He did not get the smile he expected.
“How many rooms?” Wohl asked. “Did you find someplace that could be used as a holding cell? Will the roof take antennae?”
“We didn’t get that far, sir,” Payne said.
“Go that far this afternoon when you come back from the FBI,” Wohl said. “I didn’t send you over there for a casual look. The building is ours, and there is money in the ACT Grant.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Matt said.
“It’s my fault, Inspector,” Malone said.
“No, it’s not,” Wohl said flatly. “Matt, for Christ’s sake, do me the courtesy of listening carefully to what I’m saying in the future.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“We’ll take care of it, sir,” Malone said.
“No, ‘we’ won’t,” Wohl said. “He will. He will come in in the morning with a sketch of the building, including dimensions. Indicate on it where people might fit. See what shape the furnace is in. If there is a furnace. You get the idea, and I don’t care if you’re there all night, Matt.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t see Jason Washington’s car. Did you get in touch with him?”
“Yes, sir. He said he would be here.”
“I want you in on this, Malone,” Wohl said, and walked ahead of them into the building.
Well, the kid fucked up, sorry about that was the first thing Malone thought. This was immediately followed by, Now he has to do it all himself, and finally with a sudden insight: If Wohl knows the kid can examine that building by himself, then there was no reason for him to send me over there in the first place. Except maybe to compare what the both of us had to say; in other words, to see if I am as smart as the kid. I’ll be a sonofabitch.
Jason Washington was standing by the door to Wohl’s office.
“Got a minute, Inspector?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Wohl said. He looked over his shoulder. “You two go on in.”
Captain Mike Sabara and Captain Dave Pekach were in Wohl’s office, sitting on the couch in front of a small coffee table.
“Slide over, Dave, and make room for Malone,” Sabara said, “otherwise we’ll have Washington on here with us. Malone isn’t nearly as broad in the beam.”
“Your pal McFadden was looking for you, Payne,” Pekach said as he made room for Malone. “Did he find you?”
“When was he looking?”
“Last night.”
“Yeah. And he came looking for me again this morning. I am to be the best man at his wedding.”
Christ, Malone thought, maybe I’ll get the worst possible scenario. If McFadden and Payne are pals, that’s just as dangerous as McFadden telling his lieutenant he saw me staking out Holland’s body shop. Damn!
“Are you going to ask me to be your best man, David?” Sabara asked innocently.
“What?”
“Well, a nice Polish boy like you can’t just go on living in sin indefinitely, can you?”
“Fuck you, Mike!” Pekach flared.
What the hell is that all about?
“If you feel that way, you can just get somebody else to be your best man,” Sabara said.
“Goddammit, knock it off!”
“Play nice, children,” Wohl said, coming into the room.
“He’s always on my ass about Martha,” Pekach said.
“Get off Captain Pekach’s ass about Martha, Captain Sabara,” Wohl said.
“Yes, sir,” Sabara said, seemingly chastised. “What time is it, David?”
Without thinking, Pekach held up his wrist and opened his mouth.
“Nice watch, Dave,” Sabara said innocently. “Where did you say you got it?”
“You sonofabitch!” Pekach flared.
It was too much for Wohl; he started to laugh, and when he did, Payne joined in.
Pekach looked like he was about to erupt, but finally started to laugh too, shaking his head.
“You bastards!”
“Show Malone your watch, Dave,” Wohl said.
Pekach looked uncomfortable, but finally held up his wrist. Around it was a heavy gold strap attached to a gold Omega chronograph.
Jesus, Malone thought, that’s worth three, four thousand dollars!
“My—lady friend—gave it to me,” he explained. There was a touch of pride in his voice. “These guys are just jealous.”
“I certainly am,” Jason Washington said. “That’s worth thirty-nine ninety-five if it’s worth a dime.”
There was more laughter, and then Wohl ended it. “Recess is over, children,” he said, “class has begun.”
They all looked at him.
“I might as well start with that, and get it out of the way. We now have the school building at Frankford and Castor. We have it because the Board of Education no longer wants it, and the reason they no longer want it—confirmed by Malone and Payne who were over there this morning—is because it’s falling down. The up side of that is that as part of the ACT Grant there is money for capital improvements. So as soon as possible, say day after tomorrow, we’re going to start making it habitable—”
Malone had noticed that Captain Sabara had raised his hand—like a kid wanting the teacher’s attention.
“Yes, Mike?” Wohl asked, interrupting himself.
“Figuratively speaking, you mean, Inspector?”
“No.”
“Inspector, we’re going to have to let the City put out specifications, get bids, open bids, all that stuff.”
“No. Matt read the small print and showed me where it says we don’t have to go through that for ‘emergency repairs.’ ‘Emergency repairs’ was not more precisely defined. I have decided that it means anything but beautification and additions. Fixing broken windows, plumbing, getting a new furnace—that’s emergency repairs because we can’t use the building with no heat, or no plumbing, or broken windows. Okay?”
“Department of Public Buildings isn’t going to like it. They have their list of friendly folks who do work like that.”
“I can’t help that. We have to get out of here. And Commissioner Czernich—not Public Buildings—has the authority to spend the ACT Grant money.”
“And he knows what you’re going to do?”
“He will when he gets the bills.”
“Inspector, you’re asking for trouble,” Sabara said.
“The bottom line is that we have to get out of here, Mike. If it goes before the mayor, and I suppose it eventually will, I’m betting he’ll decide that I did the right thing and will tell Public Buildings to shut up.”
“And if he doesn’t decide that?”
“Then the new commanding officer of Special Operations will have a heated and air-conditioned office in a building he would not have had if his predecessor hadn’t screwed up.”
“It’s liable to cost you your promotion, Peter,” Sabara said.
“I appreciate your concern, Mike. But (a) I’m not sure if I’m in line for promotion and (b) I’ve made this decision. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Item two,” Wohl said. “Last night, Chief Inspector Lowenstein called one of our people—all right, Jason Washington—and asked him to do something he thought had to be done. Jason agreed to do it, then tried to find me to tell me, ask me, and couldn’t—my fault, he should have been able to find me—and then went ahead and did it.”
“What did Lowenstein want?” Pekach asked.
Wohl ignored the question and went on: “Okay. This is now official policy. As soon as Matt has the chance, he’ll write it up, and I want it circulated to all supervisors. But I want this word passed immediately. Only three people, besides me, are authorized to take action when the assistance of Special Operations or Highway is asked for by anyone else. They are Captain Sabara for Special Operations, Captain Pekach for Highway, and Sergeant Washington for Special Investigations.”
“Special Investigations?” Pekach asked, and then, “Sergeant Washington? When did that happen?”
“Well, my God, Jason,” Pekach said. “Congratulations. I didn’t know you even took the examination.”
He stood up and gave Washington his hand. The others followed suit.
“The word to be passed is that our supervisors don’t—no matter who makes the request—do anything for anybody else unless, in your areas of responsibility, you know about it and approve. That means we have to be available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to make the decision. And if you’re not going to be available, you have to make sure I am. Okay?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Inspector,” Captain Pekach said. “But there’s a reason for this, right?”
“Yes, of course there is,” Wohl said impatiently. “I don’t want Matt Lowenstein, or anyone else, thinking they can just call up here and give our people things to do.”
“It’s hard to tell Matt Lowenstein no, Inspector,” Jason Washington said.
“Especially if you hope to go back and work for him, right?” Wohl responded.
Washington’s face tightened.
“I thought it was important, Inspector,” Washington said.
“Just don’t forget where you work, Jason. For whom you work.”
“I suppose that means I won’t be going back to Homicide?”
“The question came up as soon as the commissioner got the exam results. He called me and said he thought Lowenstein and Quaire would like to have you back in Homicide and how did I feel about that? I told him over my dead body. He said, joking of course, that Chief Lowenstein could probably arrange that, and I replied, joking of course, that if he did, the funeral procession would make a detour through the mayor’s office, where the corpse would make a final protest.”
Sabara chuckled.
“I’m glad you’re amused, Mike,” Wohl said.
“What I was thinking was, you really don’t want to get promoted, do you?”
“I would like to be commissioner, all right? And I think the way to get myself promoted is to do a good job here.”
“Hey, take it easy. I’m on your side. I’m one of the good guys.”
“If you say so,” Wohl said, and then he went on, “Item three: the Islamic Liberation Army.”
“Don’t tell me they gave us that too?” Pekach asked.
“No. Right now, it’s a Homicide job. And properly so. What Lowenstein wanted Jason to do, and what, for the record, Jason quite properly agreed to do, was get in touch with Arthur X to ask him, so to speak, if when the Islamic Liberation Army is picked up, the arresting officers will face the Fruit of Islam, screaming religious and/or racial persecution.”
“So they know who they are?” Pekach said.
“Yes, they do. What Chief Lowenstein told the district attorney was going to happen was that Highway would pick all these people up first thing tomorrow morning. They will be run through a lineup, lineups, so that they can be positively identified by the one good witness Homicide has. By then, the DA will have made sure that the municipal court judge doesn’t turn these thugs loose on their own recognizance. He will then arrange to get them before the Grand Jury for indictment, and then on the docket. The district attorney has assigned Assistant District Attorney Farnsworth Stillwell to the case.”
“What did Arthur X say?” Sabara asked.
“I don’t think he considers the gentlemen in question to be bona fide coreligionists,” Washington said. “The phrase he used was ‘punk niggers.’”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Inspector,” Pekach said thoughtfully, “I get the feeling that there’s something about this that bothers you. I guess I’m just dense—”
“As I was saying to Officer Payne just a few minutes ago, Captain Pekach, listening carefully to what I say may be the thing to do.”
Jesus, Wohl can be a sarcastic prick! Jack Malone thought. Then, Why am I surprised? He’s no older than I am, and a staff inspector, a division commander. You don’t get to be either as Mr. Nice Guy.
This was followed by: If he finds out that I’m still after Bob Holland, which now seems even more likely, with Payne and McFadden being pals, Christ only knows what he’ll do.
“Chief Lowenstein also told the district attorney,” Wohl went on, “that Highway will conspicuously protect his one witness, with the idea being that the other witnesses, perhaps counseled by Sergeant Washington, may suddenly have their memories unfogged by coming to realize that the only way they can really cover their asses is to help put the Islamic Liberation Army away, by testifying.”
“But Chief Lowenstein did not, I gather, confer with you before he decided what Highway was going to do, right?” Jason Washington asked.
“Sergeant Washington has just won the Careful Listener of the Week Award,” Wohl said.
“But he’s like that, you know that,” Sabara said.
“He may be like that with other people, but he’s not going to be like that with me,” Wohl said.
“That puts me in the same boat with Dave. I’m lost.”
“Special Operations is going to make the arrests,” Wohl said. “And Special Operations is going to protect Homicide’s one witness. Not Highway.”
“And if Special Operations blows it?” Sabara asked.
“We have here an armed robbery, during which a murder occurred. We know who the doers are. The suspects are under surveillance at this moment by Homicide detectives. At five o’clock tomorrow morning, they will tell Sergeant Washington where these people are. At that point, police officers, with warrants, will be sent to assist the Homicide detectives in arresting them. If the police officers in question cannot accomplish this without difficulty, then perhaps they shouldn’t be cops, and their supervisors, by whom I mean you and me, Mike, shouldn’t be supervisors.”
Sabara didn’t reply.
“Two things,” Wohl said. “I don’t want anybody in Highway, or anywhere else, hearing about this before it happens. And I don’t want a big deal made of it. I’m not putting Highway down or Special Operations up. I’m treating the robbery and shooting at Goldblatt’s like any other robbery where things got out of hand and somebody got killed. The Homicide Bureau found out who did it, and uniformed officers are going to help them make the arrests. I don’t want to dignify a bunch of thugs by calling them an army.”
“What about the press?”
“We owe Mickey O’Hara one. Actually, we owe Mickey O’Hara a couple of dozen. When you decide where this thing will start, Mike, call Mickey and suggest he might find it interesting to be there.”
“Just Mickey?”
“Just Mickey.”
“Do we know where these guys are? I mean are they all in one area, or all over the city?” Sabara asked.
“Mostly in Frankford, the Whitehall area,” Jason Washington said. “One of them is in West Philadelphia.”
“Where’d you get that?” Wohl asked.
Washington met his eyes and then said, “I talked to Joe D’Amata.”
“One of Sergeant Washington’s responsibilities as head of the Special Investigations Section will be to keep in touch with the Detective Division, and especially Homicide,” Wohl said. “Matt, make sure you put that in when you write the job description.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, can I say something?”
“At your peril, Officer Payne.”
“There’s a parking lot, actually a playground, behind the school building. You could use that as a place to meet.”
“We’re going to need—” Sabara said, pausing to do the mental arithmetic, “—space to park fifteen, sixteen cars, plus what, four wagons and a couple of stakeout trucks. That big?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want stakeout acting like the 2nd Armored Division invading Germany,” Wohl said. “They should be available, but—”
“I understand,” Sabara said.
; “Matt, on your way to the FBI,” Wohl said, “swing past the school building and make sure the parking lot will be big enough. And then call Captain Sabara and tell him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus,” Wohl said angrily. “I haven’t looked at this stuff yet.”
He flipped through the photocopied documents for the FBI quickly and then looked up at Payne.
“You’d better leave now,” Wohl said. “I wouldn’t want the FBI to think I had forgotten them. And we won’t need you in on this. Get the building dimensions, and whatever other information about that place you think we can use, and be here at eight in the morning.” He paused and looked at the others. “By that time, we should have eight thugs, more or less, on their way, without fuss, to the Roundhouse. Then we can turn to important things, like making our new home habitable.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said, and got up and started to leave.
“Matt!” Wohl called after him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to take this stuff with you?” Wohl asked innocently, pointing at the stack of copies of the Jerome Nelson job.
“Yes, sir,” Matt said. His face flushed. He took the documents from Wohl’s desk and walked out.
As he closed the door, he heard Wohl say, “If I didn’t know better, I might suspect Young Matt’s in love.”
“How about ‘in rut’?” Sabara said.
Matt closed the door on their laughter.
“May I help you, sir?” Miss Lenore Gray, who was twenty-six, tall, slim, auburn-haired, and the receptionist at the FBI office, asked, smiling a bit more brightly than was her custom at what she judged to be a very well-dressed, nice-looking young man.
“My name is Payne,” Matt said. “I’m a police officer. I have some documents for Mr. Davis.”
Lenore had been told to be on the lookout for a Philadelphia cop named Payne, and to call SAC Davis (or, if he was out of the office, A-SAC [Criminal Affairs] Frank F. Young, or if he was out too, one of the other A-SACs) when he showed up.
She had expected a cop in uniform, not a good-looking young man like this in a very nice blue blazer.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Davis is not in the office,” she said. “Just a moment, please.”
The Witness Page 19