"Inspector, the last time I was here: sir, you asked me if I had a gut feeling about anybody, anybody dirty, I mean, and I told you I didn't."
And now you 're going to tell me, right?
"I remember."
"I did, but I didn't want to say anything."
"I understand. What's your gut feeling, Hay-zus?"
'There's a corporal out there, name of Vito Lanza."
"And you think he's dirty? Why?"
"He just came back from Las Vegas with a lot of money. Enough to buy a new Cadillac."
"Your pal Matt Payne was just in Vegas and did about the same thing."
"Payne's different. Payne's got money. He can afford that kind of money to gamble."
"Is that all you've got to go on, Hay-zus?"
"The day before yesterday, this Lanza had a lot of money, in cash, ninety-four hundred dollars, in his glove compartment."
Maybe he is onto something. That's a lot of money. Christ knows, I never had ninety-four hundred dollars in cash. But then I never gambled in Las Vegas, either. And how the hell does he know that?
"How do you know that?"
Martinez's face flushed.
The reason he knows that is that he went into this guy's car. My God!
"Forget I asked that question. That way you won't have to lie to me," Wohl said. "Anything else?"
"There was also a matchbook from a place in the Poconos, called the Oaks and Pines Lodge," Martinez said. "I called a guy I know in Vice and asked him about it, and he said they gamble in the back room of that place."
"Fortunately, that's no concern of ours, our jurisdiction ending as it does at the city line."
Why did you do that? This guy is trying, and sarcasm is not in order.
"At two o'clock this morning, Lanza signed a marker for two thousand dollars at this place."
"How do you know that? What did you do, for Christ's sake, follow him?"
"No, sir. But I got it from a good source."
"You're supposed to be undercover, Martinez. That means you don't talk to people about what you're doing. Who's your source?"
"I don't want to get him in trouble, Inspector."
"Cut the crap, Martinez. Who's your source?"
"Well, I knew I never could get in this place. And even if I did, Lanza would recognize me. I had to find out."
"Once again, Martinez, cut the crap. Let's have it."
"Payne went up there, Inspector."
"You asked Payne to follow this guy?" Wohl asked incredulously.
"I asked him if he would, if I found out Lanza was going up there."
"And you heard he was going up there?"
"No. Payne went up there on his own. Last night. And he called me about five this morning and told me he saw Lanza sign a marker for two thousand dollars."
"How did he know who Lanza was?"
"He was carrying, and Payne made him as a cop, and then Lanza recognized Payne…"
"Lanza made Payne?"
"Not as a cop. He recognized him from Las Vegas, or something like that. But Payne said he was sure Lanza did not make him as a cop."
I don't need this. A bonafide lunatic is trying to disintegrate the Vice President of the United States, and we have no idea who he is or where he is, and I don't need to be distracted by a possibly dirty cop at the airport, or another proof that Matt Payne has a dangerous tendency to charge off doing something stupid.
"What we have here is a lucky gambler. The only law we know he's broken is to gamble in the Poconos. We wouldn't have a police department if every cop who gambles got fired."
"This guy is dirty, Inspector. I know it," Martinez said.
On the other hand we have here a guy who gambles big time in Las Vegas, had almost ten thousand dollars in cash in his glove compartment yesterday, and yet was signing a marker for two thousand in a joint in the Poconos. Which means, unless he used the ten thousand to pay off his mortgage or something, that he lost it, and signed a marker for more. The money bothers me. Cops do not have that kind of money. Honest cops don't.
And Martinez is not Matt Payne. He had two years undercover in Narcotics, and was damned good at it. He's had the time to develop the intuition. And he's not going off half-cocked, either, strictly on intuition. The last time he was here, he wouldn't give me this guy's name.
Wohl got up from the table and went into his bedroom. He took a small notebook from his bedside table, looked up a number, and dialed it.
"Chief Marchessi, this is Peter Wohl. Sorry to disturb you at home, sir. I think our man has come up with something. Have you got time in your schedule this morning to talk to us, sir?"
There was a pause.
"Thank you, Chief. We'll be there."
He hung up and went back in the kitchen.
"At half past eight, Hay-zus, we're going to see Chief Inspector Marchessi at Internal Affairs. You know where it is?"
"Yes, sir. At Third and Race."
"Be there."
"Yes, sir."
When Martinez had gone, Wohl went to the phone on the coffee table in his living room and dialed another number, this one from memory.
There was no answer on Detective Payne's line, and his answering machine did not kick in, although Wohl let it ring a long time.
Finally, he hung up and looked at his watch.
Christ, 1 won't get any breakfast at all!
****
At ten minutes past seven, Matt Payne very nearly drove Miss Penelope Detweiler's Mercedes into the wrought-iron gate of the Detweiler estate in Chestnut Hill.
He stopped so suddenly that Penny was thrown against the dashboard.
"When the hell did you start closing the goddamned gate?"
"No, I don't think I'm hurt, but thank you for asking, darling."
"Sorry. Are you all right?"
"I'm going to be sore all over," Penny said innocently. "If it's not one thing, it's another. Whatever am I going to do about you, Matthew darling?"
"What's with the gate?"
"There's some kind of a machine on it. It closes automatically at ten, something like that, and then opens automatically when it gets light in the morning."
"Not this morning."
He got out of the car and went to a telephone box and lifted a telephone receiver. It rang automatically.
"May I help you?" a voice said.
"Princess Penelope seeks entrance to the castle," Matt said.
"Yes, sir," the voice, which Matt now recognized as that of Jensen, the chauffeur, said. He did not seem amused.
The right half of the double gates creaked majestically open.
"I'll tell you something else that gate does," Matt said as he drove through it. "It permits your parents to know when your boyfriends bring you home."
"Don't be silly," she said.
H. Richard Detweiler, in a quilted silk dressing gown, came out of the front door as Matt drove up, holding a cup of coffee.
"He doesn't do that too well, does he?" Penny said.
"Do what?"
"Manage to look like he just happened to be there?"
Matt drove right past Detweiler, waving cheerfully at him, and around to the garage. His Volkswagen was parked to one side.
"You lie to your father," Matt said. "I'm getting out of here."
"You're underestimating him. I'll bet there's no keys in your Bug."
There were not.
It was necessary to walk back to the house, where Penny gave an entirely credible, but wholly false, report of GiGi's party, and why they had decided to stay over and come back first thing in the morning.
Matt was at first amused. Then it occurred to him that if Penny could lie that easily to her father, she could lie as easily to someone else, say M. Payne, Esq., and it no longer seemed amusing.
And then he realized that H. Richard Detweiler didn't believe a word Penny had told him.
He has no idea where we really were, but he knows damned well we were not at GiGi's. So why isn't he mad
? Aren't fathers supposed to be furious when young men screw their daughters?
As a general rule of thumb, yes. But not when the young gentleman is an old, dear, and more importantly, responsible friend of the family, and the young lady in question has previously been involved in things that make a night between the sheets seem quite innocent, indeed.
"I really have to go."
"I'll have Jensen bring your car around," Detweiler said.
"Just get me the keys, please, I can get it myself."
"Thank you for a lovely evening, Matt," Penny said. "Ask me again, soon."
When she was sure her father's back was turned, she winked lewdly at him.
****
At two minutes before eight, Matt Payne pushed open the door to the Special Investigations Section. Two sergeants were waiting for him.
"Payne," Sergeant Maxwell Henkels said, "I told you once before. This is the second time, I'm not going to tell you again. I want to know where you are located all the time."
Somebody, obviously, has been looking for me.
"I wasn't aware that applied when I'm off duty," Matt said.
"Yeah, well, now you do. You understand me, I'm not going to tell you again?"
"I understand, Sergeant."
"Payne," Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd said uncomfortably, a strange smile on his face. "You have thirty-one minutes to meet Inspector Wohl at Chief Marchessi's office in Internal Affairs."
"What?"
"What are you, deaf or what?" Sergeant Maxwell Henkels demanded.
"I'll handle this, Sergeant," O'Dowd said. "And to make things easier for everybody concerned, I'll keep track of Detective Payne's whereabouts. Will that be all right with you?"
"The inspector asked me where he was, and I felt like an asshole when I didn't know."
"Well, that won't happen again. Payne will keep me advised of his location, on and off duty, won't you, Payne?"
"Right."
Henkels left the office.
"You'd better get moving, Payne," O'Dowd said. "With the early morning traffic, you're going to have to push it."
"Do you know what this is all about?"
"No. But right now, you're not one of his favorite people. He made that pretty clear."
Matt tried to figure that out, but came up with nothing.
"I guess nothing happened overnight? About the lunatic?"
"Not a thing."
"Well, Sergeant," Matt said. "You know where I'll be."
Jerry O'Dowd nodded.
TWENTY
At twenty-nine minutes after eight, Matt entered the outer office of Chief Inspector Mario Marchessi, of the Internal Investigations Bureau, which was housed in a building about as old as the Schoolhouse, literally under the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, which connects Philadelphia with Camden, N.J.
Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and Officer Jesus Martinez were already there.
"Good morning, sir," Matt said.
Wohl did not reply. He gestured for Martinez and Payne to follow him out into the corridor.
"I want to make this clear before we go in to see Chief Marchessi," Wohl said. "This is to see what, if anything, can be salvaged as a result of you two going off like you thought you were the heroes in a cops-and-robbers movie on TV. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"No, sir," Matt said. Martinez shook his head no.
"Jesus!" Wohl said disgustedly. "Martinez, you were sent to the airport to keep your eyes and ears open, and to report what you thought you heard or saw to me…"
What does he mean, "Martinez, you were sent to the airport"?
"…but when I asked you to tell me your gut feelings, you decided, to hell with him, I'll play it close to my chest; I'm Super Cop. I'll catch this dirty cop by myself."
Matt looked at Martinez, who looked crushed.
"And you!" Wohl turned to Matt. "Whatever gave you the idea that you could, without orders, surveil anyone, much less a police corporal of a district you have absolutely no connection with at all, anywhere, much less to somewhere in another county, for Christ's sake, where you knew illegal gambling was going on?"
"Inspector, I didn't…"
"Shut up, Matt!"
"…follow anyone anywhere."
"I told you to shut up," Wohl said. "I meant it."
He went back into Chief Marchessi's outer office.
Matt looked at Jesus Martinez.
"What did he mean when he said you were sent to the airport?"
Martinez raised his eyes to his, but didn't reply.
"Well?" Matt asked impatiently.
Wohl put his head back out into the corridor.
"Okay, let's go," he said.
They followed Wohl into Chief Marchessi's office. He pointed to where he wanted them to stand, facing Marchessi's desk, then closed the door to the outer office, then sat down on a battered couch.
"Okay, Peter, what's going on?" Chief Marchessi asked.
"My primary mistake, Chief, was in assuming that Detectives Martinez and Payne…"
Detectives Martinez and Payne?
"…had a good deal more common sense than is the case."
"I don't follow you, Peter," Marchessi said.
"At two o'clock this morning, Detective Payne, having followed him there, observed an Airport Unit corporal signing a marker for two thousand dollars in a gambling joint in the Poconos."
"What gambling joint?" Marchessi asked.
"What was the name of this place, Payne?" Wohl asked.
"The Oaks and Pines Lodge," Matt replied. "Sir, I didn't follow…"
"Speak when you're spoken to," Wohl said.
"Let him talk," Marchessi said. "What were you saying?"
Wohl didn't let him.
"The reason he followed this fellow to the Oaks and Pines," Wohl went on, "was because Detective Martinez asked him to."
Marchessi put up his hand, palm out, to silence Wohl.
"Did you follow this Corporal…have we got a name?"
"Lanza, sir. Vito Lanza," Martinez said.
"Did you follow this Corporal Lanza to this place in the Poconos?" Marchessi asked.
"No, sir."
"Inspector Wohl thinks you did."
"The inspector is mistaken, sir. May I explain?"
"I wish somebody would."
"Officer Martinez believes…" Matt began.
"DetectiveMartinez," Marchessi interrupted. "Let's get that, at least, straight."
Jesus! That means Hay-zus was working the Airport undercover, and as a detective.
"Detective Martinez became suspicious of Corporal Lanza, sir," Matt started again.
"Whoa!" Marchessi said. "Why were you suspicious of Corporal Lanza, Martinez?"
"His life-style, sir," Martinez said. "He had too much money. And a new Cadillac. And he gambles."
Marchessi looked at Wohl.
"That's all?" he asked.
"He had almost ten thousand dollars in cash in the glove compartment of his Cadillac, Chief," Martinez said.
"How do you know that?"
"I saw it."
"He showed it to you?"
"No, sir."
"Does this Corporal… Lanza…know you know he had all this cash?"
"We hope not," Wohl said sarcastically. "We think Detective Martinez's breaking and entering of Corporal Lanza's personal automobile went undetected."
Marchessi snapped his head to look at Martinez. He was on the verge of saying something, but, visibly, changed his mind.
"And with all this somewhat less than incriminating evidence in hand," Marchessi said, "you enlisted the aid of Detective Payne to surveil Corporal Lanza, and he followed him to this lodge in the Poconos?"
"Not exactly, sir," Jesus said.
"Tell me, exactly."
"I asked Detective Payne if he would be willing to follow Lanza there if I found out he was going."
"Why?"
"You mean why did I ask Payne?"
Marchessi nodded.
"Because m
y friend in Vice said it was a high-class place and I figured Payne could get in. I couldn't follow him myself."
"And did you tell Detective Payne what you're doing at the Airport Unit?"
"No, sir. Just that I thought I found a dirty cop."
"And you learned that Lanza was going to this place, and told Payne, and Payne followed him up there. Is that correct?"
"No, sir," Matt said.
"I'm asking Martinez," Marchessi said.
"I didn't tell him Lanza was going there," Martinez said. "He went up there on his own."
Was that a simple statement of fact, Hay-zus, or are you trying to stick it in me?
"Why did you do that, Payne?"
"Hay-zus is a good cop, sir…"
"Who the hell is'Hay-zus'? Marchessi interrupted.
"That's the Spanish pronunciation of 'Jesus', sir."
"Whether'Hay-zus' is a good cop seems to be open to discussion," Marchessi said. "Go on."
"I thought if he said he had a dirty cop, he probably had one."
"Just as an aside, Detective Payne, there is a departmental policy that states that police officers having reason to suspect brother officers of dishonesty will-will,notmay -bring this to the attention of Internal Affairs."
"Yes, sir. Martinez asked me if I would be willing to go to this place to see if Lanza was associating with known criminals…"
"And if he was, I was going to tell you his name, Inspector," Martinez said to Wohl.
"…and I agreed," Matt went on. "Then it occurred to me it would make sense if I knew where I was going. To take a look at the place before I followed Lanza there, in other words. So I went up there."
"No one, correct me if I'm wrong, told you to do so. Just your buddy Martinez asked you, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is there anyone else involved in this? Another buddy?"
Martinez and Matt looked at each other.
"Okay, who?" Marchessi asked, correctly interpreting the exchanged glances.
"He didn't do anything, sir," Martinez said.
"Who,dammit?"
"I talked about Lanza to Detective McFadden, sir."
"He's the officer you worked with in Narcotics?" Marchessi asked.
"Yes, sir."
If he knows that, Matt thought, he knows that it was Hay-zus and Charley who brought down the guy who killed Uncle Dutch. That ought to be worth something.
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