you were closed and go someplace else.”

  “I understand.”

  “The one customer who left just before you took over from Mr. Melrose: Do you remember him? I mean, was there anything about him? You don’t happen to remember his name?”

  Atchison appeared to be searching his memory. He shook his head and said, “Sorry.”

  Washington stood up. “Well, I hate to leave good company, and especially such fine coffee, but that’s all I have. Thank you for your time, Mr. Atchison.”

  “Have another before you go,” Atchison said. “One for the road.”

  “Thank you, no,” Washington said. “I think Mr. Melrose said the customer was named Frankie. Does that ring a bell, Mr. Atchison?”

  Atchison shook his head again. “No. Sorry.”

  “Probably not important,” Washington said. “I would have been surprised if you had remembered him, Mr. Atchison. Thank you again for your time.”

  He put his hand out.

  “Anything I can do to help, Sergeant,” Atchison said.

  “Cool customer,” Jason Washington said with neither condemnation nor admiration in his voice, making it a simple professional judgment.

  “You gave him two chances to remember Frankie Foley,” Matt said.

  “It will be interesting to see if Mr. Foley remembers Mr. Atchison,” Washington said, and then changed the subject: “Did your father really leave you in durance vile overnight?”

  “Swann told you, did he?”

  “Your father’s wisdom made quite an impression on Lieutenant Swann,” Washington said. “And you haven’t been behind bars since, have you?”

  “No,” Matt said, and then thought aloud: “Unless you want to count the time those Narcotics assholes hauled
me off the night Tony the Zee got himself hit.”

  “I’m not sure you have considered the possibility that the Narcotics officers were simply doing their job.”

  “Taking great pleasure in what they were doing.”

  “Well, the tables have turned, haven’t they?” They thought they had a dirty cop. And now you’re going to see if it can be proved that they are dirty.”

  “Am I going to work on that?”

  “You and everybody else. Compared to coming up with something on the Narcotics Five Squad that will result in indictments, bringing Atchison before a grand jury will be fairly easy.”

  “How come?”

  “We have a crime scene on the Inferno job, and other evidence. We have two good suspects. I think we can get a motive without a great deal of effort. A good deal of shoe leather may be required, but it isn’t a question of if we will get Atchison, but when. So far as the Narcotics Five Squad is concerned, we don’t know what they have done, only that they have done it, and we don’t know what ‘it’ is, except the Widow Kellog’s definition of ‘it’ as dirty.”

  “You can’t get any specifics out of her?”

  “Not a one,” Washington replied. “But I believe she believes she is telling the truth that the whole squad is dirty. And to support that, they do own, without a mortgage, a condominium at the shore, and a boat. Their combined, honestly acquired, income is not enough to pay for those sorts of luxuries. And then we have the threatening telephone call.”

  “How do you think Five Squad heard she had talked to you?”

  “There’s no way that they could have. I think the simple explanation for that is that someone on Five Squad knew that Homicide would be talking to her, and they didn’t want her volunteering any information.”

  “And you think that’s why Kellog was killed?”

  “It looks to me as if there are two possibilities, one of which no one seems to have considered very much. That he was killed in connection with his honest labor as a Narcotics officer. He knew something-where are the tapes from his tape recorder? — and had to be silenced. And of course it is entirely possible that he was killed by someone on the Five Squad for the same reason. His wife had left him. He might have wanted her back bad enough…”