“Your primary loyalty should be to the Police Department,” Malone interrupted. “You’re a cop. It’s your duty to catch crooks.”
Matt met Malone’s eyes, but didn’t respond.
“That’s the reason you would really like to see Holland caught. You’re a cop,” Malone went on.
“And on the other hand, Inspector Wohl trusts me,” Matt said. “I like that. I admire him. I don’t want to betray whatever confidence he has in me.”
“So you are going to tell him?”
“I don’t do very well deciding ethical questions when I’ve had four bottles of beer,” Matt said. “I think I’d better sleep on this.”
“I see.”
“I won’t, if I decide I have to tell him, tell him about tonight. If I tell him anything, it will be just that Charley saw you staking out Holland’s body shop. Maybe that can slip my mind too. I don’t want to decide that, either way, tonight. But if I do decide to tell him, I’ll tell you before I do.”
“Fair enough,” Malone said.
He stood up and offered Matt his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For the ribs, you mean,” Matt said.
“Yeah, for the ribs,” Malone said. Then he leaned over and shook McFadden’s hand. Charley nodded at him, but said nothing.
Malone found his coat and walked out of the apartment.
“I wonder if he really has some ideas about catching Holland, or whether that was just bullshit,” McFadden said.
“Why couldn’t he tell—who did he work for in Auto Squad?”
“That’s part of Major Crimes. Major Crimes is commanded by a captain. I forget his name.”
“Why couldn’t he tell him what he told us?”
“You really don’t understand, do you?” McFadden said. “Sometimes, you’re smart, Matt, and sometimes you’re dumber than dog shit.”
“I prefer to think of it as ‘inexperienced,’” Matt said. “Answer the question.”
“Okay. Don’t Make Waves.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the Auto Squad and Major Crimes has enough, more than enough, already to do without getting involved in something that might turn against them. It’s not as if people are going to die because Holland is stealing cars. Who the hell is really hurt except the insurance company?”
“I could debate that: You are. Your premiums are so high because cars are stolen and have to be paid for.”
“And sometimes,” Charley said, smiling at him, “you sound like the monks in school. Absolute logic. You’re absolutely right. But it don’t mean a fucking thing in the real world. Whoever runs Major Crimes decided he didn’t want to go after Bob Holland because there are other car thieves out there he knows he can catch, car thieves who will go to jail, and who don’t call the mayor by his first name. You understand?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Matt. For the record, I hope, when you settle your ethical problem, that you decide you don’t have to tell Wohl. I’d like to go after Holland.”
“Help Malone, you mean?”
“Yeah. Don’t you?”
“Yeah. I would. But I think it would be stupid. And probably dangerous.”
“To your job, you mean? I don’t think you’d be likely to get shot or anything trying to catch Holland.”
“Yeah, to my job. I like my job.”
“Right. You get your rocks off stumbling around fall-down buildings in the dark with a tape measure, right?”
“You’d better finish those drawings while you can still draw a reasonably straight line.”
“Yeah. Jesus, it’s getting late, isn’t it?”
He sat down at the table. Matt went around picking up the remnants of the meal and the empty beer bottles. When he opened the cabinet under the sink, to put rib bones in the garbage can, he saw the martini glass. It had Helene’s lipstick on it. It had somehow gotten broken when they had been thrashing around on the couch.
As the memories of that filled his mind’s eye, he felt a sudden surge of desire.
My God, I’d like to be with her again!
“You going to tell me what’s happening at half past four tomorrow morning?” Charley asked.
“They know who the doers are on that Goldblatt furniture job—”
“The Islamic Liberation Army?”
“—and they’re going to pick them up all at once.”
“Highway, you mean?”
“No. Special Operations. ACT.”
“Jesus, that’s interesting. How come not Highway?”
“A couple of reasons. I think Wohl wants Special Operations—the ACT guys—to do something on their own. And I think he’s concerned that this Islamic Liberation Army thing could get out of hand.”
“What do you mean, ‘out of hand’?”
“He doesn’t want a gang of armed robbers to get away with it, or get special treatment, because they’re calling themselves a liberation army.”
“That liberation army business is bullshit, huh?”
“Yeah. And finally, Chief Lowenstein told Wohl he wanted Highway to pick up these guys. I think Wohl wants to make the point that he will take requests, or suggestions, from Lowenstein, but not orders. In other words, if Lowenstein had said he wanted ACT to make the arrests, Wohl would have sent Highway.”
“If the ACT guys blow it, Wohl’ll have egg on his face.”
“Yeah,” Matt said, “and if you should happen to be around Castor and Frankford at that time of the morning, Wohl would figure out where you heard what was happening and I would have egg, or worse, on mine.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Shit! Okay. I won’t be there.”
Matt finished cleaning up and then stood and looked over Charley’s shoulder as he worked. It became quickly apparent that Charley was a quite competent draftsman.
I didn’t learn a damned thing in high school, for that matter in college, that has any practical value.
“I wish I could do that,” Matt said.
“So do I,” McFadden said. “Then I could get the fuck out of here.”
THIRTEEN
At 3:45 the next morning Officer Matthew M. Payne, in his bathrobe, was watching the timer on his combination washer-drier. It had twenty-five minutes to run.
At approximately 3:25 Officer Matthew M. Payne had experienced what the Rev. H. Wadsworth Coyle of Episcopal Academy had, in a euphemistically titled course (Personal Hygiene I), euphemistically termed a “nocturnal emission.” The Reverend Coyle had assured the boys that it was a natural biological phenomenon, and nothing to be shamed about.
It had provoked in Officer Payne a mixed reaction. On one hand, it had been a really first-class experience, with splendid mental imagery of Helene, right down to the slightly salty taste of her mouth on his, and on the other, a real first-class pain in the ass, having to get out of goddamn bed in the middle of the goddamn night to take a goddamn shower and then wash the goddamn sheets so the maid would not find the goddamn telltale spots on the goddamn sheets.
“Fuck it!” Officer Payne said, aloud and somewhat angrily. He draped his bathrobe carefully on the stove, went into his bedroom, and dressed. The last item of his wardrobe was his revolver and his ankle holster, which he had deposited for the night on the mantelpiece over the fireplace.
Picking up the revolver triggered another mental image of the superbly bosomed Helene, but a nonerotic, indeed somewhat disturbing, one: the way she had handled the gun, and even the cartridges. That had been weird.
He went down the stairs, and then rode the elevator to the basement. When he drove out of the garage onto Manning Street, he saw that not only was it snowing, but that it had apparently been snowing for some time. Small flakes, which were not melting, and which suggested it was going to continue to snow for at least some time.
He made his way to North Broad Street, and drove out North Broad to Spring Garden, and then right on Spring Garden to Delaware Avenue, and then north on Delaware to Frankf
ord Avenue and then out on Frankford toward Castor.
Except for a few all-night gas stations and fast-food emporia, the City of Philadelphia seemed to be asleep. The snow had not yet had time to become soot-soiled. It was, Matt thought, rather pretty.
On the other hand, there was ice beneath the nice white snow, and twice he felt the wheels of the Porsche slipping out of control.
And there is a very good chance that when I get out there, Inspector Wohl will remind me that he said he would see me at eight o’clock in the office, not here at four-fifteen, remind me that he has suggested it would well behoove me to listen carefully to what he says, and send me home.
There was a white glow, of headlights and parking lights reflecting off the fallen and falling snow in the school building parking lot. And just as he saw an ACT cop open the door of an RPC standing at the curb to wave a flashlight to stop him, Matt saw Inspector Wohl, Captain Sabara, and Lieutenant Malone standing in the light coming through the windshield of a stakeout van.
Malone and Sabara were in uniform. Wohl was wearing a fur-collared overcoat and a tweed cap. He looked, Matt thought, like a stockbroker waiting for the 8:05 commuter train at Wallingford, not like the sort of man who would be in charge of all this police activity.
Matt pushed the button and the window of the Porsche whooshed down.
“I’m a Three Six Nine,” he said to the ACT cop. “I work for Inspector Wohl.”
The cop waved him through, and Matt turned into the parking lot and found a place to park the car.
As he walked across the snow, which crunched under his shoes, toward them, he was aware that they were looking at him. He decided that there was a good chance that Wohl would be sore he had come here.
“Good morning,” Matt said.
Wohl looked at him a good thirty seconds before speaking, then said, “There’s a thermos of coffee in the stakeout van, if you’d like some.”
“Thank you,” Matt said.
When he came back out of the van, Mickey O’Hara was standing with the others.
“You know Officer Payne of the Building Measuring Detail, don’t you, Mickey?” Wohl asked, straight-faced.
“Whaddaya say, Payne?” Mickey said. “Relax, I’m not going to play straight man to your boss.”
A lieutenant whose name Matt could not recall walked up and with surprising formality saluted.
“Everything’s in place, Inspector,” he said.
Matt was pleased to see that Wohl was somewhat discomfited by the lieutenant’s salute, visibly torn between returning it, like an officer returning a soldier’s salute, or not.
“You check with West Philly?” Wohl asked after a moment, making a vague gesture toward his tweed cap that could have been a salute, but did not have to be.
“Yes, sir. Two cars, a sergeant, a stakeout truck, and a van.”
“Can you make it over there in thirty”—looking at his watch—“seven minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you—” Wohl interrupted himself. Captain Pekach, in full Highway uniform, walked up. The lieutenant saluted again. Pekach, although he looked a little surprised, returned it.
“Good morning,” Pekach said.
Wohl ignored him.
“Lieutenant, when did you get out of the Army?” he asked.
“I’ve been back about four months, sir.”
“What were you?”
“I had a platoon in the First Cavalry, sir.”
“That worries me,” Wohl said. “Let me tell you why. We are policemen, not soldiers. We are going to arrest some small-time robbers, not assault a Vietcong village. I’m a little worried that you don’t understand that. I don’t want any shooting, unless lives are in danger. I would rather that one or two of these scumbags get away—we can get them later—than to have anybody start shooting the place up. Did Captain Sabara make sure you understood that?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“I am about to promulgate a new edict,” Wohl said. “Henceforth, no one will salute the commanding officer of Special Operations unless he happens to be in a uniform.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I didn’t know the ground rules.”
“Go and sin no more,” Wohl said with a smile, touching his arm. “Take over in West Philly. Get going at five o’clock, presuming you think they’re ready.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said.
He walked away.
“Good morning, David,” Wohl said to Pekach. “Captain Sabara and myself are touched that you would get out of your warm bed to be with us here.”
“I figured maybe I could help,” Pekach said.
“You and Officer Payne,” Wohl said dryly. He looked at his watch. “H-hour in thirty-five minutes, men,” he added in a credible mimicry of John Wayne.
“What happens at H-hour, General?” Mickey O’Hara asked.
“We know the whereabouts, as of fifteen minutes ago, of all eight of the people who stuck up Goldblatt’s and murdered the maintenance man—”
“Ah, the Islamic Liberation Army,” Mickey interrupted, “I thought that’s what this probably was.”
“The eight suspects in the felonies committed at Goldblatt’s is what I said, Mr. O’Hara,” Wohl said. “I didn’t say anything about any army, liberation or otherwise.”
“Pardon me all to death, Inspector, sir, I should have picked up on that.”
“As I was saying,” Wohl went on. “Shortly after five, the officers you see gathered here will assist detectives of the Homicide Bureau in serving warrants and taking the suspects into custody. Simultaneously. Or as nearly simultaneously as we can manage.”
“I would have expected Highway,” Mickey said.
“You are getting the ACT officers of Special Operations,” Wohl said.
“How exactly are you going to do the arrests?” Mickey asked. “It looks like an army around here.”
“Seven of the eight suspects are known to be in this area, in other words, around Frankford Avenue. One of them is in West Philly. Two ACT cars, each carrying two officers, will go to the various addresses. There will be a sergeant at each address, plus, of course, the Homicide detective who has been keeping the suspects under surveillance. We anticipate no difficulty in making the arrests. But, just to be sure, there are, under the control of a lieutenant, stakeout vans available. One per two sergeants, plus one more in West Philly. Plus four wagons, three here and one in West Philly.”
“Okay,” Mickey said.
“At Captain Sabara’s suggestion,” Wohl went on, “when the arrests have been made, the suspect will be taken out the back of his residence, rather than out the front door. There he will be loaded into a van and taken to Homicide.”
“Instead of out the front door, where there might be angry citizens enraged that these devout Muslims are being dragged out of their beds by honky infidels?”
“You got it, Mickey,” Wohl said. “What do you think?”
“I think Lowenstein thinks you were going to use Highway,” Mickey said.
“Chief Lowenstein does not run Special Operations,” Wohl replied.
“May I quote you?”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Wohl said. “If you need a quote, how about quoting me as saying these suspects have no connection with the fine, law-abiding Islamic community of Philadelphia.”
Mickey O’Hara snorted.
“Where do you think I might find something interesting?” O’Hara asked.
“One of the suspects is a fellow named Charles D. Stevens,” Wohl said. “Word has reached me that he sometimes uses the alias Abu Ben Mohammed. Rumor has it that he fancies himself to be the Robin Hood of this merry band of bandits. Perhaps you might find that a photograph of Mr. Stevens, in handcuffs and under arrest, would be of interest to your readers.”
“Okay, Peter,” Mickey chuckled. “Thank you. Who do I go with?”
“Officer Payne,” Wohl said, “please take Mr. O’Ha
ra to Lieutenant Suffern. Tell him that I have given permission for you and Mr. O’Hara to accompany his team during the arrest of Mr. Stevens.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“You will insure that Mr. O’Hara in no way endangers his own life. In other words, he is not, repeat not, to enter the building in which we believe Mr. Stevens to be until Mr. Stevens is under arrest.”
“Ah, for Christ’s sake, Peter!” O’Hara protested.
“You listened carefully, didn’t you, Officer Payne, to what I just said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If necessary, you will sit on Mr. O’Hara. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Ed Suffern, a very large, just short of fat, ruddy-faced man, pushed himself off the fender of his car when he saw Mickey O’Hara and Matt Payne walking up.
“How are you, Mickey?” he said, smiling, offering his hand, obviously pleased to see him. “I’m a little surprised to see you.”
“Officially, I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Yeah,” Suffern said, chuckling. “Sure.”
“Got a small problem, Ed,” O’Hara said. “How am I going to get to see you catching—whatsisname?—Abu Ben Mohammed with Matt Payne sitting on my shoulders?”
“What?”
“Wohl says I can’t go in the building until you have this guy in cuffs, and he sent Payne along with orders to sit on me if necessary.”
“I wondered what he was doing here,” Suffern said. “No problem. Here, let me show you.”
He opened the door of his RPC and took a clipboard from the seat.
“Somebody give me a light here,” he ordered, and one of the ACT cops took his flashlight from its holster and shined it on the clipboard. It held a map.
“This is Hawthorne Street,” he said, pointing. “Mr. Abu Whatsisname—his real name is Charles D. Stevens, Wohl tell you that?”
O’Hara nodded.
“He’s here, just about in the middle of the block.” He pointed. There’s a Homicide detective, he has the warrant, sitting here, right now. This is the way we’re going to do this: One ACT car, with two cops and the Homicide guy, will go to the front door. Another ACT car, with two ACT guys and the sergeant, will go around to the back, via the alley here.” He pointed again. “When they’re in place, the sergeant will give the word. The Homicide guy will knock or ring the bell or whatever. We’ll give him thirty seconds to open the door. Then they’ll take both doors. When they have him in cuffs, they’ll take him out the back. There’s a wagon, here.” He pointed again, this time to a point a block away. “The van will start for the alley the moment he hears they’re going in. They’ll put Abu Whatsisname in the van, with one cop from each of the ACT cars, and get out of the neighborhood. The same thing, the same sort of thing, will be going on here in the 5000 block of Saul Street. Two ACT cars, a sergeant, and a Homicide detective will pick up Kenneth H. Dorne, also known as ‘King’ Dorne, also known as Hussein Something. When they have him, the sergeant will call for the wagon. When both of these guys are in the van, they’ll be taken to Homicide. Got it?”
The Witness Page 22