There was the risk of business coming before the council that was connected with the employer of one of its members, thus creating a possible conflict of interest. In such a case, the member would simply abstain, in effect saying that they would remain impartial, that their vote was not for sale.
In reality, what then happened was the council member met in private with certain of his or her peers and made it clear that when it came time to vote, if one’s back were to be scratched, it would be reasonable to expect, when those peers excused themselves from voting on business before the city, that they would have their backs scratched, too.
Because the general public appeared to accept that the system kept the esteemed members of the city council pure as newborn babies, Lane had felt more than comfortable announcing at the celebration of his second reelection to office: “If it wasn’t for my good friend Joey Fitz, I really wouldn’t be where I’m at.”
It was very likely the only truthful statement to slip from the lips of Councilman William G. Lane in quite some time.
—
As Lane approached the group of men, Joey Fitz nodded toward him, and the three men turned.
“What ya drinking there, Willie? How about a bit of whiskey?” Fitzgerald said, holding up balled fists to feign shadowboxing before offering his enormous right hand to shake Lane’s.
Lane nodded at the men in Fitzgerald’s group. Fitzgerald introduced them first by name and then as union members. Lane noticed that they all held squat glasses dark with whiskey—and they all looked as if they already had had more than a few. Joey Fitz’s fat, crooked nose and pudgy cheeks glowed red.
“And youse guys were just getting ready to leave, right?” Joey Fitz said, waving the bartender over. “So, what’s your poison, Willie?”
Lane looked at the bartender and said, “Let me have a Woodford Reserve, a double, on the rocks.”
A minute later, as the bartender slid Lane’s Kentucky bourbon whiskey across the polished black marble, Joey Fitz nodded once at the union men. They drained their drinks, told the president of the city council that it had been a pleasure meeting him, then left.
“I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Lane said.
“We were done when you called,” Joey Fitz said. “You don’t look so good. It have to do with why you asked to meet me?”
Willie Lane considered how to answer, deciding to say nothing and simply nodding twice.
“You’re gonna have to give me more than that. I ain’t a mind reader, ya know.”
“We’ve got to talk.”
“So you said on the phone.” He gestured with his glass at Lane’s. “Drink up first, will ya? They don’t call this happy hour for nothing.”
Lane swirled the amber drink, savored its heavy oak smell, then took a healthy sip.
“Can we go someplace quiet?” he said. “I’ve got something for you.”
“Ah, hell,” Joey Fitz said, “that can wait. Relax. You look like shit!”
Lane raised the glass to his mouth, then said, “Well, I feel like shit.”
Joey Fitz narrowed his eyes as he studied Lane.
“Okay, okay,” Fitzgerald finally said, and motioned with his head toward the entrance to an adjoining room. “C’mon and follow me.”
—
Lining the wood-paneled walls were ten booths with black leather seats and charcoal gray linen privacy curtains. Two of the tables closest to the lounge were taken, and Fitzgerald crossed the room and went to the farthest booth. As he pulled back the curtain, he waved to a waiter and called out, “Bring us menus.”
Fitzgerald motioned for Lane to take a seat, and, as he did, Fitzgerald slid into the seat across the table from him. The privacy curtain fell closed behind them.
Lane reached into his black blazer and produced the envelope containing fifty thousand dollars that John T. Austin had given him. He put it on the table in front of Fitzgerald, who picked it up and, without looking inside, slipped it in his suit pocket.
“The usual fifty,” Lane said, keeping his gravel voice low.
“How’s our friend doing after that accident?” Joey Fitz said, changing the subject.
“Accident?” Lane parroted, his voice rising. He brought it back down as he said, “That was a damn hit job. The driver got hit with buckshot.”
Joey Fitz did not reply.
Lane said, “And Johnny got banged up pretty bad. Not bullet wounds. But his face is one big ugly bruise. And he cracked an arm.”
Joey Fitz’s eyebrows went up. He took a sip of his drink.
“Well,” he said, “at least he’s better off than the other guy.”
Lane nodded.
“Yeah. He’s pretty upset over that. And Camilla Rose Morgan’s death.”
“They figure out what that was all about?”
Lane shook his head.
“No telling. I saw her a couple hours before it happened. She seemed fine. Drinking a bit. But, then, we all were.”
“She fell, ya think? Had to. Girl like that wouldn’t’ve jumped, no? Not when she’s got everything going for her.”
“Yeah. You’d think.” Lane paused, then nodded toward where Joey Fitz had stuffed the envelope. “Austin said that could be the last one of those.”
Fitzgerald, who was about to take a sip of his drink, looked over the lip of the glass and met Lane’s eyes.
“You tell him he’d better think that through?” Joey Fitz said.
“Yeah. He said he needed a little time to sort out what happens next. I mean, two people close to him are dead, and he almost died, too.”
Fitzgerald took a long sip as he considered that. He made a face of annoyance.
“We have an agreement,” he said.
“And it’s been lived up to.”
Joey Fitz reached in his pocket, pulled out the envelope, ran a finger through its contents, then, apparently satisfied, stuffed it back in his pocket.
“So far, it has,” he said. “But what you’re now telling me—”
“I’m just saying what he said.”
Joey Fitz shook his head. He stared off in thought.
“These rats in all these countries,” he said, “they’ve been stealing our jobs for years. I was able to go along with Austin on this condo project this one time because he promised the payments and that future projects would use our workers. And also because you vouched for him, Willie. I went way out on a limb for youse guys.”
“I know,” Lane said. “And I’m sure it’s gonna be okay. I know it will. You know I’ve always gotten the council to approve your projects.”
Fitzgerald looked at him, shook his head.
“Willie, we’ve gotta keep our boys in jobs so they can put food on the family table. You know that way back when my grandfather’s ironworkers union was putting up the Empire State Building, tallest building in the world, they were bolting them beams together that had been trucked in straight from our steel mills. That steel was coming from the furnaces so fast that it still gave off heat—”
“I’d heard that,” Lane said, nodding.
“And when we were building ships down here in our Navy Yard, same thing. It was all made here. That Defense Department said we couldn’t use no materials from outside the U.S. So the suppliers had to do the same. It was all U.S. of A. And now what? You got these Chinese—they’re making half the world’s steel these days, you know—selling here at thirty to fifty percent less than our mills can make it, and they’re putting our boys out of work.” He paused, then met Lane’s eyes. “So you just might tell Austin that he really doesn’t want to happen what could happen if he doesn’t live up to his end of our bargain. And I tell ya, Willie, it’ll be out of my hands. Some people do things I can’t control.”
Lane’s eyebrows went up.
Joey Fitz’s eyes dropped to his cocktail
glass, and he took a sip. He looked up, and finally said, “I heard from some of my people that there’s some kind of event Austin’s having this weekend.”
Lane nodded.
“It’s tomorrow night,” he said, “and it’s not his. It’s a fund-raiser for the Morgan woman’s charity.”
“Camilla’s Kids,” Joey Fitz said, and produced a small smile. “At the Bellevue.”
Lane was surprised that Fitzgerald knew the name, and the location, then realized that the union boss had known all along. Lane was disappointed in himself for being surprised. He knew, as everyone did, that Joey Fitz had a firm finger on the pulse of Philly.
“Nice charity, that one,” Joey Fitz went on. “Be a real damn shame if something happened there.”
[ TWO ]
Police Administration Building
Eighth and Race Streets
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 7:01 P.M.
As Sergeant Matt Payne entered the Roundhouse—this time, the solenoid on the secure door had actually worked after he kneed the door following its second buzzing—he noted that, judging by the waves of people already crowding the building, it was going to be a busy Friday night.
He thought, Wonder what the over-under is on shootings and killings tonight?
Whatever it is—probably two dead, ten shot—the bets will be even higher next week. Especially if Friday the thirteenth’s a full moon.
He took one look at the line waiting at the elevator bank and decided to risk taking the stairwell up to the Homicide Unit.
The first steps he made fine. But after reaching the top of that flight, a burning needle of pain flared from his wound.
Damn it!
He stopped and squeezed the handrail as he gently pressed on the bandage and took measured breaths. He didn’t bother checking the bandage; he had just changed it at his apartment. After a while, the pain subsided somewhat, and he felt he could continue upward.
When he finally got to the unit, the door was propped open. He looked across the room. He saw Lieutenant Jason Washington was in his glass-walled office, the door to it closed. Payne considered checking in with him, then saw that Washington was talking to someone who was obscured by a poster that had been leaned in the corner.
Payne looked toward his own desk. Tony Harris was sitting behind it, talking on his cellular telephone, while Dick McCrory used the desk phone. They both had notebook computers open on the desktop.
Harris waved, and Payne waved back as he crossed the room.
Harris broke off the call as Payne approached. McCrory, his hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver he held to his ear, glanced up. Seeing Payne, he hung up the phone.
“Didn’t need to stop what you were doing on my account,” Payne said.
“Not a problem, Matt,” McCrory said. “I’d been on hold for at least ten minutes. I think the secretary just parked my call and left me to suffer that gawd-awful country music they listen to down there.”
“You feeling okay?” Harris said. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine, damn it,” Payne snapped, heard what he had said, and added, “Sorry. I’m annoyed. Nothing personal. Just came up the damn steps.”
Harris nodded in understanding.
Payne looked at McCrory, and said, “Who’s ignoring you?”
“John Austin’s people. That was the third time I’ve called his office in Houston and asked how to find him. Each time they said that because of the shooting, they had been directed not to give out any information—”
“Did you tell them that his life’s still in danger?” Payne interrupted, his tone impatient.
“Yeah, of course I did, but they said they were just doing what they were told, and took my name and number and said they would pass it along. Except this last time, when they put me on hold hell.”
Payne shook his head. “They’d ‘pass it along’? Damn nice of them.”
“Yeah. Mary, Joseph, and all the fookin’ saints, huh?”
Payne looked at Harris.
“Hank still sitting on Austin’s hotel room?”
“After he got hotel security to do a safety check of the room and they found Austin gone but his suitcase and stuff still there, Hank posted a blue shirt at the door. He went back to working on the follow-up interviews while waiting to hear if Austin showed.”
“Good. You’re right about people feeling more at ease talking to a detective in a suit, not to a uniform. Tell me about who you said had gone up to Camilla Rose’s condo.
“From interviews and reviewing security camera video,” Harris said, gesturing toward his notebook computer, “we cobbled together a short list of people—some known, some unknown—who left the bar and shortly thereafter appeared at the condo’s elevator bank. Most were residents—who security ID’d for us—and their guests, and they all stated that they went home to their condos, not to Camilla Rose’s. That left three others, a male and two females, none of whom security recognized, who went up the elevator with Camilla Rose. We were able to track down the male from the credit card he used in the bar.”
“Who is he?”
He tapped the computer keyboard, and read, “Arthur Marx, white male, thirty-three. A dentist from King of Prussia.” He looked up at Payne, and said, “Marx claimed he had just met the women in the bar last night. He knew them only as Keri and Pamela. They told him they were celebrating Keri’s birthday.”
“You talk with the women?”
“No. If he has their full names and/or phone numbers, he’s not admitting it. He ran up a big tab, but not half as big as Camilla Rose did, and the women didn’t use a credit card for us to run down.”
Payne sighed. “Why do I get the feeling we may have trouble finding a solid stone to look under, never mind a stone under the stone?”
“Because you’re right,” Harris said. “Camilla Rose went off her balcony at oh-four-thirty . . .”
“Yeah. And?”
“And the condo’s lobby security cameras clearly show these three going up with her. Then, just before oh-four-hundred, the cameras show the four coming off the elevators.”
“Staggering off,” McCrory put in.
“Yeah,” Harris said, “they damn sure were feeling no pain. Anyway, Marx said there had been no one else in her condo. And the lobby cameras showed no activity after they left until oh-four-twenty-five, when one of the bellhops pushed a baggage cart by stacked with newspapers to deliver floor to floor. Finally, there’s a bunch of activity at oh-four-forty-two when the security guys ran through the lobby, headed up to Camilla Rose’s condo.”
“You’re saying nobody got off the elevator after oh-four-thirty?”
“Only the security guys. After they found her condo open and no one in it.”
McCrory, picking up the thought, said, “So, all we know from video is that the three went up with the Morgan woman after the bar closed, stayed two hours, then left. But we don’t know if other parties unknown were already up there.”
Payne considered that, and said, “If there had been someone, they could’ve left her place and taken a stairwell. And to any floor, including a ground-floor exit.”
“Yeah,” McCrory said, “but there’s cameras outside that are fixed on the exit doors and they didn’t show anyone leaving. But another floor is possible—and the reason, I’m thinking, that the security camera video can’t be expected to show our doer.”
Payne thought for a bit, finally saying, “Then there’s also the service elevator to consider.”
“Speaking of which,” Harris said, “that brings us to our other witness: a guy from room service. Camilla Rose ordered from the hotel kitchen a slew of appetizers, which got delivered around oh-two-thirty.”
“What did he see?”
“The guy confirmed seeing the two women drinking with Camilla Rose. He didn’t
think the place was trashed, and saw no evidence of the drugs. Marx denied that there was any drug use—”
“Go figure,” Payne interrupted. “If he got caught—Poof!—there would go his license to fill cavities.”
“And he said that when they left her, just before oh-four-hundred, Camilla Rose was alive and well and living her usual large. Everything was hunky-dory.”
“Of course it was,” Payne said. “Okay, so all these people went up and then came down. But it still doesn’t rule out the possibility of there being someone else.”
“Yeah,” McCrory said, “and it doesn’t mean she didn’t just take the high-rise equivalent of a long walk on a short wharf. That MDMA is powerful stuff—maybe it made her think she could fly.”
Payne grunted. MDMA, street-named Molly and Ecstasy, was a synthetic psychoactive, what he referred to as “methamphetamine with a hallucinogenic twist.”
Harris said, “There is one thing—Marx said he’s lawyering up.”
“I don’t think that means anything these days,” Payne said. “Seems everyone’s got counsel on retainer. Hell, I would be, too, if I’d been in her condo.”
That triggered a mental image of the photograph of Camilla Rose she had sent to his cellular phone, which in turn caused Payne again to think that if he’d gone up, she might still be alive.
“Has the forensic lab cracked her phone?” Payne said. “Could be photos of their little party on it.”
“Along with that one she sent you earlier,” McCrory said, was sorry he did, and expected Payne to snap at him. When Payne didn’t, he added, “But no news that they did anything on her phone yet.”
Payne nodded in thought, and said, “Aimee Wolter said she didn’t have any insight. What did the interviews with Willie Lane, John Broadhead, Sue Thomas, and Tony Holmes turn up?”
“They all, with the exception of Lane, pretty much matched with what we saw in Hank’s interview of that bartender,” Harris said. “Which is to say, not much. They drank, avoided the subject of Benson’s death, then went home at closing time. They said they had no interaction with Marx and the two women, who mostly stayed at the bar. None were seen on the condo cameras coming or going.”
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