The Witness

by W. E. B Griffin

“Loyalty down and loyalty up, huh?”

  “Is something wrong with that?”

  Matt shrugged and looked uncomfortable.

  “Come on, Matt, out with it.”

  Payne met his eyes.

  “Did you tell Malone to lay off trying to catch Bob Holland?”

  “Not specifically,” Wohl replied. “I’m sure he got the message, though.” And then he understood the meaning of Payne’s question. “What do you know that I don’t, Matt?”

  “I promised him if I decided to tell you, I would tell him first.”

  “This isn’t the Boy Scouts. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “Charley caught him surveilling Holland’s body shop, the one up by Temple.”

  “What do you mean, caught him?”

  “McFadden—off duty, he had just dropped Margaret off at work at Temple—”

  “Margaret being his girlfriend?”

  “Right. So he saw this old car with somebody in it parked near Holland’s body shop. And he checked it out. It was Malone. He, Malone, told Charley not to tell anybody about it.”

  “Which proves what?”

  “The night you had me measuring the school building, Malone showed up there. Charley was with me. He offered to buy us a cheese-steak, and I brought him here. Both of them. And he admitted that what he was trying to do was catch Holland.”

  “And you decided not to tell me, right?”

  Matt nodded.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t gone to play Dick Tracy and gotten myself shot, but that night, I told Malone I was going to sleep on it, that I would probably decide I had to tell you, but if I did, I would tell him first.”

  “You must have had a reason,” Wohl said, more than a little annoyed. “You work for me, getting back to that loyalty business.”

  “He convinced the both us that Holland is a thief,” Matt said.

  “You and McFadden, of course, being experts in the area of car theft.”

  “Open the goddamn door!” the intercom speaker erupted. “Michael J. O’Hara is gracing these crummy premises with his presence.”

  “Oh, shit!” Wohl said, even though he had to smile. “The last guy in Philadelphia I want to see is Mickey.”

  “You want to hide in the bedroom while I get rid of him?”

  “No,” Wohl said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve always thought, said, Mickey can be trusted. Let’s put it to the test.”

  He walked quickly to the stairwell, and down it, to let O’Hara in.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I must be getting old,” Michael J. O’Hara said to Inspector Peter Wohl as Wohl handed him a bottle of Tuborg. “I should have guessed you would be here.”

  “I’m not here, Mickey. You didn’t see me.”

  O’Hara looked at him intently for a moment, and then shrugged and nodded his agreement.

  “Okay. Neither of us are here. But if we were here, and I asked you, on or off the record, ‘How do you think you’re going to like Harrisburg?’ what would be your off-the-record, just-between-us-boys reply?”

  “On the record, I’m not going to Harrisburg.”

  “That’s not what it said—what he said, he being Farnsworth Stillwell—on the radio.”

  “As I was just saying to Casanova here, you should never believe everything you hear on the radio, or read in the newspapers, especially the Ledger.”

  “Give me a for example.”

  “I just gave you one. I never told Stillwell that I would take that job.”

  “If I were to write that—‘Staff Inspector Peter Wohl today emphatically denied that he ever intended to resign from the Police Department to become chief investigator for Farnsworth Stillwell, newly appointed deputy attorney general for corporate crime’—it would make Stillwell look pretty silly.”

  “How about leaving out the phrase ‘to resign from the Police Department’?”

  “How about the making him look silly part?”

  “I don’t think that would reduce me to tears,” Wohl said.

  “Is it that bad, Peter? You’re really thinking of resigning?”

  “We were talking about not always believing what you read in the newspapers. You want another for example?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The records of the medical examiner, so far as I understand it, are public records. If you were to go down there, and pay the small fee—I think it’s two dollars—they would give you a copy of Mr. Albert J. Monahan’s death certificate. I think you might find that very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Why don’t you go spend the two dollars?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me,” O’Hara said.

  “Perish the thought. But trust me, Mickey, I think you’d find the death certificate interesting.”

  “He’s dead, right?” O’Hara asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “So what would I find interesting? What did they do, shoot him with a cannon? He wasn’t shot? Some jungle bunny threw a spear at him? What?”

  “For two dollars, you could find out,” Wohl said.

  “I can find out cheaper than that,” O’Hara said.

  He leaned over and picked up the telephone on the table beside Matt’s chair. He draped the handset over his shoulder, and then dialed a number.

  “Dr. Phane, please. Mickey O’Hara…

  “Oh, bullshit. Tell him he owes me one.”

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Interesting,” he observed, “the bastard doesn’t want to talk to me….

  “Charley, how the hell are you?…

  “Well, just put her on hold, all I have is a couple of questions….

  “Tell me about Albert J. Monahan….

  “Yeah, I know he’s dead. What did they shoot him with?…

  “What are you telling me, Charley?…

  “And that’s what’s going on the death certificate?…

  “Charley, if I print this and it turns out it’s not true, I would be very unhappy. It is for that reason I have been recording this call. Just so you can’t deny having told me what you just told me.”

  O’Hara shrugged, hung the handset on his shoulder again, and dialed another number.

  “Would you believe that the Most Exalted Poo-Bah of the Knights of Columbus just told me to go fuck myself?” he asked, in hurt innocence, and then his party answered.

  “O’Hara,” he said. “Are you ready to copy?…

  “Slug: ILA Witness Dead of Natural Causes, Says Medical Examiner. By Michael J. O’Hara. In an exclusive interview with this reporter, Philadelphia County Medical Examiner Dr. Charles F. Phane refuted reports in another newspaper—break. I’d like to say the Philadelphia Ledger, but you’d better run it past legal before you do.”

  “—in another newspaper that Mr. Albert J. Monahan was shot to death, allegedly by persons connected with the so-called Islamic Liberation Army. Dr. Phane said that a thorough autopsy of Mr. Monahan’s body has convinced him, and other medical personnel of his staff, that Mr. Monahan had died of a cardiac arrest, commonly called a heart attack.

  “Dr. Phane, who personally conducted the autopsy, also said that tests had been run that ruled out the possibility of poisons.

  “Quote Mr. Monahan’s heart just stopped beating, Unquote Dr. Phane said. Quote. He had a medical history of heart trouble and it finally took his life. Unquote.

  “Got that?…

  “Yeah, I’m sure. If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t have called it in.”

  Mickey put the handset back in the cradle, and then set the telephone back on the table.

  “Okay, Peter. So you tell me why Mrs. Monahan told me she saw her husband getting shot.”

  “This has to be off the record, Mickey.”

  “Off the record.”

  “I think she did see someone—”

  “A cop? She said, ‘a white cop.’”

  “—someone, probably a Caucasi
an, in a police uniform, shoot her husband. But what he was using was a stun gun, not a real one.”

  “One of those things that shocks people?” Mickey asked. “No shit?”

  “There were bruise marks, plus slight indications of electric burns, on his chest.”

  “Phane didn’t say anything about that.”

  “Phane is a very careful man, Mickey.”

  “You don’t have the stun gun, do you?” O’Hara challenged. “This is a theory?”

  “It’s a pretty good theory,” Wohl said.

  “You tell me why it’s a good theory.”

  “We don’t think they were trying to kill Monahan, just scare him.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” O’Hara said.

  “I’ll tell you what we think this whole thing is about, and where we are, but if you print it, you can really screw things up. Not only for me, but for a lot of other people.”

  “You prick!” O’Hara said. “You know that after you told me that, I couldn’t use it.”

  “Fuck it,” Matt Payne said. “The risk is too great, don’t tell him.”

  Mickey turned to look at him in what looked like hurt surprise. “For the rest of your life, I will misspell your name,” he said.

  He turned at Wohl. “Does he know what’s going on?”

  “No. He’s just worried about me.”

  “Okay, Peter,” O’Hara said after a moment. “Boy Scout’s Honor.” He held up three fingers as Boy Scouts do when giving their word of honor. “I won’t use any of this until you tell me I can.”

  It took Wohl ten minutes, during which Mickey O’Hara asked a very few questions, all of which struck Matt as being penetrating.

  “Okay,” Mickey said, finally. “So what are you doing here drinking beer with Wyatt Earp? Why aren’t you out catching—better still, shooting by accident, or at least running over—this rogue cop of yours?”

  “Two reasons,” Wohl said. “For one thing, I think I would probably get caught if I did. More importantly, Jason Washington asked me to make myself scarce until five o’clock. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Can I stick around?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Well, and all this time, I thought we were buddies,” O’Hara said. “How would you feel about me interviewing Arthur X? Getting his Islamic slant on this?”

  “Will he talk to you?”

  “Yeah, I think so. He likes being in the newspapers.” He saw the look on Wohl’s face. “Relax, I won’t give anything away.”

  “If I thought you would, I wouldn’t have told you what I did.”

  “I just had a better idea,” O’Hara said. “Fuck Arthur X. I know what he’s going to say. I’m going to see Sam Goldblatt and maybe Katz too.”

  “Who?” Matt asked.

  “Sam Goldblatt, of Goldblatt’s furniture,” O’Hara replied. “Ol’ Mr. I-have-to-think-about-my-wife-and-children. The one who covered his ass about these scumbags by having his eyesight conveniently fail. Phil Katz is Goldblatt’s nephew.”

  “Oh,” Matt said, and then asked, “why?”

  “‘Mr. Goldblatt, would you tell me how you feel about the people who killed both poor Mr. Cohn and now poor Mr. Monahan escaping punishment because you have bad eyesight? My one point three million readers would like to know. In case they wanted to buy a washing machine, or something, and wanted to make sure they were buying it from somebody who was always thinking about his wife and children.’”

  Wohl chuckled. “I really think you would do that.”

  “You’d better believe it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I did do,” Wohl said. “When Goldblatt and Katz walked out of their houses this morning, they found a Highway RPC waiting for them. Highway’s going to sit on both of them for the next couple of days, at least.”

  “To protect them? Or to remind them they need protection?”

  “Both.”

  “Mr. Goldblatt, considering what happened to poor Mr. Monahan, do you think the police are going to be able to protect you from these people you weren’t able to see well enough to identify?”

  “If you added, ‘and your family,’” Wohl said, “that might not be a bad question to ask.”

  “Consider it asked,” O’Hara said.

  He stood up, shrugged into his fur-collared overcoat, finished off his bottle of beer, and went down the stairs.

  At five minutes past four, just after Officer Charles McFadden had relieved Officer Frank Hartzog on the protection detail of Officer Matthew M. Payne, the doorbell rang.

  “Who’s there?” McFadden asked, through the intercom.

  “Sergeant D’Angelo.”

  “You know a Sergeant D’Angelo, Inspector?” McFadden asked Wohl.

  “Yeah. Let him in.”

  “Be right down,” McFadden said, and went down the stairs.

  The face that first appeared at the head of the stairwell a moment later was that of the Hon. Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Brotherly Love. He was followed by a burly, curly-haired man in his late twenties.

  “I didn’t know anybody lived up here,” the mayor thought aloud, and nodded at the occupant, Officer Payne, as he looked around.

  “What the hell is this all about, Peter?” he asked.

  “Chief Lowenstein said he would be here at four,” Wohl said. “He must have been delayed.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” the mayor said, but he did not pursue the question. He looked at Matt.

  “How’s your leg, son?”

  “Pretty good, sir. Thank you.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any coffee?”

  “I can make some in just a minute,” Matt said, and started to get out of his leather armchair.

  “Al, make coffee,” the mayor ordered.

  Sergeant D’Angelo went into the kitchen.

  “Coffee’s in the cabinet right over the machine,” Matt called.

  “Got it,” D’Angelo called back.

  The telephone rang.

  “Hello?” Matt answered it.

  “Chief Lowenstein. Is Carlucci there?”

  “Mr. Mayor,” Matt said. “Chief Lowenstein for you, sir.”

  Carlucci snatched the phone from Payne’s hand.

  “Lowenstein, what the hell’s going on?…

  “How did that happen?…

  “I’ll be damned,” he said, and hung up.

  He looked at Wohl.

  “That was Lowenstein. He’s at the district attorney’s. That’s why he’s late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Samuel Goldblatt just identified from photographs all of the doers of the Goldblatt job, and is prepared to go before the Grand Jury on Monday. And, and, get this: Tom Callis just called Giacomo, as a professional courtesy, and informed him he will personally prosecute.”

  “That’s good news, sir,” Wohl said.

  “Did you know about this, Peter?”

  “I’d heard that another attempt to get Mr. Goldblatt to testify would be made, sir.”

  “Stop the bullshit, Peter, what do you know about this sudden change of heart?”

  “Chief Lowenstein told me that he was going to have a talk with Mr. Goldblatt, sir. And I believe that Mickey O’Hara saw him, Goldblatt, today too.”

  “O’Hara? What about O’Hara?”

  “He was here earlier, sir.”

  “He was here? How is it, Peter, that every sonofabitch and his brother but the police commissioner and me knew where you were?”

  “I wasn’t aware you were looking for me, sir.”

  “Czernich was looking for you, and he couldn’t find you. Or so he told me.”

  “Chiefs Coughlin and Lowenstein knew I was here, sir. And so did Captain Sabara.”

  “I don’t like it a goddamn bit the way the three of you treat Czernich like the enemy,” Carlucci said. “It has to stop. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, what about O’Hara?” />
  “Mr. O’Hara led me to believe he was going to ask Mr. Goldblatt and the nephew, Katz, about how they felt about these people going to walk with Monahan dead.”

  “You got him to do that?”

  “It was Mickey’s idea, sir.”

  “Bullshit,” the mayor said.

  The telephone rang again, and Matt answered it.

  “Is that you, Matty?” Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is the mayor there? Lowenstein?”

  “Chief Lowenstein is on his way here from the district attorney’s office.”

  “Who is that?” the mayor asked suspiciously.

  “Chief Coughlin, sir.”

  “Give me the phone,” he ordered sharply. Matt handed it over.

  “What the hell is this all about, Denny?”

  Matt couldn’t hear what Coughlin replied.

  “If the both of you aren’t here in ten minutes, we will adjourn this meeting to the commissioner’s office. Capisce?” Carlucci said, and hung up.

  He turned to Wohl.

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on around here?”

  “I’d prefer to wait until Chief Lowenstein is here, sir.”

  “In numbers, there is strength, huh?” Carlucci said unpleasantly. “Where the hell is that coffee, Al?”

  “It’s almost through, sir,” Sergeant D’Angelo said.

  “Let me ask you something else, Peter,” Carlucci said. “Are you conducting an investigation of Bob Holland?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Strange. The FBI thinks you are. Davis called Czernich and asked him. Czernich told him he would ask you about it. You better have a goddamn good answer when he does. Auto theft is none of your business.

  “That sonofabitch!” Charley McFadden said.

  The mayor looked at him. McFadden, realizing that his mouth had run away with him, looked stricken.

  “What sonofabitch is that, son?” Carlucci asked softly, menacingly. “The police commissioner or Mr. Davis of the FBI?”

  “There was an FBI agent here last night, Mr. Mayor,” Matt said. “We took—”

  “What was he doing here? Friend of yours, what?”

  “I met him yesterday,” Matt said. “He came to confirm rumors that I’m going to be investigated by the Justice Department.”

  “For what?”