Mystery: The Frank & Ernest Box Set - Mystery and Suspense Novels (The Frank & Ernest Files, Mystery, Thriller, Suspense Book 6)

by David Archer

  “Yeah, thanks for the feed. This was some good eats. Tell you what, my good man, you want to bring a file on Tyrone Smith, we can do this again.”

  “At this point, Smith is just a footnote. Nobody’s particularly sorry to see him dead. But, hey, a good detective should wrap up a case entirely. Okay, you’re on. Day after tomorrow, same time, same crappy table?”

  “You got yourself a date, big boy.”

  Chapter 11

  As it turned out, Ernie would have to re-schedule his next lunch with Frank. After he had finished conferring with the detective about the drive-by, he made a beeline for the state store, where he promptly replenished his dwindling single-malt supply. When the call came, Ernie Campanella was sprawled, face-first, onto his couch, dead to the world.

  When a grand jury has to consider a police shooting, the prosecutors in the D.A.’s office like to give the case top priority, so that they can get the obviously-innocent officer back on duty with a minimum of down time. In the case of the Rudy Nero shooting, there was a hitch as both the attorney for the boy’s family and the one for Angelo Fabbri and the other two other thugs arrested that night kept badgering to let the three young men testify at the hearing. In the end, the D.A. gave in. Let them do their worst, he reasoned, this case was airtight.

  After the short delay involved in getting that matter cleared up, the victim’s three friends, now dressed in conservative suits and sporting short, dry haircuts, swore up-and-down that the knife had been a plant. The cops shot him down like a dog because he had the nerve to speak his mind to them. Rudy never owned a knife in his life, they all agreed. In fact, he was a real scairdey-cat when it came to knives, his cousin Angelo added.

  Although the witness headcount was three-to-one against the defendant, the jurors were far more inclined to believe the measured but assertive testimony of Officer Leonard Tompkins over the vehement accusations of the other three “witnesses.” It took only one vote, after less than three minutes of discussion, for the grand jury to ignore the indictment by a vote of 22 to 1.

  Word got back to Ernie’s precinct the instant the verdict had come in. In almost as quick an instant, Precinct Captain Lorenzo Williams was dialing Ernie’s number to personally convey the glad tidings. Of course, he conveyed nothing at all, as the phone just rang and rang. Ernie had not yet bothered to install an answering machine, even though it had been department policy that every policeman should have one. Repeated calls to Ernie’s number brought the same futile result. It seems our boy was out for the long count—the very long count.

  With a sharp word to the desk sergeant on the night shift to keep on trying that worthless son-of-a-bitch, a very perturbed Lorenzo Williams stormed off to his Day Street townhouse.

  “Patrolman Campanella, I just want you to know, right off the bat, if I had my way, you’d still be on suspension, except this time, without pay,” Captain Williams raged. “Your behavior yesterday was inexcusable!”

  “What, you mean sleeping? Lots of people do it. Maybe even you.”

  “Do not crack wise with me ever again, Campanella, or I will, by God, fire your sorry ass and gladly take the heat for the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir, I read you Lima Charlie,” Ernie said, meaning loud and clear. “Especially Lima,” he had the bad judgment to add.”

  “That does it!” the Captain stormed. “I was going to let you off with an ass-chewing, which is what the Chief suggested, but, since you can’t learn even the basic rudiments of respect, I will find another way to get you out of my sight. Report to Gonzalez in admin. I’ll call for you once I’ve figured out what I want to do. Now get out.”

  What the captain came up with was to transfer Ernie from days, where he still had another month to go on his rotation, to the graveyard shift. His partner, Tompkins, would stay where he was and work on breaking in a recent academy graduate. Ernie would, for the foreseeable future, be partnered with Luther Porch. Ernie knew Porch and considered him to be “without question, the dumbest white man I know…and maybe the laziest.”

  Given his suddenly-altered schedule, Ernie called Frank as soon as he could and broke the news. The guys decided to move the meeting from lunch (when Ernie would be asleep after working all night) to dinner, by which time the newly-anointed night owl would be up.

  In the end, the extra interval worked to their advantage, as Frank was able to make another connection.

  At first Ernie was not able to spot his friend at one of Aunt Sally’s corner tables. The view had been partially blocked by a tall darkly-complected black man, who was sitting beside Frank.

  “Ernie Campanella,” Frank began, once his friend got close enough to the table, “this is Detective Tommy Parker. He’s working a case that might have something to do with Tyrone Smith.”

  “Yeah, maybe a lot to do. Pleasetameech,” Parker added, turning and extending a hand to Ernie.

  “Okay, this sounds interesting. Let’s get right to it. Keep in mind, guys, I’m here as a freebie. After my most recent misunderstanding with the powers-that-be, I wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting any O.T. for this.”

  “That’s cool,” Parker agreed. “I never was much for beatin’ around the bush. Okay, here it is: there’s this homeless guy, Michael Johnson, got killed after ripping off and killing one of Spencer Bennett’s bagmen. Kilt the guy’s bodyguards too. Thing is, I don’t figure Maytag Mike—that’s what they call him—for a stone-cold killer. Anyway, besides the swag, he also made off with the victim’s car, which, in the usual roundabout way, we traced back to Bennett. Now, we know that Smith was Bennett’s attack dog, so I wonder if he’s the one that offed Johnson or was it a case of someone robbing the robber.”

  “So, you figure whoever did it tried to pin the rap on Maytag Mike, is that what you’re saying?” Ernie asked. “Okay, let me mull that over in the vast confines of my noggin. Now how about we order up?”

  Frank was in mid-chew with a half-eaten sauced rib in his hand when his eyes bugged out and he threw the bone down on his plate. Then he took a long drink of water.

  “What’s the matter, too spicy for you?” Parker chuckled.

  “No, no, I got it! It just came to me!” Frank exclaimed. “Beat you to the punch for once, Sherlock,” he told Ernie.

  “All right, let’s hear this gigantic revelation you got,” Ernie said.

  “I know who killed Maytag Mike and the numbers guys. It was Smith.”

  “Tyrone Smith?” Ernie asked.

  “No, Genius, Buffalo Bob Smith! Yes, it was Tyrone. Who else could it have been?”

  “Well, not Buffalo Bob. Last time I checked, he was dead, but as to who else, I’d say anyone on the face of the Earth. Have you considered Maggie Thatcher?”

  “Guys, is this really helping?” Parker wondered aloud.

  “I don’t get it,” Ernie mumbled. “Keep in mind, I just woke up. This is, like, breakfast.”

  “Check it out,” Frank went on, “that explained why Bennett had his boy Washington just get nicked, while he made sure they killed Smith. Tyrone musta pulled that satchel robbery off himself, and, somehow, Bennett figured it out, way before we did. Otherwise, Bennett’s killing him would make no sense. Be like Marlon Brando killing Luca Brasi.”

  “You know, you may be on to something,” Parker said.

  “Also, consider this,” Frank added. Those three guys that Maytag Mike supposedly iced? Hopewell, Mitchell and Reese, right? Those jokers have been running numbers longer than I’ve been a cop, and a good shot longer at that. No wine-addled vent bum with a .45 is going to take them out. Only way a shooter could get to those three was if he was someone the guys knew and trusted. Enter one Tyrone Maurice Smith, suspect number one in all sorts of unsolved murders, and now, three more; four more if you count the wino”

  “So that means my guy was killed by somebody who’s dead himself,” Parker observed. “Works for me.”

  Chapter 12

  Detective Frank
Mueller casually entered the room where Biggie Hilton had been trying, with no success whatsoever, to make his fellow-Jamaican confess.

  “How many times I gotta tell you, mon, I didn’t do it! You t’ink I kill dat little girl? Shame on you!” Delroy MacGregor protested yet again.

  “Detective Hilton, can I have a word with you?” Frank asked the frustrated interrogator.

  “Yeah, sure, I could use a break.” Then, turning to MacGregor: “You make me ashamed all right. Ashamed to be Jamaican!”

  Once the two were outside the room, Frank broke the news. “We gotta kick MacGregor. He didn’t do it. To make matters worse, I don’t think any of his gang did either. Looks like we gotta let ‘em all go.”

  “Oh, shit, we gonna catch all kinds ‘a Hell if that happens. You got someone we can bring in to take their place?”

  “Yeah, our old friend Spencer Bennett. He shouldn’t be too hard to find. He’s got everything invested in bluffing his way through this mess. Just send a few cars out to his home, his club and maybe Bookbinder’s. We’re bound to find him in one of those places.”

  They were and they did.

  It took Spencer Bennett almost no time at all to lawyer up, once they had booked him. And he didn’t just lawyer up; he lawyered way up. When David Stilkind, probably the smartest most aggressive criminal lawyer in a city of Philadelphia lawyers showed up, Frank, Biggie and everyone else at the scene felt as though they had been sucker punched and hard. The only smiling face in the room belonged to Spencer Bennett. All of a sudden, what had been an airtight case, with several orders of vengeance to follow, was going to Hell in a handcart.

  Biggie was right about the higher-ups not being happy with the latest developments in the case. From Clancy Grimes all the way up to His Honor, there were righteous proclamations of outrage, in public and streams of profanity that would give an army sergeant pause in private. On this issue, Frank could not have agreed with his partner more: there were going to be repercussions.

  “God damn you, Ernie Campanella,” Frank thought as he sullenly sipped a cup of coffee in the break room, “why do you gotta be such a fucking genius?”

  Chapter 13

  The trial was not going well. Not only was Stilkind able to tear to shreds a case that had been built largely on hunches, the only person who would have had more alibis for the time in question was the Pope…maybe. Even city cops were testifying for the defendant.

  The evening before the attorneys would give their final arguments, Frank got a call from a member of the prosecution team, Rachel Leibowitz.

  “Can we meet for dinner?” she asked him. “We have to talk.”

  “Um…I don’t think that would be such a great idea. I do have a fiancée, you know.”

  “This is not a date!” she snapped. “It’s strictly business.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it is and, believe me, I did not think for a moment it was anything else. I’m just worried Sadie would get the wrong idea.” Rachel was none too difficult on the eyes.

  “I wish you’d find a way to work that out with her. It’s very important that we talk.”

  “Okay, how about if I bring her along with me?”

  “Let me clarify my last sentence. We need to talk privately. A crowded, noisy restaurant is OK, long as there are no cops around…except you, that is.”

  In the end Frank agreed to meet the lady at the Villa di Roma, close to where she lived in Little Italy. Frank’s solution to square things with Sadie was to have her drop him off at the restaurant, then pick him up when he was done., which seemed to work for all concerned.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” Rachel began, once the two were seated at the most inconspicuous table in the place. “Before I begin, I just want you to know, I feel horrible about what I am going to say, but I have to say it.”

  “Sounds ominous,” Frank remarked. “Are you sure this is necessary, whatever it is?”

  “Yes, I am quite sure. Do you know who Jim Tayoun is?”

  “The name rings a bell. Wait, now I remember, he’s like Rizzo’s lap dog.”

  “Or his pit bull, depending on the circumstances. Anyway, one of his people called me and told me I had to make this right. I owe the administration a big favor—don’t ask—so they picked me for the dirty work.”

  “Dirty work. That doesn’t sound promising.”

  “It’s about the Spencer Bennett trial. We’re going to lose, in case you hadn’t figured that out.”

  “Not for one hundred percent, but I sure wouldn’t put my chips down on ‘guilty.’”

  “Anyway, the guy who called me said that justice had to be served, one way or the other.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of this.”

  “You’re about to like it even less. We know that Delroy knows Bennett set him and his gang up. He’d probably like to take the guy out, but he figures there’s a big bulls-eye on his back. I need you, Detective Third Class Francis Mueller, to disabuse him of that notion.”

  “And that involves what?”

  “It involves a deal. You get the word to him, his gang can re-open their lemonade stand at the old premises, long as they stay away from smack and angel dust. Whatever his arrangement with the authorities is, which I certainly do not want to know anything about, he can go on with business as usual. But wait, there’s more.

  “If he decides he wants to even the score with Bennett, he has a free shot. Nobody sees or knows anything except that Spencer Bennett is no longer among the living. That goes for him and whomever he selects to do the job.”

  “So a re-trial by street justice, is that what you’re saying?”

  “I thought you would get all self-righteous,” she sighed.

  “Yeah, well maybe not without reason. By the way, why me and not Biggie Hilton?”

  “Because if this arrangement gets the wrong kind of publicity, it would look real bad if we pinned it on another Jamaican. Plus which, Biggie really hates MacGregor, from what I hear.”

  “Oh, there is some it to be pinned? Am I the fall guy then?

  “Well, yes, I’m afraid you are, even if the chances of a problem are remote. We’d take care of you somehow. Don’t worry about that, but your career on the police force would be over. On the other hand, Detective, if you were to help us out and help the people of Philadelphia get the justice they deserve, your rise up the ranks would be meteoric. Meteoric, I tell you.”

  Frank Mueller was almost certainly the most ambitious cop in the precinct—or maybe on the force. He was also a guy who knew when to take a calculated risk. And, now that he was to be a husband and—Please, God—a father, the rewards were all the more alluring.

  He smiled his friendliest smile at Rachel and told her, “No dice.”

  True to the lady’s prediction, Spencer Bennett was found not guilty on all counts. City hall was in a torrent of rage for the rest of the day. It little phased the former defendant.

  “I am glad to see that the power of the oppressor to silence the righteous voice of a community leader has been forever broken. This is a victory for the poor and the black people throughout this city, not just on Lehigh Avenue,” Bennett crowed at a press conference, a confident, smiling David Stilkind at his side. Also in the Great Man’s party, one Ellis Washington, the outstanding star witness for the defense, stood nearby, still with the aid of a crutch, grinning from ear to ear.

  Spencer Bennett did not even know the full extent of his good fortune. Having struck out with Frank Mueller, the higher-ups were too afraid to try again with someone else. Mueller would know where the bodies were buried, so to speak. And, though they were profoundly disappointed in the detective, the last thing they wanted was to have someone take him out.

  “How does that saying go?” Frank wondered aloud as he sat commiserating with Sadie, Greg and Ernie, “The operation was a success, but the patient died.”

  Epilogue

  “Look, man, I stood strong for you. My damn ankle still hurts like a mothafucker.
Add all that up, I think you owe me,” Ellis Washington told his boss. “Ain’t we always been tight?” he added.

  “Yeah,” Spencer Bennett sighed, “I figured this day would come soon enough—you standin’ there with a handful of gimmie and a mouthful of much obliged.”

  “Say it any way you want,” Ellis protested, “I deserve to be promoted off the street. I been there long enough and now, I can’t hardly walk. What if I gotta high-tail it? I’d be a dead duck. Come on, man, you know I paid my dues.”

  That was true. Not only had he taken a bullet for the team, he had put on a near Tony-award performance on the witness stand, swearing it was the Rude Boys who shot the place up.

  ”If I promote you, I gotta fire someone else,” Bennett pointed out. “I’m not gonna do that for some scrawny punk who think he’s in the driver’s seat. You should be lucky you not in the trunk. Here’s what I’ll do for you. I’ll give you another month, paid vacation, then it’s back to work. It was you who told me no one can deal like you can, and, you know what, brothah? I believe you. Now get lost.”

  Twenty days later, a passer-by found the body of Spencer Bennett in an alley, just out of range of the nearest street light. A single bullet was lodged in his the back of his head. Bennett had always prided himself on his ability to size people up, but what he failed to consider was that even a scrawny punk can pull a trigger.

  BOOK II

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Prologue