Final Justice boh-8

by W. E. B Griffin

  “You’ve got my permission, of course,” Mariani said, then had a second thought. “No, you don’t. Because you don’t need it. Peter Wohl’s already got the authority. The mayor ordered the formation of a Special Operations task force for this job, remember?”

  “I remember,” Lowenstein said.

  “That’s right,” Coughlin said.

  “He’s already got authority to request support from everybody, right?” Mariani asked.

  Coughlin and Lowenstein nodded.

  “The mayor gave Wohl the job,” Mariani said. “Let him do it. You better put the arm out for him.”

  “He’s downstairs in Homicide with Quaire and Washington, ” Lowenstein said.

  “You already called him?” Mariani asked.

  “I didn’t have to. We were all having dinner at Augie Wohl’s house when Quaire called me,” Coughlin said.

  “Okay, then, Denny,” Mariani said, and then his voice changed as he added, formally, “Under your supervision, Commissioner Coughlin, the Special Operations task force, paying cognizance to the suggestions of the district attorney, will proceed with the investigation. So inform Inspector Wohl.”

  “Yes, sir,” Coughlin said.

  “Then that’s it,” Mariani said. “Eileen, we all appreciate your support.”

  “Let’s do this right,” Eileen said. “We need to get those two off the street permanently.”

  When the district attorney of Philadelphia started to get off the Roundhouse elevator at the first floor, where the Homicide Division had its headquarters, she saw the surprise on the faces of Deputy Commissioner Coughlin and Chief Inspector Lowenstein.

  “Why not?” she asked. “I’m here. And the last I heard, I was welcome in Homicide.”

  “The last I heard, there was no place in the department where you are not more than welcome at any time,” Coughlin said, and waved her off the elevator. “But I thought I detected a tone of annoyance in Ben’s voice.”

  “We have a deal,” she said. “I keep my mouth shut when the hospital calls Ben, and he keeps his shut when I have to work.” She chuckled.

  “What?” Lowenstein asked.

  “One time when the hospital called, I said, ‘Oh, hell, Ben, not now,’ and he replied, ‘You knew what you were getting into when you married a doctor.’ ”

  Coughlin looked confused.

  “Isn’t that what you cops tell your wives when they complain about the odd hours you have to keep?” the D.A. asked.

  Lowenstein chuckled.

  “I don’t have a wife. I wouldn’t know,” Coughlin said.

  They got off the elevator and walked down the corridor to Homicide.

  Coughlin was not surprised that a lot of people would be in Homicide, but he was surprised at how many were actually there. The suite of offices was crowded with a number of non-Homicide white shirts, detectives, and uniforms.

  In, or standing around the doorway of, Captain Quaire’s office were Quaire, Inspector Peter Wohl; Lieutenant Jason Washington; Detective Tony Harris; Captains Frank Hollaran and Mike Sabara-Wohl’s deputy-both in plainclothes; Captain Stuart Jenkins, the commanding officer of the Twelfth District, which covered the Paschall Homes Housing Project, where, according to the addresses on their last arrest sheets, both Lawrence John Porter and Ralph David Williams lived; and Captain Dave Pekach, the Highway Patrol commander. Jenkins and Pekach were in uniform.

  In, or standing around the doorway of, the lieutenant’s office-the three Homicide lieutenants, who were rarely on duty at the same time, shared an office-were Lieutenant Robert Natali, who was the tour lieutenant, and Sergeants Zachary Hobbs and Ed McCarthy.

  Scattered around-in some cases, sitting on-the desks in the main area were Detective Al Unger; Sergeant Harry McElroy, Chief Lowenstein’s driver; Sergeant Jerry O’Dowd, Pekach’s driver; Sergeant Charley Lomax, Sabara’s driver; and Sergeant Paul Kittinger, Captain Jenkins’s driver.

  Kittinger and O’Dowd were in uniform.

  The term “driver” is somewhat misleading. Although all of these people did actually drive the cars assigned to their superiors, they were far more than chauffeurs. Their official job was to relieve their bosses of what administrative details they could, in addition to driving them around.

  But it was actually more than that. They had all been recognized as having both the ambition and the ability to rise higher in the police hierarchy, and their assignment as drivers gave them a chance to see how their supervisors recognized and dealt with the problems that came their way. In many ways-except they never passed canapes-drivers were the police version of military aides-de-camp.

  Coughlin marched across the outer office to Quaire’s office and stood for a moment in the doorway.

  “It looks,” he said, smiling, “as if everybody’s here but Homicide’s newest sergeant. Where’s Payne?”

  “He was here, Commissioner,” Captain Quaire said. “With Stan Colt.”

  “Oh, God!” Coughlin said.

  “So I ran him off with the girl from Northwest. She is-I told her to do it thoroughly and slowly-bringing him up to speed on the Williamson job.”

  “Clever,” Coughlin said, approvingly. “Give us a minute alone with Inspector Wohl, will you, please?”

  Everybody filed out of Quaire’s office. When only Coughlin, Lowenstein, Solomon, and Wohl were left, Coughlin closed the door.

  “I’ve got a suggestion, Eileen,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “You tell Peter what your concerns are, I’ll tell him what his orders from the commissioner are, and then the three of us leave.”

  She didn’t reply, and waited for him to go on.

  “The point will be made to everybody out there that there’s a lot of interest in what’s going on from us. That’s all that’s really necessary, and if we hang around it will look like we’re all going to be looking over his shoulder. I don’t want any question in anybody’s mind about who has the responsibility and the authority in this.”

  The district attorney considered that for a full thirty seconds, which seemed longer.

  “Peter,” she said, finally, “I don’t want these two to walk because we get enthusiastic or careless and do something stupid. Before we arrest them, I want a damned tight case against them. I don’t think we can safely rely on their fingerprints-or, for that matter, a confession. Now that defense attorneys have got their foot in the door with the successful challenges to fingerprints and confessions, we need to add to what we have now. Tying them positively to the murder weapon, for example, would be nice.”

  Wohl nodded his understanding.

  “I’ll pass the word that you get what you want, when you want it,” Chief Lowenstein said.

  “Yes, sir,” Wohl said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve got an idea about that, too,” Coughlin said. “Everybody out there is wondering what the hell we’re talking about in here. So let’s give them a little show. Matt, you open the door, and tell Sergeant McElroy to call Southwest Detectives, and get Captain Calmon down here, now, to report to Inspector Wohl.”

  “You’re serious about that, aren’t you, Denny?” Eileen asked.

  “Yes, I’m serious. I want to make sure everybody knows who’s in charge.”

  Lowenstein left the office, called his driver over, and told him what Coughlin had told him to tell him. Then he went back into the office.

  Eileen started for the door.

  “Where are you going, Eileen?”

  “I’m going out there and tell Al Unger to call Steve Cohen and tell him to get right down here to advise Peter,” she said. She turned to Wohl. “Steve’s pretty bright, and I think he’ll be useful. If he gets in your way, call me.”

  “I know Steve. We get along. But thanks, Eileen.”

  Steven J. Cohen was one of the best of the more than two hundred assistant district attorneys of Philadelphia.

  Eileen McNamara Solomon left Quaire’s office, spoke with Detective Al Unger, and then came back
in.

  Deputy Commissioner Coughlin then left the office, called Captain Hollaran over, and told him to call the Internal Affairs Division and the Impact Unit in his name, ordering them to get a senior officer to Homicide immediately to report to Inspector Wohl. Then he went back into the office.

  “Can we go now, Denny?” Eileen asked.

  “One more thing,” Coughlin said. “Inspector Wohl, your orders from the commissioner are, ‘The Special Operations task force, paying cognizance to the suggestions of the District Attorney, will proceed with the investigation.’ ”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did I get that right, Eileen?”

  “Verbatim,” Eileen said. “And paying cognizance to my suggestions, Inspector, means before you arrest either of these two critters, you check with me.”

  “Steve Cohen won’t do?”

  “With me, Inspector.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wohl said.

  “Don’t ma’am me, Peter. I’m not old enough to be your mother,” the district attorney said, and left Quaire’s office. A moment later, Coughlin and Lowenstein followed her.

  Even as he was pulling the unmarked Crown Victoria into one of the spaces reserved for the hotel limousine and other important cars-over the indignant, both arms waving, objections of the Ritz-Carlton doorman-Matt saw eight, ten, maybe more members of the press start to rush toward it, brandishing cameras and microphones.

  “Do they always follow you around like this?” Matt asked.

  “It is the price of celebrity,” Stan Colt said, solemnly, resignedly, and then added, in a normal voice, “And let me tell you, buddy, it gets to be a real pain in the ass.”

  The car’s arrival, Stan Colt in the front seat, and the movement of the press had also been seen by Sergeant Al Nevins of Dignitary Protection, who had apparently stationed himself and two uniforms just inside the hotel’s door. The three of them walked quickly to the car. Nevins opened the door, and when Colt got out, the three of them made a wedge and escorted Colt into the hotel. Once he was through the door, the uniforms barred the press from following him.

  Matt and Olivia got out of the car and went into the hotel.

  Nevins was standing by an open elevator door.

  Matt made the introductions. “Sergeant Nevins, Detective Lassiter.”

  “How are you?” Nevins said, but his surprise that Olivia was a cop was evident on his face.

  Stan Colt was in a rear corner of the elevator, hiding himself as best he could. Matt and Olivia got on the elevator and the door closed.

  Detective Jesus Martinez was sitting on a chair outside the double doors of the Benjamin Franklin Suite, reading the Philadelphia Daily News. When he saw them, he stood up and knocked on the door.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?” Matt asked.

  “This is where the guy inside told me to wait,” Jesus said.

  “You had your dinner?”

  Martinez shook his head, “no.”

  The suite door opened a crack, and Alex peered out, then saw Colt and opened the door all the way.

  Matt signaled for Jesus to follow him into the room.

  “Detective Martinez is not a rent-a-cop,” Matt announced. “He doesn’t sit in the corridor. Clear?”

  Alex looked at Colt.

  “What the hell is the matter with you, Alex?” Colt snapped.

  “Sorry, Stan,” Alex said.

  “Stan, this is Jesus Martinez, a detective from Special Operations. ”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Colt said, sounding as if he meant it.

  “He’s half of your chastity squad,” Matt said. “The other half will relieve him at midnight.”

  Colt chuckled, and held out his hand to Martinez.

  “If you can get rid of these two,” he said, “I’ve got some phone numbers and we could have a party.”

  Matt shook his head.

  “Hay-zus,” he said. “This is Olivia Lassiter from Northwest. ”

  They briefly shook hands. It was obvious from the surprise on Alex’s face that he had taken one look at Olivia and assumed Stan Colt’s trolling for companionship had been successful.

  Eddie the photographer and Jeannette the secretary were in the room.

  “Have you made a decision about dinner?” Jeanette asked.

  “Yeah. Here. You’re not invited,” Colt said. “Just me and the detectives. You’ve got a menu?”

  She went to a sideboard and returned with a menu and handed it to him. He handed it to Olivia.

  “Does Jesus get to stay?” Colt asked.

  “Yes, he does,” Matt said.

  “Good. Okay. Thank you. That’s all. I’ll see you in the morning,” Colt said.

  They all filed out of the suite.

  Matt noticed that they had not-except for the surprise on Alex’s face-acknowledged the presence of him, Hay-zus, or Olivia at all.

  “They’re necessary,” Colt said when they were gone. “And they do what they’re supposed to do well, but sometimes, having them around my neck all the time is worse than the goddamn press.”

  Colt lay down on the couch and gestured for the others to sit down.

  “I was about to ask you if they have a cheese steak sandwich on there, Olivia. But it has now occurred to me that if they do, it’ll be a Ritz-Carlton cheese steak, not a real one. Like from D’Allesandro’s on Henry Avenue?”

  “I can’t believe these prices,” Olivia said.

  “Well, don’t worry about them, everything’s on the studio, ” Colt said. “I wonder, could we send out for a cheese steak?”

  “It would be cold by the time it got here,” Matt said.

  “Well, maybe later on,” Colt said.

  Olivia handed the menu to Matt.

  “Inspire me,” she said.

  “I think you already do, baby,” Colt said. “Give me the menu.”

  Matt handed him the menu.

  He glanced at it quickly.

  “Anybody doesn’t like shrimp cocktails?”

  No one spoke.

  “Anybody morally or intellectually opposed to filet mignon?”

  No one spoke.

  “Anyone determined to ruin a good steak by cooking it well done?”

  No one spoke, but Matt and Olivia chuckled.

  “Well, that wasn’t hard, was it?” Colt said, and walked to the sideboard and picked up the telephone.

  “This is Mr. Colt in… I have no idea where I am, but I’ll bet you can find out. What we need right away is four shrimp cocktails; four filet mignons, medium rare; all the appropriate side dishes; and a couple of nice bottles of cabernet sauvignon. Thank you very much.”

  He hung up.

  “Okay,” he said. “You can start now, pause while they set up the table, and then continue, okay, Detective Lassiter?”

  “Fine,” Olivia said.

  “Can I call you Olivia, or will your boyfriend here think I’m making a pass at you?”

  “I’m not her boyfriend,” Matt said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Olivia said, simultaneously.

  “Methinks thou dost protest too much,” Colt said in a surprisingly creditable British Shakespearean accent.

  “Hay-zus,” Matt said, quickly. “The commissioner wants Mr. Colt to see how-”

  “Hey, I thought we were friends. What’s this ‘Mr. Colt’ shit?”

  “The commissioner wants Stan to see how Homicide works a job,” Matt went on. “Lassiter was next up on the wheel at Northwest when the Thirty-fifth uniform called in what turned out to be the Williamson homicide. For a couple of reasons, she’s been detailed to Homicide for the job, and Captain Quaire told her to bring Stan up to speed on the job.”

  “I wondered what was going on,” Martinez said.

  “I’m still wondering,” Colt said. “You want to say that again, please, slowly, in English? What’s the wheel, for example?”

  When room service delivered the dinner-two rolling carts of it-in what Matt thought was an ama
zingly short time, Matt had just about finished explaining what the wheel was and how Olivia and then Homicide had become involved.

  He interrupted his explanation as long as he could-the object of the exercise was to keep Colt out of the way of whatever was happening with the doers of the Roy Rogers job-and then when Colt insisted, halfway through the steaks, that he “keep talking, this is the sort of stuff I really want to hear,” he explained everything in minute detail, hoping that Olivia would follow his lead when she began to relate what had happened when she had first gone to the Williamson apartment.

  She did, but even stretching it, and even with Hay-zus kicking in with detailed explanations of why things were done, and done in certain ways, there was only so much to relate, and when Olivia had finished, it was far too early to hope that Colt would have had enough and want to go to bed.

  He didn’t have enough-despite his having asked a number of intelligent questions that had required long explanations-and he didn’t want to go to bed.

  “You know what I’d like to do now?” Colt asked, rhetorically, and went on without waiting for a reply. “It’s only a little after ten. I’d like to take a ride. Maybe go back to that bar you took me to before, maybe go by this Special Operations place where Hay-zus works, maybe take a quick look at that warehouse where you said they keep the undercover cars… And go out to D’Allesandro’s for a real cheese steak.”

  “You just finished eating,” Olivia blurted.

  “I didn’t eat much,” he said. “And I really want a cheese steak. We can get the cheese steak last before we call it a night, after we see the other stuff.”

  Although he sensed it was going to be futile, Matt offered objections.

  “There’s a couple of problems with that, Stan,” he began.

  “Like what?” Colt replied with a smile, but in a tone of voice that made it clear he was used to getting whatever he asked for.

  “Well, for one thing, we’ll have to run the gauntlet of the press waiting for you downstairs.”

  “The other security guys can handle that,” Colt said.

  “Stan, the people downstairs are police officers, members of the Dignitary Protection Unit. Not ‘security guys.’ Security guys are rent-a-cops.”

  “No offense, that’s very interesting, good to know, and I won’t make that mistake again. What else?”