The Victim boh-3

by W. E. B Griffin

  He felt sure that the order to "give one to Chief Lowenstein and the other to Chief Coughlin" Washington had given him was intended only to unnerve Sergeant Dolan.

  Since the pictures were of two goddamn FBI agents, they really had no value at all.

  A moment later he had a second thought:Or did they?

  Two blocks farther up North Broad Street, in violation of the Motor Vehicle Code of the City of Philadelphia, Officer Matthew Payne dropped the Porsche 911 into second gear, pushed the accelerator to the floor, and made a U-turn, narrowly averting a collision with a United Parcel truck, whose driver shook his fist at him and made an obscene comment.

  ****

  "May I help you, sir?" the receptionist in the FBI office asked.

  "I'd like to see Mr. Davis, please," Peter Wohl said.

  "May I ask in connection with what, sir?"

  "I'd rather discuss that with Mr. Davis," Wohl said. "I'm Inspector Wohl of the Philadelphia Police."

  "One moment, sir. I'll see if Special Agent Davis is free."

  She pushed a button on her state-of-the-art office telephone switching system, spoke softly into it, and then announced, "I'm sorry, sir, but Special Agent Davis is in conference. Can anyone else help you? Perhaps one of the assistant special agents in charge?"

  "No, I don't think so. Were you speaking with Mr. Davis or his secretary?"

  She did not elect to respond verbally to that presumptuous question; she just smiled benignly at him.

  "Please get Mr. Davis on the line and tell him that Inspector Wohl is out here and needs to see him immediately," Peter said.

  She pushed another button.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but there's a Philadelphia policeman out here, a gentleman named Wohl, who insists that he has to see you." She listened a moment and then said, "Yes, sir."

  Then she smiled at Peter Wohl.

  "Someone will come for you shortly. Won't you have a seat? May I get you a cup of coffee?"

  "Thank you," Peter said. "No coffee, thank you just the same."

  He sat down on a couch in front of a coffee table on which was a glossy brochure with a four-color illustration of the seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the legend, YOUR FBI in silver lettering. He did not pick it up, thinking that he knew all he wanted to know about the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Ten minutes later a door opened and a neatly dressed young man who did not look unlike Officer Matthew W. Payne came out, walked over to him, smiled, and offered his hand.

  "I'm Special Agent Foster, Inspector. Special Agent in Charge Davis will see you now. If you'll come with me?"

  Wohl followed him down a corridor lined with frosted glass walls toward the corner of the building. There waited another female, obviously Davis's secretary.

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, Inspector," she said. "Washington's on the line. I'm afraid it will be another minute or two. Can I offer you coffee?"

  "No thank you," Peter said.

  There was another couch and another coffee table. On this one was a four-color brochure with a photograph of a building on it and the legend, "THE J. EDGAR HOOVER FBI BUILDING". Wohl didn't pick this one up to pass the time, either.

  Five minutes later Wohl saw Davis's secretary pick up the receiver, listen, and then replace it.

  "Special Agent Davis will see you now, Inspector," she said, then walked to Davis's door and held it open for him.

  The FBI provided Special Agent in Charge Walter Davis, as the man in charge of its Philadelphia office, with all the accoutrements of a senior federal bureaucrat. There was a large, glistening desk with matching credenza and a high-backed chair upholstered in dark red leather. There was a carpet on the floor; another couch and coffee table; a wall full of photographs and plaques; and a large FBI seal. There were two flags against the curtains. It was a corner office with a nice view.

  Walter Davis was a tall, well-built man in his forties. His gray hair was impeccably barbered, and he wore a faint gray plaid suit, a stiffly starched white shirt, a rep-striped necktie, and highly polished black wing-tip shoes.

  He walked from behind his desk, a warm smile on his face, as Peter Wohl entered his office.

  "How are you, Peter?" he asked. "I'm really sorry to have had to make you wait this way. But you know how it is."

  "Hello, Walter," Wohl said.

  "Janet, get the Inspector and I cups of coffee, will you, please?" He looked at Wohl. "Black, right? Don't dilute the flavor of good coffee?"

  "Right. Black."

  "So how have you been, Peter? Long time no see. How's this Special Operations thing coming along?"

  "It's coming along all right," Peter said. "We're really just getting organized."

  "Well, you've been getting some very favorable publicity, at least."

  "How's that?"

  "Well, when your man-how shall I put it-abruptly terminatedthe career of the serial rapist, the publicity you got out of that was certainly better than being stuck in the eye with a sharp stick."

  "I suppose it was," Wohl said.

  "Nice-looking kid too," Davis said. "I'm tempted to try to steal him away from you."

  You would, too, you smooth, genial son of a bitch!

  "Make him an offer," Peter Wohl said.

  "Only kidding, Peter, only kidding," Special Agent in Charge Davis said.

  "I never know with you," Wohl said.

  Davis's secretary appeared with a tray holding two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.

  "Try the cookies, Peter," Davis said. "It is my means of teaching the young the value of a dollar."

  "Excuse me?"

  "My daughter makes them. No cookies, no allowance."

  "Very clever," Wohl said, and picked up a cookie.

  "So what can the FBI do for you, Peter?"

  "The nice-looking kid we're talking about is at this moment setting up an appointment for me with Jack Duffy. When Duffy can see me, I'm going to ask him to arrange an appointment with you, for me. So I am here unofficially, okay?"

  "Officially, unofficially, you're always welcome here, Peter, you know that," Davis said, smiling, but Wohl was sure he saw a flicker of wariness in Davis's eyes.

  "Thank you," Wohl said. "You've heard, probably, about the shooting of Anthony J. DeZego?"

  "Only what I read in the papers," Davis said, "and what Tom Tyler, my AAC for criminal matters mentioneden passant. I understand that Mr. DeZego got himself shot. With a shotgun. That's what you're talking about?"

  As if you didn't know, you son of a bitch!

  "On the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage, behind the Bellevue-Stratford. DeZego was killed-with a shotgun. It took the top of his head off-"

  "Why can't I work up many tears of remorse?" Davis asked.

  "And a young woman, a socialite, named Penelope Detweiler, was wounded."

  "Heiress, the paper said, to the Nesfoods money."

  "Right. What we're looking for are witnesses."

  "And you think the FBI can help?"

  "You tell me," Peter said, and got up and walked to Davis's desk and handed him the manila envelope.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "I was hoping that you could tell me, Walter," Wohl said.

  Davis opened the envelope and took out the photographs and went through them one at a time.

  "These were taken here, weren't they? That is the Hotel Warwick?"

  "And the Penn Services Parking Garage," Wohl said.

  "I have no idea what the significance of this is, Peter," Davis said, looking up at Wohl and smiling. "But I have seen these before. This morning, as a matter of fact. Did you, or one of your people, send us a set?"

  "None of my people did," Wohl said.

  "Well, someone did. Without, of course, a cover letter. We didn't know what the hell they were supposed to be."

  "You don't know who those men are?" Wohl asked.

  "Haven't a clue."

  I'll be a son of a bitch! He's telli
ng the truth!

  "Where did you come by these, Peter? If you don't mind my asking?"

  "We had plainclothes Narcotics officers on DeZego," Wohl said. " One of them had a camera."

  "But they didn't see the shooting itself?"

  Wohl shook his head.

  "That sometimes happens, I suppose," Davis said. "God, I wish I had known where these pictures had come from, Peter. I mean, when the other set came over the threshold."

  "Why?"

  "Well, I finally decided-my criminal affairs AAC and I did-that someone was trying to tell us something and that we'd really have to check it out. So we went through the routine. Sent copies to Washington and to every FBI office. Real pain in the ass. It's not like the old days, of course, when we would have to make a copy negative, then all those prints, and then mail them. Now we can wire photographs, of course. They're not as clear as a glossy print but they're usable. The trouble is, they tie up the lines. A lot of the smaller offices don't have dedicated phone lines, you see, which means the Bureau has to absorb all those long-distance charges."

  "Well, Walter," Wohl said, "you have my word on it. I'll locate whoever sent those photos over here without an explanation and make sure that it never happens again."

  "I'd appreciate that, Peter," Davis said. "We try to be as cooperative as we can, and you know we do. But we need a little help."

  "I'm sorry to have wasted your time with this," Peter said.

  "Don't be silly," Davis said, getting up and putting his hand out. "I know the pressures you're under. Don't be a stranger, Peter. Let's have lunch sometime."

  "Love to," Wohl said. "One thing, Walter. You said those pictures have already been passed around. Do you think you'll get a make?"

  "Who knows? If we do, I'll give Jack Duffy a call straight off."

  "Thank you for seeing me," Peter said. "I know you're a very busy man."

  "Goes with the territory," Special Agent in Charge Davis said.

  ****

  "I'm sorry, sir," the rent-a-cop sitting in front of Penelope Detweiler's room in Hahneman Hospital said as he rose to his feet and stood in Matt Payne's way. "You can't go in there."

  "Why not?" Matt asked.

  "Because I say so," the rent-a-cop said.

  "I'm a cop," Matt said.

  He felt a little uneasy making that announcement. The rent-a-cop was almost surely a retired policeman. He remembered hearing Washington say that one of the rent-a-cops the Detweilers had hired was a retired Northwest Detectives sergeant. He suspected he was talking to him.

  "And I've been hired by the Detweiler family to keep people away from Miss Detweiler without Mr. or Mrs. Detweiler's say so."

  "You've got two options," Matt said, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. "You either get out of the way, or I'll get on the phone and four guys from Highway will carry you out of the way."

  "There's a very sick girl in there," the rent-a-cop said.

  "I know that," Matt said. "What's it going to be?"

  "I could lose my job letting you in."

  "You don't have any choice," Matt said. "If I have to call for help, I'll charge you with interfering with a police officer. Thatwill cost you your job."

  The rent-a-cop moved to the side and out of the way, watched Matt enter the room, and then walked quickly down the corridor to the nurses' station, where, without asking, he picked up a telephone and dialed a number.

  "Ready for water polo?" Matt said to Penelope Detweiler.

  Christ, she looks even worse than the last time I saw her.

  "Hello, Matt," Penelope said, managing a smile.

  "You feel as awful as you look?" he asked. "One might suppose that you have been out consuming intoxicants and cavorting with the natives in the Tenderloin."

  "I really feel shitty," she said. "Matt, if I asked you for areal favor, would you do it?"

  "Probably not," he said.

  "That was pretty quick," she said, hurt. "I'm serious, Matt. I really need a favor."

  "I really wouldn't know where to get any, Penny. Your supplier's dead, you know."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

  He handed her one of the manila envelopes of photographs.

  "What's this?"

  "Open it. Have a look. The jig, as they say, is up."

  "I thought you were my friend, that I could at least count on you."

  "You can, Penny."

  "Then do me the favor. I'll give you a phone number, Matt. And all you would have to do is meet the guy someplace."

  "You're not listening," he said. "Bullshit time is over, Penny. Look at the photographs."

  "You're a son of a bitch, you always have been. A son of a bitch and a shit. I hate you."

  "I like you too," Matt said. "Look at the goddamn pictures."

  "I don't want to look at any goddamn pictures. What are they of, anyway?"

  She slid the stack of photographs out of the envelope.

  "Oh, Jesus," she said, her voice quavering.

  "Got your attention now, have I?"

  "Have you got him in jail?"

  "In jail"? What the hell does that mean? Why should we have the FBI guys in jail?

  "Looks familiar, does he?"

  "He's the man who shot me, who killed Tony," Penelope Detweiler said. "I'll never forget him-that face-as long as I live."

  Jesus H. Christ! What the hell is she talking about? What am I into?

  "We know all about you and Tony, Penny," Matt said. "As I said, you can stop the bullshit."

  "Who is this man? Why did he kill Tony?"

  "Who knows?" Matt blurted.

  "He won't tell you?"

  "He's being difficult," Matt said. "I don't think he believes that you're alive. If he had killed you, there would be no witnesses."

  I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm just saying the first thing that pops into my mind. Jesus Christ, why did I do this? I'm going to fuck the whole thing up!

  "I'll testify. I saw him. I saw him shoot Tony, and then he shot me."

  "Why didn't you tell us before?"

  "I couldn't hurt my father that way," Penelope said, making it clear she considered her reply to be self-evident. "My God, Matt, he thinks I'm still his little girl."

  "And all the while you've been fucking Tony DeZego, right?"

  "That's a shitty thing to say. We were in love. That was just like you, Matt. Always thinking the nastiest thing and then saying it in the nastiest possible way."

  "Tony the Zee had a wife and two kids," Matt said. "Little boys."

  He couldn't tell from the look in her eyes if this was news to her or not.

  "I don't believe that," she said.

  "I told you, precious Penny, bullshit time is over. You were running around with a third-rate guinea gangster, amarried guinea gangster with two kids. Who was supplying you with cocaine."

  "He really was married?" she asked.

  Matt nodded.

  "I didn't know that," she said. "But it wouldn't have mattered. We were in love."

  "Then I feel sorry for you," Matt said. "I really do."

  "Does Daddy know about Tony?"

  "Not yet. He knows about the coke. But he'll have to find out about DeZego."

  "Yes, I suppose he will," she said calmly. "If I'm going to testify against this man, and I will, it will just have to come out, and Daddy and Mommy will just have to adjust to it."

  She looked at him and smiled.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, she's stoned.

  He saw that her pupils were dilated.

  Has she been getting that shit in here? In a hospital?

  She's on cloud nine. I think the technical term is "euphoric. " She didn't even react when I called DeZego a guinea gangster, or when I told her he's married and has two kids. The first should have enraged her, and the second should have… caused a much greater reaction than it did. She didn't deny it when I said DeZego was supplying her with cocaine, and she didn't seem at all upset whe
n I told her I know her father knows about the cocaine and will inevitably learn about her and DeZego.

  Ergo sum, Sherlock Holmes, she doesn't give a damn about things that are important, and is therefore, almost by definition, stoned.

  It could be, come to think of it, that she is stoned on something legitimate, something they gave her for the pain. Or possibly that Dr. Dotson gave her a maintenance dose, having decided that this is not the time or place to detoxify her, either because of her condition or because he 'd rather do that someplace where a lot of questions would not be asked.

  So where are you now, hotshot? What do you do now?

  "Penny, are you absolutely sure that the man in those photographs is the one who shot you?"

  "I told you I was," she said.

  "And you are prepared to testify in court about that?"

  "Yes, of course," she said.

  "Well, what happens now, Penny," Matt explained-I don't know what the hell happens now-"isthat I will ask you to make a statement on the back of one of the photographs."

  "What?"

  "Quote, 'Having been sworn, I declare that the individual pictured in this photograph is the individual who, on the roof of the Penn Services Parking Garage, shot Mr. Anthony J. DeZego and me with a shotgun,' unquote. And then you sign it and I sign it. And then soon, Detective Washington will come back here and take a full statement."

  " 'Killed,' " Penelope Detweiler said. "Not just 'shot,' 'killed.'

  "

  "Right."

  "You write it down and I'll sign it," Penny said agreeably.

  "It has to be in your handwriting," Matt said. He rolled the bedside tray in place over Penny, selected one of the photographs, and showed it to her. "This him?"

  "Yes, that's the man."

  He spotted a Gideon Bible on the lower shelf of her bedside table and held it out to her. She put her hand on it.

  "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

  "I do," Penny said solemnly.

  He handed her a ballpoint pen.

  "Write," he said.

  "Say that again," Penny said.

  He dictated essentially what he had said before, and she wrote it on the back of the photograph.

  "Sign it," he ordered. She did, and looked at him, he thought, like a little girl who expected her teacher to give her a Gold Star to Take Home to Mommy.