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

by David Archer

  “Wait a minute,” Frank cut in. “You’re telling us this guy Rasta Pete was only pretending to be Jamaican?”

  “Yeah, ‘cept you pigs were too stupid to see through the act.”

  “Well then, what was he?” Biggie demanded to know.

  “Damn if I know. But, if he be dead, it’s got nothin’ to do with me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you shot the sheriff but you did not shoot the deputy,” Biggie sneered.

  “I tell you, mon, I did no shoot nobody! I am a man of peace, just like Jah tell us to be.”

  “Guys, we could go round and round for another hour or more and still get nowhere at all,” Frank pointed out. “How about you listen to the deal? I’ve been in touch with the D.A., and you can take this to the bank. You confess to conspiracy to commit murder in the Johnson case and tell us who your accomplices were. According to our witnesses, you just sat there and watched him get beaten to death, like the sadistic son of a bitch you are. You throw in Rasta Pete and you’ll get second-degree murder on each, the charges to run concurrently. Parole a possibility. So that’s, like twenty years or less. You’re still young yet. You could have a life after you got out. You fight us on this, though, and it’s like Detective Hilton says: we’re going for the needle, all the way.”

  “Or my lawyer wins the case and I walk away, free as a bird. I did not kill either one of dose guys.”

  At that point, a police sergeant stuck his head in the room.

  “You guys got a minute? This is pretty important.”

  “Ha!” Biggie gloated. “Looks like we found more evidence to cook your goose. You better think long and hard about that deal, my friend.” Biggie knew they had been dredging the Delaware River. Maybe they found the body.

  Once they were out of the interrogation room, two officers approached him.

  “Lawrence Hilton,” one of them said in a deadpan voice, “you are under arrest for the murder of Peter Tosh. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Chapter 11

  “Sadie, Sadie, Sadie, my once and forever true love, we have to talk.”

  “I can tell from your expression, this is serious,” Sadie told her husband. “Please tell me you haven’t cheated. I thought you were a stand-up guy.”

  “No, of course not!” Frank was quick to answer. “I would never step out on you, Babe. Jeez, I woulda hoped you knew that by now.”

  “You’re right, it was stupid of me to even think about that. But, obviously something is up—something you’re not in such a big hurry to talk about.”

  “Yeah, and maybe you might think it’s even worse than having an affair. I want to reach out to Ernie.”

  “No, no, no, no, NO!” Sadie shrieked. “I will NOT hear of it!”

  “But, Babe, this is a really important—”

  “Case? You want that bum to help you on a case? How long you been a cop, Frank? How about you solve your own case?”

  “Yes, it’s case and, yes, I’m stumped, OKAY? Look, this isn’t just some punk stabbing another punk—this is Biggie we’re talking about.”

  “Oh, my, I forgot he was arrested for cutting that guy’s head off. You know, that Jamaican bartender we had at our party.”

  “Now, right there, that’s why I need to see Ernie. Even you think he did it, and I’m sure as I can be that he didn’t. I think he’s being set up.”

  “Are you sure you can’t solve it?”

  “I’m pretty sure I can’t. God knows, I’ve tried, but everything turns into a brick wall. You know they found Biggie’s machete, right? Prints on the handle were wiped clean, but plenty of the vic’s blood on the blade. The sad thing is, we had Delroy MacGregor ready to cop to the charge as part of a sweet plea deal. Then, they hadda come charging in like the U.S. Cavalry and bust Biggie.”

  Sadie stared at her husband with distaste for about ten seconds, though it seemed a lot longer to Frank. Finally, she spoke.

  “Okay, you can see the son of a bitch, but not here, not in my house. I don’t even want that lousy prick drinking one glass of water from my sink, let alone plopping his boil-covered butt down on our couch.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ve made your point. I’ll go talk to him at his shop. He’s finally back on days now, so I should be able to catch him after he’s had a good night’s sleep. By the way, for what it’s worth, Greg told me he’s cut way back on his drinking.”

  “Not worth a thing to me. I do not want him in this house.”

  “My, my, would you look at what the cat dragged in,” Martha Stewart grinned from behind her counter. “Ain’t seen you in a dog’s age, Detective.” She had a point. Between not wanting to run into Ernie and his wife taking a higher-paying job in the city government, the detective had no reason to be there, until now.

  “Howya doin’ there, Martha?” Frank greeted her. “I’m here to see Officer Campanella.”

  “Just like in the old days.”

  “Yeah, just like that. Could I trouble you for a large coffee, black, and one of those jelly numbers?”

  “All right, out with it,” Ernie Campanella snapped as he took his seat.

  “Okay, we got this situation, you probably—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean out with why you been such a jerk for all this time.”

  “Oh, right, and, like you never were! Do you have any idea how badly you fucked up our wedding? Trust me, it’s not the kind of thing you forget in a big hurry.”

  “At least not until you need something.”

  “Okay, suppose I’m exploiting you, what of it? We’re both getting something out of the deal, and possibly, so is a decent, innocent man. Think of us as Howard Cosell and Mohammed Ali.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Look, when Ali had the whole sporting press against him for refusing to go into the army, Cosell stood up for him. Started the process of the champ redeeming his reputation, so in that sense Ali was exploiting Cosell. And look at what old Howard got out of the deal. He went from a tiresome gasbag to a hard-hitting reporter who—God help us—tells it like it is. After that, he kept dropping Ali’s name like it was a hot potato. So there’s him exploiting the champ, and, guess what? They both gained from the deal.”

  “So what do I get out of this deal?”

  “You get a chance for us to be OK again. Tell you the truth, I wouldn’t mind that myself. But it’s gonna take something spectacular, like helping me get Biggie off the hook, before my wife will let me pick up anywhere near where we left off. There’s something else going on too, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  “I don’t have a clue, what is your guess?”

  “That you love this sort of stuff—the challenging cases where you really have to use your noodle. Am I right or wrong?”

  As the two of them sat quietly in the canteen, sipping their coffee and going through the file Frank had brought along, Ernie did a double-take when he looked at the photo of the victim a second time.

  “I’m almost certain I’ve seen this guy around somewhere, but maybe not here.”

  “Probably not,” Frank agreed. “I can’t recall he ever had any business in Fishtown…Aha! I’ve got it! At least I think I do. He was on the catering staff at our wedding reception. I don’t know if you’d remember anything about that, though. Let’s face it, you were really drunk.”

  “Guilty as charged, your honor, but I do remember I had a few words with that guy. When Biggie was trying to hustle me out of there, this clown comes up and says something. I remember I asked him for a slice of roast beef to go. Funny the stuff that sticks in your mind. Oh, yeah, I also remember I called him Pedro, ‘cause, you know, he sorta looks like a spic, and he got all bent outa shape, sayin’ he was a Jamaican.”

  “I think you just hit on something, there. The guy was always smiling and easy-going except when someone took him for Spanish. You weren’t the only one. I remember he got really pissed at Biggie for that and sorta pissed at my prospective brother-in-law for the same thing. Also,
Delroy MacGregor—remember him? He told us the guy’s flat-out not a Jamaican.”

  “Okay, so he’s a P.R. I didn’t think there was a whole lot of hostility between your Jamaicans and Puerto Ricans. It’s six of one, half a dozen of the other, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Careful where you’re treading. My wife’s a ‘P.R.’ in case you forgot.”

  “No offense intended.”

  “Well, at least we learned something. Not sure how much use it will be.”

  “You mentioned a prospective brother-in-law; what’s up with that?”

  “Sadie’s sister Arlene—”

  “Yeah, I also remember her punching me out. Packs quite a wallop for a girl who’s built like Twiggy.”

  “As I was saying, she’s found herself a steady beau. He says he works for the government. I think he’s a spook.”

  “What, a black guy?”

  “No, as in works for the CIA. Either them or someone doing serious counter-espionage. Of course, he’d never come out and say so, but I’ll bet he does.”

  “Jeez, now maybe I’m glad it was Arlene that hit me and not her boyfriend.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t there. Arlene didn’t meet the guy until fairly recently. Lucky for you, I suppose. He’s quiet and even-tempered, but Arlene says he’s strong as a bull.”

  “Well, good for her. Maybe marriage will make her mellow out some.”

  “I recall you had a shot with her, once upon a time.”

  “Yeah, before I knew she was a psycho. I may not have dodged a slap, but, overall, I’m pretty sure I dodged a bullet.”

  Ernie had the next two days off, and one of them was his dad’s birthday. His sister Valerie was hosting a party. Ernie had thought briefly about bringing Evelyn along and introducing her as his serious girlfriend, but decided not to. Why stress the old man out on his birthday? Fred Campanella had been just as intent on his son marrying a nice Catholic girl as Saul Klein was on his daughter marrying a nice Jewish boy.

  For their father’s sake, both Valerie and Ernie put on a good show of getting along just swell, even though they still did not like each other very much. Among his sister’s annoying habits, the one that Ernie hated the most was her obsession with the trashiest of the tabloid papers. It seemed she bought them all, week after week, world without end, amen. Even worse, she usually had them lying around, even when company was present. It was one such paper that caught Ernie’s eye.

  PHILADELPHIA’S THUG POLICE JAIL HERO COP

  Was this about Biggie Hilton, Ernie wondered. He picked up the paper and began to read the article.

  The Philadelphia police, famous for their brutally racist behavior,

  have gone even one step further. They have thrown one of their

  own, who just happens to be a proud Jamaican-American, into the

  slammer for the crime of being a patriot.

  Detective Lawrence “Larry” Hilton caught one of Fidel Castro’s

  hired assassins in the act and cut the dirty Commie’s head off.

  How’s that for a “heads up,” Fidel? The killer, a notorious spy

  named Enrique Valveezo (pictured below, right) , was obviously

  in Philadelphia to commit another foul murder, before Larry

  Hilton changed the man’s plans. And what thanks did

  Detective Hilton get for his proud, patriotic act?...

  What a load of crap, Ernie thought. Then he thought again as he was about to put the paper back onto the coffee table where he had found it. He took another look at the picture, below right.

  “Holy shit!” he muttered. “That’s Rasta Pete.”

  Chapter 12

  “Sean Higgins,” Frank began, “I’d like you to meet my good friend, Ernie Campanella. I brought him along because the three of us need to have a talk…or at least the two of us do and he needs to be my witness.”

  “The hell is going on here?” Higgins groused. The three of them were sitting off by themselves in their parkas on a stone bench in Rittenhouse Square. It was a drizzly, miserable weekday morning, so they pretty much had the place to themselves.

  “Let’s just say I have a better idea of what you do for a living than you think I do,” Frank continued. “First off, let me make it clear, the last thing I want to do is make trouble for you and whoever your bosses are, okay? The thing is, I think it was you who cut that guy’s head off—Enrique somebody. He’s supposed to be an assassin for Castro.”

  “Where do you pick up this crazy shit?” Sean asked, although he was painfully aware of the tabloid piece. Somebody within the bureau had spilled some beans, that was for sure.

  “Look, Sean, I’m no fuzzy-headed peacenik liberal. I understand that Castro’s bad news and all that. The trouble is, we got an outstanding Philadelphia detective taking the rap for this. He could go to jail for a murder you committed.”

  “How do you know he didn’t do it?” Higgins countered. Both Frank and Ernie noted he had not challenged the statement about him being the murder in lieu of Biggie Hilton.

  “Kindly cut the bullshit, Mr. Higgins, or should I say Agent Higgins. I don’t want you to get run in for what you did [again, no challenge], I just want to get my partner—that’s right, the guy was my partner before they hauled him off to jail—I want him out from under this. What can you do to make all this go away, I guess is what I’m asking.”

  “All right, I want both of you clowns to listen and listen carefully,” Higgins replied. “We have a number of agents working against Castro’s D.G.I., day and night. Their cover is deep and it needs to stay that way. Long as the Cubans think their boy was killed by a rogue cop, we can go on with business as usual. And by business, I mean the business of protecting America, in case you jokers didn’t happen to catch on. Detective Mueller, I know you think you’re only doing your duty as a cop, and I can respect that, but now I need you to do your duty as a patriot and step back. If you can find a way to get your friend off the hook, then that’s great. I don’t like the idea of an innocent man going to jail any more than you do. But our official position is it happened just the way the police say it did. Sad to say, in these kind of important international affairs sometimes there has to be what we call collateral damage.”

  “Jeez, that’s pretty cold,” Ernie said.

  “I don’t recall either of us asking for your opinion, Mr. Campanella. Let me lay this out for you both, just to remove all doubt about where we stand. If you guys do anything to bring the bureau under suspicion or otherwise tip off the Cubans, we will have to strongly consider, shall we say, extra-legal measures. Please, do not let things come to that point. I like you, Frank, and someday, I hope to be related to you, so how about we don’t rock the boat, OK? You gentlemen have yourselves a wonderful day.”

  “I’d like to speak to Ronald Beers, please,” Ernie told the receptionist.

  “Please hold,” she said as she put him on hold and punched the reporter’s extension.

  “This is Ron Beers, may I help you?” he answered after an unnecessarily long wait.

  “Yes, Mr. Beers, you don’t know me, and I’d like to keep it that way. Thing is I got some amazing follow-up on that story you did on the hero cop they threw in jail. Where can we meet?”

  Two days later, the D.A.’s office saw the stunning headline: “I DID IT AND I’D DO IT AGAIN, SAYS HERO COP.” The reporter went on to say that “sources” had told him about Larry Hilton’s full and proud confession. In a very short while, the D.A.’s office started getting flooded with questions about the suspect’s confession from the legitimate media. A couple radio stations did not bother with the questions, but reported the follow-up tabloid article whole cloth. By the following evening, just about everybody in the city and maybe the nation “knew” that Biggie Hilton had confessed. Fat chance of getting a jury seated, they figured.

  Rachel Leibowitz, the prosecutor who had once tried unsuccessfully to negotiate a questionable deal with Frank Mueller, on behalf of her superiors, decided it wa
s time for another meeting, even though she imagined there would be very little prospect of success. There was a reason why they called him Francis the Talking Mule, she figured. He was certainly as stubborn as one.

  “Detective, I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending you’re not aware of all the trouble we’ve been having with the Hilton prosecution.”

  “No insult needed, Ma’am. I am painfully aware of your predicament.”

  “This is you being ironic I suppose. Please get serious. You know we can’t hope to convict Hilton with all the media poisoning that’s taken place. You have anything to do with that?”

  “Absolutely not! I swear on my grandmother’s grave I have not blabbed a single syllable to those people. On the other hand, I can see a way out of this, if you’re interested.”

  In the end, the police released Biggie Hilton, not because they doubted the ability of the fine people of Philadelphia to give him a fair trial, but because the notorious Jamaican gangster Delroy MacGregor had confessed to the demise of Enrique Valdivielso in an extremely generous plea deal. He got five years, tops. He could be out in three. All in all, the killer of Ivan Johnson had submitted to a gentle slap on the wrong wrist, while the killer of Rasta Pete remained free to do as he pleased. On the other hand, a decent and innocent man had emerged from a jail cell, his sterling reputation fully restored. On the whole, it was a pretty good deal.

  Epilogue

  “I wanted you to be the first to know, just look!” Arlene Gomez gushed as he held out her hand to Sadie and Frank.

  “Oh my goodness, he popped the question!” Sadie screamed as she hugged her sister. “I am so happy I could cry!”

  Frank forced his face into a tight smile. He had been hoping against hope that something would happen to scuttle this affair, but now hope had vanished, not in a puff of smoke, but the sparkle of a stone.