W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 01 - Men In Blue

by Men In Blue(lit)

  When Mickey O'Hara got to the Bridge & Pratt Streets Terminal, he found a crowd of people who were being kept from going up the stairs to the El station by four or five cops under the supervision of a sergeant.

  He caught the eye of the sergeant, winked, and shrugged his shoulders in a "what's up?" gesture.

  A moment later, the sergeant shouldered his way through the crowd.

  "Undercover Narcotics guy spotted the kid who shot Dutch Moffitt," the sergeant said instead of a greeting when they shook hands. "He took off down the tracks, with the undercover chasing him, and fell off the walkway, fried himself on the third rail, and then got himself run over by a train."

  "Jesus!" Mickey O'Hara said.

  "They're still up there," the sergeant said.

  "Is there anyway I can get up there?" Mickey asked

  "Watch out for the third rail, Mick," the sergeant said

  THIRTEEN

  Ward V. Fengler, who had three months before been named a partner of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester (there were seventeen partners, in addition to the five senior partners), pushed open the glass door from the Butler Aviation waiting room at Philadelphia International Airport and walked onto the tarmac as the Bell Ranger helicopter touched down.

  Fengler was very tall and very thin and, at thirty-two, already evidencing male pattern baldness. He had spent most of the day, from ten o'clock onward, waiting around the airport for Mr. Wells.

  Stanford Fortner Wells III got out of the helicopter, and then turned to reach for his luggage. He was a small man, intense, graying, superbly tailored. The temple piece of a set of horn-rimmed glasses hung outside the pocket of his glen plaid suit.

  "Mr. Wells, I'm Ward Fengler of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester," Fengler said. "Colonel Mawson asked me to meet you."

  Wells examined him quickly but carefully and put out his hand.

  "Sorry to have kept you waiting like this," he said. "First, we had to land in Newfoundland, and then when we got to New York, the goddamned airport, I suppose predictably, was stacked to heaven's basement."

  "I hope you had a good flight," Fengler said.

  "I hate airplanes," Wells said, matter-of-factly.

  "We have a car," Fengler said. "And Colonel Mawson has put you up in the Warwick. I hope that's all right."

  "Fine," Wells said. "Has Mawson talked to Kruger?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  "The reason I asked is that someone is to meet me at the Warwick."

  "I don't know anything about that, sir."

  "Then maybe something is finally breaking right," Wells said. "The Warwick's fine."

  The only thing Stanford Fortner Wells III said on the ride downtown was to make the announcement that he used to come to Philadelphia when he was at Princeton.

  "And I went from Philadelphia to Princeton," Fengler said.

  Wells grunted, and smiled.

  When they reached the hotel, Wells got quickly out of the limousine and hurried across the sidewalk, up the stairs, and through the door to the lobby. Fengler scurried after him.

  ***

  There was a television monitor mounted on the wall above the receptionist's desk at WCBL-TV when Peter Wohl walked in. "Nine's News" at six was on, and Louise Dutton was looking right into the camera.

  My God, she's good-looking!

  "May I help you?" the receptionist asked.

  "My name is Wohl," Peter said. "I'm here to see Miss Dutton."

  The receptionist smiled at him, and picked up a light blue telephone.

  "Sharon," she said. "Inspector Wohl is here." Then she looked at Wohl. "She'll be right with you, Inspector."

  Sharon turned out to be a startlingly good-looking young woman, with dark eyes and long dark hair, and a marvelous set of knockers. Her smile was dazzling.

  "Right this way, Inspector," she said, offering her hand. "I'm Sharon Feldman."

  She led him into the building, down a corridor, and through a door marked STUDIO C. It was crowded with people and cameras, and what he supposed were sets, one of which was used for "Nine's News." He was surprised when Louise saw him and waved happily at him, understanding only after a moment that she was not at the moment being telecast, or televised, or whatever they called it.

  Sharon Feldman led him through another door, and he found himself in a control room.

  "There's coffee, Inspector," Sharon Feldman said. "Help yourself. See you!"

  "Roll the Wonder Bread," an intense young woman in horn-rimmed glasses, sitting in the rear of two rows of chairs behind a control console said; and Peter saw, on one of a dozen monitors, one marked AIR, the beginning of a Wonder Bread commercial.

  "Funny," a man said to Peter Wohl, "you don't look like a cop."

  Peter looked at him icily.

  "Leonard Cohen," the man said. "I'm the news director."

  "Good for you," Peter said.

  "No offense, Wohl," Cohen said. "But you really don't, you know, look like what the word 'cop' calls to mind."

  "You don't look much like Walter Cronkite yourself," Peter said.

  "I don't make as much money, either," Cohen said, disarmingly.

  "Neither, I suppose, does the president of the United States," Wohl said.

  "At least that we know about," Cohen said. "Did you catch the guy who got away from the Waikiki Diner?"

  "Not as far as I know," Peter said.

  "But you will?"

  "I think so," Peter said. "It's a question of time."

  "What about the party or parties unknown who hacked up the fairy?"

  "What fairy is that?"

  "Come on," Cohen said. "Nelson."

  "Was he a fairy?" Peter asked, innocently.

  "Wasn't he?"

  "I didn't know him that well," Peter said. "Did you?"

  Cohen smiled at Wohl approvingly.

  "Maybe the princess has met her match," he said. "I knew there had to be some kind of an attraction."

  "Leonard, for Christ's sake, will you shut up?" the intense young woman snapped, and then, "Two, you're out of focus, for Christ's sake!"

  Cohen shrugged.

  ''Good night, Louise," Barton Ellison said to Louise Dutton.

  "See you at eleven, Barton," Louise said, "when we should have film of the fire at the Navy Yard."

  "It should be spectacular," Barton Ellison replied. "A real four-alarm blaze."

  "Roll the logo," the intense young woman said.

  Through the plate-glass window, Peter saw a man step behind Louise. She took something from her ear and handed it to him, and then stood up. Then she unclipped what he realized after a moment must be a microphone, and tugged at a cord, pulling it down and out of her sleeve.

  Then she walked across the studio to the control room, entered it, walked up to him, said "Hi!"; stood on her toes, and kissed him quickly on the lips.

  The intense young woman applauded.

  "You're just jealous, that's all," Louise said.

  "You got it, baby," the intense young woman said. "Has he got a friend?"

  Louise chuckled, and then took Peter's arm and led him out of the control, through another door, and into a corridor.

  "Since we'll be at my place," she said, "and I want to change anyway, I can wipe this crap off there." She touched the heavy makeup on her face. "Where are you parked?"

  "Out in front," he said.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  "Right in front?" she asked. He nodded.

  She started to say something, and then laughed. She had, Peter thought, absolutely perfect teeth.

  "I was about to say, 'My God, the cops will tow your car away,' " she said. "But I guess not, huh?"

  "There are fringe benefits in my line of work," he said. "Not many, but some."

  "How do they know it's a cop car?"

  "Most of the time, they can tell by the kind of car, or they see the radio," he replied. "Or you just have the ticket canceled. But if you have a car like mine, with the radio
in the glove compartment, and you don't want it towed away, you put a little sign on the dash. Or sometimes on the seat."

  "Can you get me a sign?"

  "No."

  "Fink," she said, and took his arm and led him out of the building through the lobby.

  At Stockton Place, he parked the LTD behind the Jaguar and walked with her into the foyer of Number Six.

  There was an eight-by-ten-inch white cardboard sign on the door of Apartment A. Red letters spelled out, police DEPARTMENT, CITY OF PHILADELPHIA. CRIME SCENE. DO NOT ENTER.

  Louise looked at Peter but didn't say anything. But when the elevator door opened and he started to follow her in, she put up her hand to stop him.

  "You wait down here," she said. "What I have on my mind now is dinner."

  "That's all?"

  "Dinner first," she said. "No. Car first, then dinner. Then who knows?"

  "I'm easy to please," Peter said. "I'll settle for that."

  He walked back out onto the street and to the Jaguar, and examined the hood where Tony Harris had sat on it.

  Louise came down much sooner than he expected her to. She had removed all her makeup and changed into a sweater and pleated skirt.

  "That was quick," he said.

  "It was also a mistake," Louise said, and got behind the wheel of the Jaguar.

  "What?"

  "I'll tell you later," she said. Then she said, "Kind of low to the ground, isn't it?"

  "I guess," Peter said.

  "Well, first I need the keys," she said, and as he fished for them, added, "and then you can explain how that little stick works, and we'll be off."

  "What little stick?"

  "That one," she said, pointing to the gearshift, "with all the numbers on it.''

  "You do know how to drive a car with a clutch and gearshift?"

  "Actually, no," she said. "But I'm willing to learn."

  "Oh, God!"

  "Just teasing, Peter," Louise said. "You really love this car, don't you?"

  "You're the first person to ever drive it since I rebuilt it," he said.

  "I'm flattered," she said. "Want to race to your house?"

  "No," he said, smiling and shaking his head.

  "Chicken." She started the engine, put it in gear, and made a U-turn.

  He quickly got in the LTD and followed her, which proved difficult. She drove fast and skillfully, and the Jaguar was more nimble in traffic than the LTD.

  On Lancaster Avenue, just before it was time to turn off, she put her arm up and vigorously signaled for him to pass her, to lead her. She smiled at him as he did so, and his heart jumped.

  At the apartment, as he was taking his uniform from the backseat to carry it upstairs, she came to him, and put her arms around him from the back.

  "How would you feel about an indecent proposal?" she asked.

  "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," he said.

  "What I was thinking was that you would put the uniform back in your car, and go upstairs and pack a few little things in a bag for tomorrow," Louise said.

  He freed himself and turned to look at her.

  "When I was in my place, alone..." Louise said. "Remember what I said about a mistake? I was frightened. I don't want to be alone there, tonight."

  "You could stay here," he said.

  "I thought about that," she said. "But I have to do the eleven o'clock news, which means I would have to come all the way out here again. Please, Peter." Then she smiled, and offered, "I'll blow in your ear."

  "Sure, why not?" Peter said. Sure, why not? Jesus, the most beautiful girl you have ever known asks you to spend the night and you say "Sure, why not?"

  "It won't take me a minute," he said. "You want to come up?"

  "No," she said. "You're obviously the kind of man who would take advantage of an innocent girl like me."

  He went in the apartment, put underwear and a white uniform shirt, his uniform cap, and his toilet things in a bag. Then, as an afterthought, he added his good bathrobe (a gift from his mother, which he seldom wore) and bottle of cologne in with it.

  When he went back downstairs, she was behind the wheel of the Jaguar.

  "The idea was to leave this car here," he said.

  "We'll come back before we go downtown," she said. "What I want to do is go out in the country with the wind blowing my hair and eat in some romantic country inn."

  "Where are you going to find one of those?"

  "How about a Burger King?" she said. "Get in, Peter."

  He got in beside her, and she drove off, spinning the wheels as she made a sweeping turn.

  She headed out of town, driving, he decided, too fast.

  "Take it easy," he said.

  "If you don't complain about my driving," she said, "I won't say anything about you looking hungrily at my knees."

  He felt his face color.

  "My God!" he said.

  She pulled her skirt farther up her legs.

  "Better?" she asked.

  ***

  As Stanford F. Wells III crossed the marble-floored, high-ceilinged, tastefully furnished lobby of the Warwick Hotel toward the reception desk, two men rose from a couch and intercepted him.

  "How are you, boss?" the older of them said. He was short and stocky, with a very full head of curly pepper-and-salt hair.

  "Who's minding the store, Kurt?" Wells asked, smiling, obviously pleased to see Kurt Kruger.

  "Well, since I was here, I thought I'd wait and say hello and then go home," Kurt Kruger said. "Stan, this is Richard Dye. He's on the Chronicle. He used to work for the Ledger here. I thought he could be helpful, and he was. He's one hell of a leg man."

  Wells gave the younger man his hand.

  "This is Mr. Fengler," Wells said, "of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and Lester. Are we going to need all of them? Or just one or two?"

  Kruger chuckled. "We probably won't need any of them," he said. "No offense, Mr. Fengler, but it's not nearly as bad-a legal problem, anyway-as I was afraid it would be when you called."

  "My wife said she sounded very frightened on the telephone," Wells challenged.

  "There's a reason for that," Kruger said. "But I think you can relax. Why don't we get out of the lobby? I got a suite for you."

  "So did Mr. Fengler," Wells said. "I guess that means I have two. Let's hope there's whiskey in one of them."

  When they got to the suite, Stanford Fortner Wells III disappeared into the bathroom and emerged ten minutes later pink from a shower and wearing only a towel.

  "I now feel a lot better," he said, as he poured whiskey into a glass and added a very little water. "I offer the philosophical observation that not only did God not intend man to fly, but that whoever designed the crappers on airplanes should be forced to use them himself through all eternity."

  There were polite "the boss is always witty" chuckles, and then Wells turned to Richard Dye.

  "Okay, Dick, what have you come up with?"

  Dye took a small notebook from his pocket, and glanced at it.

  "Miss Dutton... or should I call her 'Miss Wells'?"

  "Her name is Dutton," Wells said, matter-of-factly. "I already had a wife when I met Louise's mother."

  Ward V. Fengler hoped that his surprise at that announcement didn't register on his face.

  "Miss Dutton was interviewing a cop, a captain named Richard Moffitt, in a diner on Roosevelt Boulevard. Are you familiar with the diners in Philly, Mr. Wells?"

  "Yeah."

  "This was a big one, with a bigger restaurant than a counter, if you follow me." Wells nodded. "They were in the restaurant. The cop, who was the commanding officer of the Highway Patrol... you know about them?"

  Wells thought that over and shook his head no.

  "They patrol the highways, but there's more. They're sort of an elite force, and they use them in high-crime areas. They wear uniforms like they were still riding motorcycles. Some people call them 'Carlucci's Commandos.' "