The Victim boh-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  "The Peebles woman? That one?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'm going off on a tangent," the mayor said. "What about that? Is that going to embarrass the Department?"

  "No. I don't think so," Wohl said. "Unless a police captain acting like a teenager in love for the first time is embarrassing."

  The mayor was not amused. "She has friends in very high places," he said coldly. "Do you think maybe you should drop a hint that he had better treat her right?"

  "I don't think that's necessary, Mr. Mayor," Wohl said. "Dave Pekach is really a decent guy. And they're really in love."

  The mayor considered that dubiously for a moment but finally said, "If you say so, Peter, okay. But what we don't need is any more rich people pissed off at the Department than we already have. Arthur J. Nelson and Dick Detweiler is enough already. So he had dinner with her

  …"

  "At Ristorante Alfredo," Wohl went on. "He had made reservations. When he got there, Vincenzo Savarese was there. He gave him- I'm cutting corners here."

  "You're doing fine," the mayor said.

  "A little speech about being grateful for a favor Dave had done for him-nothing dirty there, just Dave being nice to a girl he didn't know was Savarese's granddaughter. You want to hear about that?"

  "Not unless it's important."

  "Savarese said thank you for the favor, and then Ricco Baltazari gave Dave a matchbook, said Dave dropped it. Inside was a name and address. Black guy named Marvin P. Lanier. Small-time. Says he's a gambler. Actually he's a pimp. And according to two of Dave's undercover cops-Martinez and McFadden, the two who caught the junkie who killed Dutch Moffitt-Lanier sometimes transports cocaine from Harlem."

  "You've lost me," the mayor said. "What's a nigger pimp got to do with precious Penny Detweiler?"

  "Last night Martinez and McFadden saw Lanier. They had been using him as a snitch. Lanier told them, quote, a guinea shot Tony the Zee, unquote."

  "He had a name?" the mayor asked.

  "He was supposed to come up with one by four o'clock this afternoon," Wohl said.

  "You think he will?"

  "Lanier got popped last night. Five shots with a.38," Wohl said. "Do you know Joe D'Amata of Homicide?"

  "Yeah."

  "He got the job. Because there was a Highway car seen at the crime scene, he came out to Bustleton and Bowler first thing this morning to see what we had on Lanier."

  "Which was?"

  "Nothing. Martinez and McFadden were in the car. Working on their own."

  "I'm having a little trouble following all this, Peter," the mayor said, almost apologetically.

  "When McFadden and Martinez saw Lanier, they took a shotgun away from him. Joe D'Amata said Lanier had a shotgun under his bed. So I thought maybe there was a tie-in-"

  "How?"

  "Savarese pointed us to this guy. DeZego was popped with a shotgun. Lanier had two. Lanier gets killed."

  "What about the shotgun? Shotguns?"

  "I sent them to the lab."

  "And?"

  "I can call. They may not be through yet."

  "Call."

  Less than a minute later Wohl replaced one of the mayor's three telephones in its cradle.

  "Forensics," Wohl announced, "says that the shotgun-shell cases found on the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage were almost certainly, based on the marks made by the ejector, fired from the Remington Model 1100 shotgun D'Amata found under Lanier's bed."

  "Bingo," Dennis V. Coughlin said.

  "You're saying the pimp shot DeZego?" the mayor asked.

  "I think Savarese wantsus to think Lanier shot DeZego," Matt Lowenstein said.

  "Why?" the mayor asked.

  "Who the hell knows?" Lowenstein said.

  "Check with Organized Crime," the mayor said. "See if they can come up with any reason the mob would want DeZego dead."

  "They're working on that, Jerry," Lowenstein said. "I asked them the day after DeZego got popped; they said they'd already been asked to check by Jason Washington.

  If there was a rebuke in Lowenstein's reply, the mayor seemed not to have noticed.

  "Washington working on this dead-pimp angle?" Carlucci asked.

  "No, sir," Wohl replied. "Chief Lowenstein loaned me D'Amata. I was going to have him work with Washington. But when I couldn't find him, I put Tony Harris on it."

  "Why can't you find Washington?"

  "I don't know where he is," Wohl said, and then heard his words. " I didn't mean that, sir, the way it came out. He's working on the street somewhere, and when I got the word to come here, he hadn't reported in yet. I've got Payne looking for him. For all I know, he's probably already found him."

  "Tony Harris is working on the Officer Magnella job, right?" the mayor asked. "So you turn him off that to put him on this?"

  "We're getting nowhere on the Magnella job, Mr. Mayor," Peter Wohl said. "That one's going to take time. I wanted a good Homicide detective at the Lanier scene while it was still hot."

  "Meaning you don't think Joe D'Amata is a good Homicide detective?" Lowenstein snapped.

  "If I didn't think Joe was as good as he is, I wouldn't have asked you for him, Chief," Wohl replied. "Maybe that was a bad choice of words. What I meant was that I wanted Harris and D'Amata, now that we know we're looking for something beside the doer of a pimp shooting, to take another look at the crime scene as soon as possible."

  "I don't like that," the mayor said thoughtfully.

  "Sir?" Peter asked.

  "Shit, I didn't meanthat the way it came out. I wouldn't tell you how to do your job, Peter. What I meant was what you said about the Magnella job, that it's going to take time. We can't afford that. You can't let people get away with shooting a cop. You have to catch himthem-quick. And in a good, tight, all-the-i's-dotted, all-the-t'scrossed arrest."

  "Yes, sir, I know. But Harris told me all he knows how to do is go back to the beginning. There's nothing new to run down."

  "Lowenstein giving you all the help you need?"

  "Chief Lowenstein has been very helpful, sir. I couldn't ask for anything more," Wohl said.

  "Denny, you paying attention?" the mayor asked.

  "Sir?"

  "Peter knows what's the right thing to say to make friends and influence people. You ought to watch him, learn from him."

  "Oh, fuck you, Jerry," Coughlin said when he realized that the real target of Carlucci's barb was Wohl, and that he was being teased.

  "Make that, 'oh, fuck you, Mr. Mayor,' sir," Carlucci said, chuckling. Then his voice grew serious. "Okay. Thanks for coming in. If it wasn't for what Peter said about the Magnella job, I'd say I feel a lot better than I felt before. Jesus, I'd like to hang the DeZego job on Savarese, or even on one of his scumbags."

  Coughlin stood up and shook the mayor's hand when it was offered. Lowenstein followed him past the mayor's desk, and then past Wohl.

  The mayor hung on to Wohl's hand, signaling that he wanted Wohl to remain behind.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "I spoke to your dad last night," the mayor said.

  "Last night?" Peter asked, surprised.

  "This morning. Very early this morning. He told me he had been talking to you and that you led him to believe your salami was on the chopping block with all this, and you thought that was unfair."

  "I- We had a couple of drinks at Groverman's."

  "So he said."

  "I'm sorry he called you, Mr. Mayor."

  "How could you have stopped him? What I told him, Peter, was that you were absolutely right. Your salami is on the chopping block, and it isn't fair. I also told him that if you come out of this smelling like a rose, you stand a good chance to be the youngest full inspector in the Department."

  "Jesus," Wohl said.

  "My salami's in jeopardy, Peter, not only yours. I'm going to look like a fucking fool if Special Operations drops the ball on all this. If I don't look like a fucking fool when this is all over, then you get taken care of. Tak
e my meaning?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Give my regards to your mother, Peter," Mayor Carlucci said, and walked Peter to his office door.

  ****

  Charley McFadden was almost home before he realized there was a silver lining in the dark cloud of being on Inspector Wohl's shit list. And that was a dark cloud indeed. If Wohl was pissed at them, that meant Captains Sabara and Pekach were also pissed at them, and that meant that Sergeant Big Bill Henderson would conclude that hunting season was now open on him and Hay-zus. Christ only knew whatthat son of a bitch would do to them now.

  There was a good possibility that he and Hay-zus would wind up in a district somewhere, maybe even in a goddamn wagon. McFadden really didn't want to be a Highway Patrolman, but he wanted to be an ordinary, turn-off-the-fire-hydrants, guard-a-school-crossing cop even less.

  And if Wohl did send them to a district, it would probably go on their records that they had been Probationary Highway Patrolmen and flunked, or whatever it would be called. Busted probation.Shit!

  The silver lining appeared when he turned onto his street and started looking for a place to park the Volkswagen. His eyes fell on the home of Mr. Robert McCarthy, and his mind's eye recalled the red hair and blue eyes and absolutely perfect little ass of Mr. McCarthy's niece, Margaret McCarthy, R.N.

  And he had all fucking day off, until say, three, which would give him an hour to get back in uniform and drive out to Bustleton and Bowler.

  He found a place to park-for once-almost right in front of his house and ran up the stairs and inside.

  "What are you doing home?" his mother asked.

  "Got something to do, Ma," he called as he went up the stairs.

  He took his uniform off and hung it carefully in the closet. Then he dressed with great care: a new white shirt with buttons on the collar, like he had seen Matt Payne wear; a dark brown sport coat; slightly lighter brown slacks; black loafers with a flap and little tassels in front, also seen on Matt Payne; and a necktie with stripes like both Inspector Wohl and Payne wore. He was so concerned with his appearance that he forgot his gun and had to take the jacket off and put on his shoulder holster.

  Then it occurred to him that although he had shaved before going out to Bustleton and Bowler, that was a couple of hours ago, and a little more after-shave wouldn't hurt anything; girls were supposed to like it, so he generously splashedBrut on his face and neck before leaving his room.

  "Where are you going all dressed up?" his mother asked, and then sniffed suspiciously. "What's that I smell? Perfume?"

  "It's after-shave lotion, Ma."

  "I'd hate to tell you what it smells like," she said.

  And then he was out the door.

  He walked purposefully toward Broad Street until he was certain his mother, sure to be peering from behind the lace curtain on the door, couldn't see him anymore, and then he cut across the street and went back to the McCarthy house, where he quickly climbed the steps and rang the bell, hoping it would be answered before his mother made one of her regularly scheduled, every-five-minutes inspections of the neighborhood.

  Mr. McCarthy, wearing a suit, opened the door.

  "Hello, Charley, what can I do for you?"

  "Is Margaret around?"

  "We're going to pay our respects to the Magnellas," Mr. McCarthy said.

  "Oh," Charley said.

  "You been over there yet?"

  "No."

  "You want to go with us?"

  "Yeah," Charley said.

  "I thought maybe that's what you had in mind," Mr. McCarthy said. "You're all dressed up."

  "Yeah," Charley said.

  "Goddamn shame," Mr. McCarthy said.

  "Hello, Charley," Margaret McCarthy said. "You going with us?"

  She was wearing a suit with a white blouse and a little round hat.

  Jesus Christ, that's a good-looking woman!

  "I wanted to pay my respects," Charley said.

  "You might as well ride with us," Mr. McCarthy said.

  The ride to Stanley Rocco and Sons, Funeral Directors, was pleasant until they got there. That is to say, he got to ride in the backseat with Margaret and he could smell her- an entirely delightful sensation-even over his after-shave. He could even see the lace at the hem of her slip, which triggered his imagination.

  But then, when Mr. McCarthy had parked the Ford and Margaret had climbed out and he had in a gentlemanly manner averted his eyes from the unintentional display of lower limbs and he got out, he saw that the place was crowded with cops, in uniform and out.

  "Jesus, wait a minute," he said to Margaret.

  He took out his wallet and sighed with relief when he found a narrow strip of black elasticized material. He had put it in there after the funeral of Captain Dutch Moffitt, intending to put it in a drawer when he got home.

  Thank God I forgot!

  "What is that?" Margaret asked.

  "A mourning stripe," Charley said. "You cut up a hatband."

  "Oh," she said, obviously not understanding.

  "When there's a dead cop, you wear it across your badge," he explained as he worked the band across his. "I almost forgot."

  He started to pin the badge to his lapel.

  "You got it on crooked," Margaret said. "Let me."

  He could see her scalp where her hair was parted as she pinned the badge on correctly.

  She looked up at him and met his eyes and smiled, and his heart jumped.

  "There," she said.

  "Thanks," he said.

  They caught up with Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy and walked to the funeral home.

  There was a book for people to write their names in on a stand just inside the door. It was just about full.

  He wrote "Officer Charles McFadden, Badge 8774, Special Operations" under the name of some captain he didn't know from the 3^ rd District.

  Officer Joseph Magnella was in an open casket, surrounded by flowers. They were burying him in his uniform, Charley saw. There were two cops from his district, wearing white gloves, standing at each end of the casket, and there was an American flag on a pole behind each of them.

  In his turn Charley followed Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy and Margaret to the prie-dieu and dropped to his knees. He made the sign of the cross and, with part of his mind, offered the prayers a Roman Catholic does in such circumstances. They came to him automatically, and although his lips moved, he didn't hear them.

  He was thinking, Christ, they put face powder and lipstick on him.

  I wonder if they will take the badge off before they close the casket, or whether they 'II bury him with it.

  The last time I saw him, he was still in the gutter with somebody' s coat over his face and shoulders.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, don't let that happen to me!

  And the word is, they're not even close to finding the scumbags who did this to him!

  I'd like to find those cocksuckers! They wouldn't look as good in their coffins as this poor bastard does!

  As he had approached the coffin he had noticed the Magnella family, plus the girlfriend, sitting in the first row of chairs. When he rose from the prie-dieu, they were all standing up. Mr. Magnella was embracing Mr. McCarthy, and Mrs. McCarthy was patting Mrs. Magnella. The girlfriend looked as if somebody had punched her in the stomach; Margaret was smiling at her uncomfortably.

  "Al," Mr. McCarthy said when Charley approached, "this is Charley McFadden, from the neighborhood."

  "I'm real sorry this happened," Charley said as Mr. Magnella shook his hand.

  "You knew my Joe?"

  "No. I seen him around, though."

  "It was nice of you to come."

  "I wanted to pay my respects."

  "This is Joe's mother."

  "Mrs. Magnella, I'm real sorry for you."

  "Thank you for coming."

  "I was Joe's fiancee," the girlfriend said.

  "I'm real sorry."

  "We were going to get married in two months."

  "I'm
really sorry for you."

  "Thank you for coming."

  "I'm Joe's brother."

  "I'm really sorry this happened."

  "Thank you for coming."

  "Bob," Mr. Magnella said to Mr. McCarthy, "go in the room on the other side and fix yourself and Officer McFadden a drink."

  "Thank you, Al," Mr. McCarthy said. "I might just do that."

  Margaret put her hand on Charley's arm, and they followed Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy across the room to a smaller room, where a knot of men were gathered around a table on which sat a dozen bottles of whiskey.

  Margaret opened her purse and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  "Seagram's all right for you, Charley?" Mr. McCarthy asked.

  "Fine," Charley said.

  As he put the glass to his mouth the soft murmur of voices died out. Curious, he turned to see what was going on.

  Mrs. Magnella had entered the room. She looked like she was headed right for him.

  She was. Her son and husband were on her heels, looking worried.

  "I know who you are," Mrs. Magnella said to Charley McFadden. "I seen your picture in the papers. You're the cop who caught the junkie and pushed him under the subway, right?"

  That wasn't what happened. I was chasing the son of a bitch and he fell!

  "Uh!" Charley said.

  "I want you to find the people who did this to my Joseph and push them under the subway!"

  "Mama," Officer Magnella's brother said. "Come on, Mama!"

  "I want them dead! I want them dead!"

  "Come on, Mama! Pop, where's Father Loretto?"

  "I'm here," a silver-haired priest said. "Elena, what's the matter?"

  "I want them dead! I want them dead!"

  "It's going to be all right, Elena," the priest said. "Come with me, we'll talk."

  "I'm sorry about this," Officer Magnella's brother said to Officer McFadden as the priest led Officer Magnella's mother away.

  "It's all right, don't worry about it," Charley said.

  Margaret McCarthy looked at Charley McFadden and saw that it wasn' t all right. Without thinking what she was doing, she put her hand out to his face, and when he looked at her, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  EIGHTEEN

  Officer Matthew Payne was feeling a little sorry for himself. He had been given an impossible task-how the hell was he supposed to find one man in a city the size of Philadelphia?- and Peter Wohl had made it plain that he expected him to accomplish it: No excuses, please. Just do it.