The Witness

by W. E. B Griffin

  Martha, he knew, had sensed that he was keeping their personal life very much separate from his professional life. One of the astonishing things about their relationship was that he knew what she was thinking. The flip side of that was that she knew what he was thinking too.

  He had hesitated, and lost.

  “Precious, if that would in any way be embarrassing to you, just forget it.”

  “Don’t be silly. How could it be embarrassing? I’ll come by the house right from work and pick you up.”

  “All right, if you think it would be all right,” Martha had said, her pleased tone of voice telling him he had really had no choice. “And then we’ll go out for dinner afterward? Seafood?”

  “Seafood sounds fine,” he had said.

  He had spent a good deal of time during the day considering his relationship with Martha, finally concluding that while the way things were was fine, things could not go along much longer unchanged.

  Sometimes, he felt like a gigolo, the way she was always giving him things. It wasn’t, he managed to convince himself, that he had fallen for her because she was rich, but that didn’t make her just another woman. There was no getting away from the fact that she was a rich woman.

  How could he feel like a man when she probably spent more money on fuel oil and having the grass cut at her house than he made?

  But when he was with her, like now, he could not imagine life without her.

  Jesus, just being around her makes me feel good!

  “Was that all right, precious, having Evans lay out your blazer?”

  “Fine,” Captain David Pekach said, putting his arm around Miss Martha Peebles and kissing her again.

  “Precious, behave,” she said, when he dropped his hand to her buttock. “We don’t have time.”

  The blazer to which she referred was originally the property of her father.

  When Evans and his wife (after an initial three- or four-week period during which their behavior had been more like that of concerned parents rather than servants) had finally decided that Dave Pekach was going to be good for Miss Martha, they had turned to being what they genuinely believed to be helpful and constructive.

  Dave Pekach now had an extensive wardrobe, formerly the property of the late Alexander Peebles. No one had asked him if he wanted it, or would even be willing to wear what he had at first thought of as a dead man’s clothes. It had been presented as a fait accompli. Evans had taken four suits, half a dozen sports coats, a dozen pairs of trousers, and the measurements Martha had made of the new uniform Dave had given himself as a present for making captain to an Italian custom tailor on Chestnut Street.

  Only minor adjustments had been necessary, Evans had happily told him. Mr. Alex had been, fortunately, just slightly larger than Captain Pekach, rather than the other way.

  The buttons on the blazer, which bore the label of a London tailor, and which to Dave Pekach’s eyes looked unworn, had been replaced with Philadelphia Police Department buttons.

  “You have no idea what trouble Evans had to go to for those buttons!” Martha had exclaimed. “But it was, wasn’t it, Evans, worth it. Doesn’t the captain look nice?”

  “The captain looks just fine, Miss Martha,” Evans had agreed, beaming with pleasure.

  It had not been the time to bring up the subjects of being able to buy his own damned clothing, thank you just the same, or being unable to comfortably wear a dead man’s hand-me-downs.

  And the trouble, Dave Pekach thought, as he walked into the bedroom carrying his drink in one hand and a bacon-wrapped oyster in the other, and saw the blazer hanging on the mahogany clothes horse, is that I now think of all these clothes as mine.

  He unbuckled his Sam Browne belt and hung it over the clothes horse, and then stripped out of his uniform, tossing it onto a green leather chaise lounge, secure in the knowledge that in the morning, freshly pressed, it (or another, fresh from the cleaners) would be on the clothes horse.

  And that I’m getting pretty used to living like this.

  When he came out of the glass-walled shower, Martha was in the bathroom. He was a little confused. Sometimes, when she felt like fooling around, she joined him, but not all dressed up as she was now.

  “Captain Sabara called,” Martha announced. “He wants you to call. I wrote down the number.”

  She extended a small piece of paper, but snatched it back when he reached for it.

  “Put your robe on, precious,” she said. “You’ll catch your death!”

  He took a heavy terry-cloth robe (also ex-Alexander Peebles, Esq.) from the chrome towel warmer, shrugged into it, took the phone number from Martha, and went into the bedroom, where he sat on the bed and picked up the telephone on the bedside table.

  Martha sat on the bed next to him.

  “Dave Pekach, Mike,” he said. “What’s up?”

  Martha could hear only Dave’s side of the conversation.

  “They did what?…

  “Monahan okay?…

  “Anyone else hurt?…

  “Where’s Wohl?…

  “Okay. If you do get in touch with him, tell him I’m on my way to the Roundhouse. It should take me twenty minutes, depending on the traffic. Thanks for calling me, Mike.”

  He put the telephone back in its cradle and stood up.

  He saw Martha’s eyes, curiosity in them, on him.

  She never pries, he thought. She’s pleased when I tell her things, but she never asks.

  “When they started to take Monahan, the witness to the Goldblatt job, from Goldblatt’s to the Roundhouse, they were firebombed.”

  “Firebombed?”

  “Somebody threw a whatdoyoucallit? A Molotov cocktail, a bottle full of gas.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  He looked at the green leather chaise lounge where he’d tossed his uniform. It had already been removed.

  Damn!

  He started to put on the clothing Evans had laid out for him, and remembered she had asked a question.

  “No. Not as far as Sabara knew. I sent a Highway RFC down there. I can’t imagine anybody trying to firebomb a Highway car.” He looked at her, and added, “I’ll have to go down there, to the Roundhouse.”

  “Of course,” she said, and then, a moment later, “I suppose that means I should make arrangements for my dinner? And about seeing the Payne boy?”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” he said. “You’d probably have to wait around—”

  “I don’t mind,” Martha said very evenly.

  Pekach suddenly realized that a very great deal depended on his response to that.

  “On the other hand, if you came along, it would save me coming all the way back out here to get you. You sure you wouldn’t mind waiting?”

  “I don’t have anything else to do,” she said. “Why should I?”

  Dave Pekach understood that he had come up with the proper response. He could see it in her eyes, and then confirmation came when she impulsively kissed him.

  When they went out under the portico, the Mercedes was there. He looked at the garage. Not only had the Department’s car been put away, but a snowplow sat in front of the garage door where it had been put.

  He went to the Mercedes and put his hand on the door, and then remembered his manners and went around and held the passenger side door open for Martha.

  I have been manipulated, he thought. Why am I not pissed off?

  As Peter Wohl looked for a place to park at Frankford Hospital, he saw two Highway cars, the first parked by the main entrance, and the second near the Emergency entrance.

  Jesus Christ, has something happened?

  His concern, which he recognized to contain more than a small element of fear for Matt Payne’s well-being, immediately chagrined him.

  You’re getting paranoid. They have this clever thing called “police radio.” You have one. If something had happened, you’d have heard about it.

  He had trouble finding a place to park and finally d
ecided he had as much right to park by the main entrance as the Highway RPC did. He wasn’t here to visit an ailing aunt.

  He walked past the “Visitors Register Here” desk by holding out his leather badge-and-photo-ID case to the rent-a-cop on duty. But when he walked across the lobby toward the bank of elevators he saw that the hospital rent-a-cops had set up another barrier, a guy sitting behind a table you had to get past before you could get on an elevator.

  This time, holding out the leather folder and murmuring the magic words “police officer” didn’t work.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the rent-a-cop said, getting to his feet after Wohl had waved the leather folder in front of him. “I don’t see your visitor’s badge.”

  Another rent-a-cop he hadn’t noticed before stepped between Wohl and the elevator.

  “I don’t have one,” Wohl said. “I’m a police officer.” He gave the rent-a-cop a better look at his identification.

  “Who are you going to see?”

  “Matthew M. Payne,” Wohl said. “He’s on the surgical floor.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no patient here by that name,” the rent-a-cop said.

  He had not, Wohl noticed, checked any kind of a list before making that announcement.

  He chuckled. “I’m Inspector Wohl,” he said. “The police officers keeping an eye on Officer Payne work for me.”

  “Just a moment, sir,” the rent-a-cop said, and sat down at his table and dialed a number. A moment later he said, “You can go up, sir.”

  “You guys are really doing your job,” Wohl said. “Thank you.”

  The compliment, which was genuine, didn’t seem to make much of an impression on either of the rent-a-cops.

  When Wohl stepped off the elevator, there was a Highway Patrolman Wohl could not remember having seen before, and a Highway Sergeant he had seen around and whose name came to him almost instantly.

  “Hello, Sergeant Carter,” Wohl said, smiling, extending his hand. “For a while there, I didn’t think they were going to let me come up here.”

  “Good evening, sir,” Sergeant Carter said. “You know Hughes, don’t you?”

  “I’ve seen him around,” Wohl said, offering his hand. “How are you, Hughes?”

  “Inspector.”

  Then Wohl saw something he didn’t like. Behind Hughes, leaning against the wall, was a short-barreled pump shotgun.

  I don’t think that’s a Remington 870, Wohl thought automatically. Probably an Ithica.

  “Do you really think we’re going to need the shotgun?” Wohl asked.

  “My experience is, Inspector,” Carter said, “that if you have a shotgun, you seldom need one.”

  Wohl smiled.

  Now, how am I going to tactfully tell him to get it out of Sight without hurting his feelings?

  The first time he had seen Carter, shortly after assuming command of Highway, Wohl had taken the trouble of reading his name on the name tag and committing it to memory. First impressions did matter, and he had been favorably impressed with his first look at Carter. He was a good-looking guy, tall and lean, about as black as Jason Washington, who wore his uniform not only with evident pride, but according to the regulations. Highway guys were prone—Sergeant Peter Wohl had himself been prone—to add little sartorial touches to the prescribed uniform that sometimes crossed the line into ludicrous.

  Most commonly this was a crushed brim cap four sizes too small, shined cartridges (and/or extra cartridges), patent leather boots, and Sam Browne belt, that sort of thing. Carter looked like he could pose for a picture with the caption “The Prescribed Uniform for a Highway Patrol Sergeant.”

  “I understand that the Secret Service guys guarding the President carry their shotguns in golf bags,” Wohl said. “To keep from frightening the voters. Is there some way you can think of to get that out of sight, but handy?”

  “Not offhand, but I’ll come up with something. You said ‘handy,’ inspector. Does that mean you take this threat seriously?”

  “They threw a Molotov cocktail at Sergeant Washington. You would have to be serious, or crazy, to do something like that. Yeah, I take them seriously. These people want two things, I think. To get themselves in the newspapers and to frighten off the witnesses to the Goldblatt job. They’re already facing murder one. From their perspective, they have more to gain than to lose from killing a cop.”

  “Did it scare off the witness?”

  “It made him mad,” Wohl laughed. “I just talked to Jason Washington. He said Mr. Monahan couldn’t wait to get over to the Detention Center and identify these creeps.”

  “I looked in on Payne,” Carter said. “I wondered if he was—if he had a gun. I didn’t think I should ask him. I didn’t know how much he knows about what the ILA has threatened.”

  “Do me a favor, Sergeant,” Wohl said. “Don’t use the term ‘ILA.’ Don’t call these scumbags an army. That’s just what they want. They’re thieves and murderers, that’s all.”

  “Sorry,” Carter said. “I see what you mean.”

  “And pass that word too,” Wohl said. “To answer your question: Yes, he’s got one. The Mobile Crime Lab guys took his to the laboratory, so I loaned him one.”

  “How long is he going to be in here?”

  “I’m not sure that I know what I’m talking about, but I think he’ll be out of here tomorrow. Apparently, the doctors think the sooner you’re moving around, the better it is.”

  “And then what?”

  “It’s sort of a delicate question. We don’t want these lunatics to think they have frightened us silly. Payne is, after all, a cop. Captain Pekach is working out some kind of an arrangement where Payne’s friends can keep an eye on him in plainclothes, maybe on overtime.”

  “I’d be happy to take a little of that, if you need somebody.”

  Wohl chuckled. “You’d look a little out of place, Sergeant, but thank you anyway.”

  “Because I’m black, you mean?”

  “No. Because you’re what—thirty-five? And because you look like a cop. The three guys who are going to sit on Payne are his age.”

  “And white?”

  I can’t let that pass.

  “Tiny Lewis is as black as you are,” Wohl said coldly. “He’s also as old as Payne. He’s one of the three. And since we’re on this sensitive minority kick, Hay-zus Martinez is the second one. That means only one of the three will be what these scumbags would call a honky.”

  “No offense, Inspector. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Okay. I hope not. But just for the record, the only color I see in a cop is blue.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wohl saw that Carter looked genuinely unhappy.

  Did I have to jump on his ass that way? Was it because this whole thing has got me more upset than I should let it?

  The elevator door whooshed open again. The Highway cop with the shotgun, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened, and then relaxed when he recognized Captain David Pekach.

  “Inspector,” Pekach said, somewhat stiffly. “Sergeant Carter.” He nodded at the Highway cop standing against the wall.

  Martha Peebles, smiling a little uneasily, stood behind him.

  Nice-looking woman, Wohl thought.

  “Hello, Dave.”

  “Inspector, I don’t think you know Miss Peebles,” Pekach said, slowly and carefully, as if reciting something polite he had memorized, and then he blurted, “my fiancee.”

  “No, I don’t,” Wohl said, and, catching the look on Martha Peebles’s face, decided, I’ll bet that’s the first time he ever used that word. Confirmation came when he looked at Pekach, whose face was now red.

  “How do you do?” Martha Peebles said, offering Wohl her hand.

  Classy, Wohl decided. Just what Dave needs. “I’m very pleased to meet you,” Wohl said.

  “Honey,” Pekach went on, “this is Sergeant Carter and Officer Hughes.”

  They nodded at one another.

>   “I hope I’m not intruding, Inspector,” Martha Peebles said. “Matt Payne’s father is an old family friend.”

  “We were at the Roundhouse, and they told me I’d just missed you; that you were coming here,” Pekach said. “We were already on our way here when Sabara called and told me what happened.”

  “I’m sure Matt will be delighted to see you,” Wohl said. “Why don’t you go on in? I’d like a quick word with Dave.”

  He pointed toward Matt’s door. Martha walked to it, opened it a crack, peered in, and then pushed the door fully open and went in.

  Pekach waited until the automatic closing device had closed the door and then looked at Wohl.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “About the security arrangements for Matt or Miss Peebles?”

  Pekach flushed again, and then smiled.

  “Both,” he said.

  “Frankly, I can’t see what a beautiful woman like that sees in an ugly Polack like you, but they say there’s no accounting for taste.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “And so far as the security arrangements are concerned, it looks to me as if Sergeant Carter has things well in hand,” Wohl said.

  Why am I uneasy saying that?

  “What about when Payne leaves the hospital?”

  “We’re working on that. Question one, to be answered, is when he will be leaving. We can talk about that in the morning.”

  Why didn’t I just say we’re going to have Lewis, McFadden, and Martinez sit on him?

  Wohl put his hand on Pekach’s arm and led him to Matt Payne’s door.

  EIGHTEEN

  “I’m sorry, we have no patient by that name,” the hospital operator said.

  “But I know he’s there,” Helene Stillwell said snappishly. “I visited him this morning.”

  “One moment, please,” the operator said.

  “Damn!” Helene said.

  A male voice came on the line: “May I help you, ma’am?”

  Helene hung up.

  They’re monitoring his calls. Obviously. After that threat to—what did it say?

  She dropped her eyes to the Ledger, which she had laid on the marble top of the bar in the sun room, and found what she was looking for. It was in a front-page story with the headline ISLAMIC LIBERATION ARMY THREATENS REVENGE FOR POLICE SHOOTING.