The Murderers boh-6

by W. E. B Griffin

  “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?”

  “No disrespect intended, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “I know that, Sonny. Like I told you, Marco’s been saying good things about you. Look, I know you were mistaken, and I understand. But when you were mistaken, what did you think this guy did for me?”

  Sonny did not immediately reply.

  “Hey, you’re among friends. What’s said in this room stays in this room, OK?”

  “I feel like a goddamned fool for not knowing it was bullshit when I heard it,” Sonny said. “I should have known better.”

  “Known better than what, Sonny?” Paulo Cassandro said, and now there was an unmistakable tone of impatience in his voice.

  “He sort of hinted that he was a hit man for you,” Sonny said, very reluctantly.

  “You’re right, Sonny,” Paulo said. “You should have known it was bullshit when you heard it. You know why?”

  Inspiration came, miraculously, to Sonny Boyle. He suddenly knew the right answer to give.

  “Because you’re a legitimate businessman,” he said.

  “Right. All that bullshit in the movies about a mob, and hit men, all that bullshit is nothing but bullshit. And you should have known that, Sonny. I’m a little disappointed in you.”

  “I’m embarrassed. I just didn’t think this through.”

  “Right. You didn’t think. That can get a fella in trouble, Sonny.”

  “I know.”

  “Ah, well, what the hell. You’re among friends. Marco says good things about you. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know what I mean about forgetting the whole thing?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “You know what you did tonight, Sonny?”

  “No.”

  “You wanted to be nice to the wife. You wanted to surprise her. You know a guy who works in the kitchen out there. You come to the back door and told him to make you two dinners to go. He did.”

  “Right, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “That it was on the house is nobody’s business but yours and mine, right? And you didn’t see nobody but your friend, right?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “Marco,” Paulo Cassandro said. “Get them to make up a takeout. Antipasto, some veal, some pasta, some fish, spumoni, the works, a couple bottles of wine. And then take Sonny here home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cassandro.”

  Paulo Cassandro extended his hand.

  “I would say that it was
nice to see you, Sonny, but we didn’t, right? Keep up the good work. It’s appreciated.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cassandro.”

  “You see anybody here by that name, Marco?”

  “I don’t,” Marco D’Angelo said.

  “Sorry,” Sonny said.

  “Ah, get out of here. Enjoy your dinner,” Paulo Cassandro said.

  Impulsively, when he reached the Media Inn, at the intersection of the Baltimore Pike and Providence Road, Matt continued straight on into Media, instead of turning left onto Providence Road toward the home in Wallingford in which he had grown up.

  Except for a lantern-style fixture by the front door, there were no lights on in the brick Colonial house at 320 Wilson Avenue; Mr. Gerald North Atchison, restaurateur and almost certain conspirator in a double murder, was apparently out for the evening.

  There was time for Matt to consider, as he slowly approached and rolled past the house, that driving by wasn’t the smartest thing he had done lately.

  What if he had been home? So what? What did I expect to find?

  He pressed harder on the Porsche’s accelerator and dropped his hand to the gearshift.

  To hell with it. I’ll go home, and hope I can look-what did Wohl say Amy said? A condition of “grief shock”?-sufficiently grief-shocked to convince my mother that I am not the sonofabitch I have proven myself to be.

  Jesus! What if Amanda calls the apartment and Milham’s girlfriend answers the phone? Amanda will decide that I am letting some other kind female soul console me in my grief shock! And be justifiably pissed. Worse than pissed, hurt. I’ll have to call her.

  And that’s not so bad. She said not to call her. But this gives me an excuse. Jesus, I’m glad I thought about that!

  There was a sudden light in the rear of the house at 320 Wilson, growing in intensity. Matt looked over his shoulder-it was difficult in the small interior of the Porsche-and saw that the left door of the double garage was going up.

  He pulled quickly to the curb, stopped, and turned his lights off. A moment later, a Cadillac Coupe de Ville backed out of the driveway onto the street, turned its tail toward Matt, and drove off in the other direction.

  With his lights still off, Matt made a U-turn, swore when his front wheel bounced over the curb he could not see, then set off in pursuit.

  Why the hell am I doing this?

  Because I think I’m Sherlock Holmes? Or because I really don’t want to go home and have Mother comfort me in my grief shock?

  Or maybe, just maybe, because I’m a cop, and I’m after that bastard?

  Not without difficulty-the traffic on the Baltimore Pike through Clifton Heights and Lansdowne toward Philadelphia was heavy, and there were a number of stoplights, two of which left him stopped as the Cadillac went ahead-he kept Atchison in sight.

  Atchison drove to the Yock’s Diner at Fifty-seventh and Chestnut, just inside the city limits. Matt drove past the parking lot, saw Atchison get out of his car and walk toward the diner, and then circled the block and entered the parking lot.

  Atchison knew him, of course, so he couldn’t go in the diner. He walked toward the diner, deciding he would try to look in the windows. He passed a car and idly looked inside. There was a radio mounted below the dash, and when he looked closer, he could see the after-market light mounted on the headliner. An unmarked car.

  The occupants of which will see me stalking around out here, rush out, blow whistles, shine flashlights, and accuse me of auto burglary.

  There was a three-foot-wide area between the parked unmarked car and the diner itself, planted with some sort of hardy perennial bushes which were thick and had thorns. He scratched both legs painfully, and a grandfather of a thorn ripped a three-inch slash in his jacket.

  He found a footing and hoisted himself up to look in the window.

  There will be a maiden lady at this table, two maiden ladies, who will see the face in the window, scream, and cause whoever’s in the unmarked car to rush to protect society.

  The table was unoccupied. Matt twisted his head-clinging to the stainless-steel panels of the diner wall made this difficult-and looked right and then left.

  Mr. Gerald North Atchison was sitting at a banquette, alone, studying the menu.

  Jesus, why not? What did I expect? People have to eat. Going to a diner is what hungry people do.

  He dropped off the wall and turned to fight his way back through the jungle.

  You are a goddamn fool, Matthew Payne. The price of your Sherlock Holmes foolishness is your ripped jacket. Be grateful that the guys in the unmarked car didn’t see you.

  But, Jesus, why did he come all the way here? He could have eaten a hell of a lot closer to his house than this-the Media Inn, for example.

  He stood motionless for a second, then turned back to the diner and climbed up again.

  Mr. Gerald North Atchison, smiling, was giving his order to a waitress whose hair was piled on top of her head.

  What are you doing here, you sonofabitch?

  He looked around the diner again.

  Frankie Foley was sitting at the diner’s counter, the remnants of his meal pushed aside, drinking a cup of coffee, holding the cup in both hands.

  “You want to climb down from there, sir, and tell us what you’re doing?”

  Matt quickly looked over his shoulder. Too quickly. His right foot slipped and he fell backward onto one of the larger perennial thornbushes.

  “Shit!” Matt said.

  “Jesus!” one of the detectives said, his tone indicating that the strange behavior of civilians still amazed him.

  “I’m a Three Six Nine,” Matt said.

  Both detectives, if that’s what they were, entered the thornbush jungle far enough to put their hands on Matt’s arm and shoulders and push him up out of the thornbush.

  “I’m Detective Payne, of Special Operations,” Matt said. “Let me get out of here, and I’ll show you my identification.”

  The two eyed him warily as he reached into his jacket for his identification.

  The larger of the two took the leather folder, examined it and Matt critically, and finally handed it back.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

  “Right now, I need some help,” Matt said.

  “It sure looks like you do,” the second of them said.

  “There’s a man in there named Gerald North Atchison,” Matt said. “You hear about the double homicide at the Inferno?”

  “I heard about it,” the larger one said.

  “It was his wife and partner who were killed,” Matt said. “And there is another man in there, Frankie Foley, who we think is involved.”

  “I thought you said you was Special Operations,” the larger detective said. “Isn’t that Homicide’s business?”

  “I’m working the job,” Matt said. “I followed Atchison here from his house. I think he’s here to meet Foley. That would put a lot of things together.”

  “What kind of help?” the larger one asked.

  “I can’t go in there. They both know my face.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said, aware of how stupid that made him sound. “See if they talk together. Anything. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they’re both here together.”

  “If they’ve got enough brains to pour piss out of a boot,” the larger one said, “they’d transact their business out here in the parking lot, where nobody would see them.”

  It was a valid comment, and Matt could think of no reply to make.

  “Harry,” the smaller one said, “I could drink another cup of coffee.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Matt said.

  “If you need some help, why don’t you get on the radio?” the larger one said.

  “I’m driving my own car.”

  “Where are these guys?”

  “Atchison, five eight or nine, a hundred ninety pounds, forty-something, in a suit, is in the second banquette fro
m the kitchen door. Foley, twenty-five, six one, maybe two hundred pounds, is in a two-tone sports coat, third or fourth seat from the far end of the counter.”

  “We’ll have a look,” the larger one said. “I’m Harry Cronin, Payne, South Detectives. This is Bob Chesley.”

  Chesley waved a hand in greeting; Cronin offered his hand.

  “You tore the shit out of your jacket, I guess you know,” he said, then signaled for Chesley to go into the diner ahead of him.

  A minute after that, Cronin followed Chesley into the diner. Matt walked away from the diner, stationing himself behind the second line of cars in the parking lot.

  Five minutes later, he saw Foley come out of the diner. Matt ducked behind a car and watched Foley through the windows. Foley went to a battered, somewhat gaudily repainted Oldsmobile two-door and got in. The door closed, and a moment later the interior lights went on.

  Matt couldn’t see what he was doing at first, but then Foley tapped a stack of money on the dashboard. The door opened wider, and he could see an envelope flutter to the ground. The door closed, the engine cranked, the lights came on, and Foley drove out of the parking lot.

  “That one,” Detective Cronin reported as he approached Matt, “went into the crapper carrying a package. A heavy package. He came out a minute or two later without it. Then the fat guy went in the crapper, and when he came out, he had the package.”

  Matt ran over and retrieved the envelope. It was blank, but Matt remembered a lecture at the Police Academy-and it had been a question on the detective’s exam-where the technique of lifting fingerprints from paper using nihydrous oxide had been discussed. An envelope with Foley’s and Atchison’s prints on it would be valuable.

  “I’d love to know what’s in that package,” Matt said when he went back to where Cronin waited.

  “It was heavy and tied with string,” Cronin said. “It could be a gun. Guns. More than one.”

  “Shit,” Matt said.

  “Guns don’t help?”

  “In the last couple of days, I’ve had several lectures about not giving defense attorneys an edge,” Matt said. “I’m afraid we’d get into an unlawful search-and-seizure, and lose the guns as evidence.”

  “If they are guns,” Cronin said. “That’s just a maybe.”

  “Shit,” Matt said.

  “I could bump into the fat guy, and maybe the package would fall to the ground and rip open…”