Mickey O’Hara wrote about crime for the Philadelphia Bulletin. He was very good at what he did and was regarded by most policemen, including Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., as almost a member of the Department. If you told Mickey O’Hara that something was off the record, it stayed that way.
“Hey, Foster,” Mickey O’Hara said, “that white shirt looks good on you.”
That made reference to Lieutenant Foster’s almost brand-new status as a lieutenant. Police supervisors, lieutenants and above, wore white uniform shirts. Sergeants and below wore blue.
“How are you, Mickey?” Lewis said, shaking O’Hara’s hand. “Thank you.”
“And what are you doing, Matt?” O’Hara said, offering his hand to Officer Payne. “Moonlighting as a waiter?”
“Hey, Mickey,” Payne said.
“What’s going on?”
“Hold it a second, Mickey,” Lewis said. “Miss Spencer, you’ll have to make a statement. Payne will tell you about that. And you come back here, Payne, as soon as you do what you have to do.”
“Yes, sir. See you, Mickey.”
O’Hara waited until Matt Payne had politely loaded Amanda Spencer into the Porsche, gotten behind the wheel, and was fed into the line of traffic by the Traffic sergeant before speaking.
“Nice kid, that boy,” he said.
“So I hear,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“What does he have to do before he comes back here?”
“Tell H. Richard Detweiler that his daughter was found lying in a pool of blood on the roof of this place; somebody popped her with a shotgun,” Lewis said.
“No shit? Detweiler’s daughter? Is she dead?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. They just took her to Hahneman. There’s another victim up there. White man. He got his head blown off.”
“Robbery?” Mickey O’Hara asked. “With a shotgun? Who is he?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can I go up there?” Mickey asked.
“I’ll go with you,” Lewis said, and gestured toward the stairwell.
Between the third and fourth floors of the Penn Services Parking Garage, Lieutenant Lewis and Mr. O’Hara encountered Detective Lawrence Godofski of Homicide coming down the stairs.
Godofski had a plastic bag in his hand. He extended it to Lieutenant Lewis.
“Whaddayasay, Larry?” Mickey O’Hara said.
“How goes it, Mickey?”
The plastic bag contained a leather wallet and a number of cards, driver’s license, and credit cards, which apparently had been removed from the wallet.
Lieutenant Lewis examined the driver’s license through the clear plastic bag and then handed it to Mickey O’Hara. The driver’s license had been issued to Anthony J. DeZego, of a Bouvier Street address in South Philadelphia, an area known as Little Italy.
“I’ll be damned,” Mickey O’Hara said. “Tony the Zee. He’s the body?”
Detective Godofski nodded.
“This is pretty classy for Tony the Zee, getting himself blown away like this,” O’Hara said. “The last I heard, he was driving a shrimp-and-oyster reefer truck up from the Gulf Coast.”
“Godofski,” Lieutenant Lewis said, “have you thought about bringing Organized Crime in on this?”
“Yes, sir. I was about to do just that.”
“You find anything else interesting up there?”
Godofski produced another plastic bag, this one holding two fired shotshell cartridges.
“Number seven and a halfs,” he said. “Rabbit shells.”
“No gun?”
“No shotgun. Tony the Zee had a .38, a Smith and Wesson Undercover, in an ankle holster. I left it there for the lab guys. He never got a chance to use it.”
“What the hell has H. Richard Detweiler’s daughter got to do with a second-rate guinea gangster like Tony the Zee?” Mickey O’Hara asked rhetorically.
Lieutenant Lewis shrugged and then started up the stairs again.
The Union League of Philadelphia is a stone Victorian building—some say a remarkably ugly one—on the west side of South Broad Street, literally in the shadow of the statue of Billy Penn, which stands atop City Hall at the intersection of Broad and Market Streets.
South Broad Street, in front of the Union League, has been designated a NO PARKING AT ANY TIME TOW-AWAY ZONE. Several large signs on the sidewalk advertise this.
Traffic Officer P. J. Ward, who was directing traffic in the middle of South Broad Street, was thus both surprised and annoyed when he saw a silver Porsche 911 pull up in front of the Union League, turn off its lights, and stop. Then a young guy in a monkey suit got out and quickly walked around to the other side to open the door for his girlfriend.
Ward quickly strode over.
“Hey, you! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The young guy in the monkey suit turned to face him.
“I won’t be long,” he said. “I’m on the job.”
There was a silver-colored badge pinned to his jacket, but Officer Ward decided he wasn’t going to take that at what it looked like. There was a good chance, he decided, that when he got a good look at the badge, it would say PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR or OFFICIAL U.S. TAXPAYER, and that the young man in the monkey suit driving the Porsche would turn out to be a wiseass rich kid who thought he could get away with anything.
“Hold it a minute,” he said, and trotted onto the sidewalk.
The badge was real. The next question was what was this rich kid driving a Porsche 911 doing with it?
“I’m Payne, Special Operations,” the young guy said, and held out his photo ID. Ward saw at a glance that the ID was the real thing.
“What’s going on?”
“I have to go in here a minute,” Matt said. “I won’t be long.”
“Don’t be,” Officer Ward said.
Matt took Amanda’s arm and they walked up the stairs to the front door. As they reached the revolving door to the entrance foyer, it was put into motion for them. Matt saw that just inside was a large man, who smelled of retired cop and was functioning more as a genteel bouncer than a doorman.
He had seen the two young people all nicely dressed up and decided they had legitimate business inside.
“Good evening,” he said, then saw the badge on the young man’s lapel, and surprise registered on his face.
“The Browne dinner?” Matt asked.
“Up the stairs, sir, and to your right,” the man at the door said, pointing.
Matt and Amanda started up the stairs. Matt unpinned his badge and put it in his pocket. He would need it again when he went back to the garage, but he didn’t want to put it on display here. Then he thought of something else.
“Here,” he said, handing the Porsche keys to Amanda.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“Well, I sort of hoped you’d park it for me until I can catch up with you,” Matt said. “I really can’t leave it parked out in front.”
“When are you going to ‘catch up with me’?”
“As soon as I can. Sometime tonight you’re going to have to make a statement at Homicide.”
“I already told that detective everything I know.”
“You know that,” Matt said. “He doesn’t.”
She took the keys from him.
“I was about to say,” she said, a touch of wonder in her voice, “‘You’re not going to just leave me here like this, are you?’ But of course you have to, don’t you? You’re really a policeman.”
“I’m sorry,” Matt said.
“Don’t be absurd,” Amanda said. “Why should you be sorry? It’s just that—you don’t look like a cop, I guess.”
“What does a cop look like?”
“I didn’t mean that the way it came out,” she said.
She took his arm and they went the rest of the way up the stairway.
“Wait here, please,” Matt said when they came to the double doors leading to the dining room. He stepped inside.
“May I have
your invitation, sir?”
“I won’t be staying,” Matt said as he spotted the head table, and Mr. and Mrs. H. Richard Detweiler, and started for it.
“Hey!” the man who’d asked for the invitation said sharply, and started after him.
Mr. H. Richard Detweiler, who obviously had had a couple of drinks, was engaged in animated conversation with a youthful, trim, freckle-faced woman sitting at his right side. She was considerably older than she looked, Matt knew, for she was Mrs. Brewster Cortland Payne II, and she was his mother.
She smiled at him with her eyes when she saw him approaching the table, then returned her attention to Mr. Detweiler.
“Mr. Detweiler?” Matt said. “Excuse me?”
“Matt, you’re interrupting,” Patricia Payne said.
The man who had followed Matt across the room came up. “Excuse me, sir, I’ll have to see your invitation,” he said.
H. Richard Detweiler first focused his eyes on Matt, and then at the man demanding an invitation.
“It’s all right,” he said. “He’s invited. He’d forget his head if it wasn’t nailed on.”
“Mr. Detweiler, may I see you a moment, please, sir?”
“Matt, for God’s sake, can’t you see that I’m talking to your mother?”
“Sir, this is important. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Well, all right, what is it?”
“May I speak to you alone, please?”
“Goddammit, Matt!”
“Matt, what is it?” Patricia Payne asked.
“Mother, please!”
H. Richard Detweiler got to his feet. In the process he knocked over his whiskey glass, swore under his breath, and glowered at Matt.
Matt led him out of the room.
“Now what the devil is going on, Matt?” Detweiler asked impatiently, and then saw Amanda. “How are you, darling?”
“Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said, “there’s been an incident—”
“Incident? Incident? What kind of an incident?”
Brewster C. Payne II came out of the room.
“Penny’s been hurt, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said. “She’s been taken to Hahneman Hospital.”
In a split second H. Richard Detweiler was absolutely sober.
“What, precisely, has happened, Matt?” he asked icily.
“I think it would be a good idea if you went to the hospital, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said.
Detweiler grabbed Matt by the shoulders.
“I asked you a question, Matt,” he said. “Answer me, dammit!”
“Penny appears to have been shot, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said.
“Shot?” Detweiler asked incredulously. “Shot?”
“Yes, sir. With a shotgun.”
“I don’t believe this,” Detweiler said. “Is she seriously injured?”
“Yes, sir, I think she is.”
“How did it happen? Where?”
“On the roof of the parking garage behind the Bellevue,” Matt said. “That’s about all we know.”
“‘All we know’? What about the police?”
“I’m a policeman, Mr. Detweiler,” Matt said. “We just don’t know yet what happened.”
“That’s right,” Detweiler said, dazed. “Your dad told me you were a policeman—and then there was all the business in the newspapers. My God, Matt, what happened?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Dick, you’d better go to the hospital,” Brewster C. Payne said. “I’ll get Grace and bring her over there.”
“My God, this is unbelievable!” Detweiler said.
“It would probably be quicker if you caught a cab out front,” Matt said.
H. Richard Detweiler looked at Matt intently for a moment, then ran down the stairs.
“How did you get involved in this, Matt?” Brewster C. Payne II asked.
“Amanda and I found her—Excuse me. Dad, this is Amanda Spencer. Amanda, this is my father.”
“Hello,” Amanda said.
“We drove onto the roof of the garage and found her,” Matt said. “Amanda called it in. They took her to Hahneman in a wagon.”
“How badly is she injured?”
“It was a shotgun, Dad,” Matt said.
“Oh, my God! A robbery?”
“We don’t know yet,” Matt said. “I have to get back over there.” He looked at Amanda. “I’ll see you…later.”
“Okay,” Amanda said.
Matt ran down the stairs, taking his badge from his pocket and pinning it to his lapel again. The Traffic cop would probably be waiting for him. He reached the door, stopped, and then trotted into the gentlemen’s lounge. Concentrating on the business at hand, he didn’t notice the young gentleman at the adjoining urinal until he spoke.
“What the hell have you pinned to your lapel, Payne?”
Matt turned and saw Kellogg Shaw, who had been a year ahead of him at Episcopal Academy and then had gone on to Princeton.
“What’s that sore on the head of your dick, Kellogg?” Matt replied, and then ran out of the men’s room, zipping his fly on the run. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kellogg Shaw exposing himself to the mirror over the sinks.
SIX
Victor, checking his rearview mirror to make sure that Charles was still behind him, flicked on his right-turn signal and turned into the short-term parking lot at Philadelphia International Airport.
He took a ticket from the dispensing machine, then drove around the lot until he found two empty parking spaces. A moment after he stopped, Charles pulled the Cadillac in beside him.
Charles got out of the Cadillac, glanced around the parking lot to make sure that no one had an idle interest in what they were doing, and then opened the door of the Pontiac. Quickly he shifted the Remington Model 1100 from the floor of the Cadillac to the floor of the Pontiac. Victor helped him put it out of sight under the seat.
Charles then took his carry-on from the Cadillac and walked toward the terminal building. Victor waited until Charles was almost out of sight, then got out of the Pontiac. He put the keys on top of the left rear tire, then took his carry-on from the backseat, slammed the doors, checked to make sure they were locked, and then walked to the terminal.
Victor checked in with TWA, then went to the cocktail lounge. Charles was at the bar. Victor touched his shoulder and Charles turned.
“Well, look who’s here,” Charles said.
“Nice to see you. Everything going all right?”
“No problems at all.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“A quick one. I’m on United 404 in fifteen minutes.”
“Lucky you. I’ve got to hang around here for an hour and a half.”
Fifteen minutes later Charles boarded United Airlines Flight 404 for Chicago. An hour and fifteen minutes after that, Victor boarded TWA Flight 332 for Los Angeles, with an intermediate stop in St. Louis.
At the entrance to the Penn Services Parking Garage there was a crowd of citizens, almost all of them well dressed and almost all of them indignant, even furious.
They had been told, or were being told, by uniformed police officers and detectives that the entire Penn Services Parking Garage had been designated a crime scene and they could not reclaim their cars, or even go to them, until the investigation of the scene had been completed. And they had been told, truthfully, that no one could even estimate how long the investigation of the crime scene would take.
Matt felt sorry for the cops charged with keeping the civilians out. The necessity to go over the garage with a fine-tooth comb was something understood by everyone who had ever watched a cops-and-robbers television show. But that was different.
“I’m a law-abiding citizen, and not a holdup man or a murderer or whatever the hell went on in there. I didn’t do anything, and all I want to do is get in my own goddamn car and go home. It’s a goddamn outrage to treat law-abiding citizens like this! How the hell am I supposed to get home?”
When he got to the en
trance ramp, Matt saw that it was crowded with police cars. They had moved off the street, he realized, to do what they could about getting traffic flowing smoothly again. He decided that the mobile crime lab, and the other technical vehicles, had gone up to the roof.
“Detective D’Amata?” Matt asked the district cop standing in front of the stairwell door.
“On the roof.”
Matt went up the stairs two at a time and was a little winded when he finally emerged on the roof. There was a district cop just outside the door, and he took a good look at Matt and his badge but didn’t say anything to him.
The mobile crime lab was there, doors open, and three other special vehicles. CRIME SCENE—DO NOT CROSS tape had been strung around the area, the entire half of the roof, and a photographer armed with a 35-mm camera as well as a revolver was shooting pictures of the bloody pool left when the van cops had loaded Penelope Detweiler into their van and hauled her off to Hahneman.
Matt looked around for Detective D’Amata. Before he found him, Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis came up unnoticed behind Matt and touched his arm.
“They want you in homicide, Payne,” he said. “Right now.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“You know where it is?”
All too well, Matt thought. When I was questioned by Homicide detectives after I killed the rapist, it had been only after three hours of questioning and a twenty-seven-page statement that someone finally told me it had been a “good” shooting.
“Yes, sir.”
Matt turned and started toward the stairwell. The body of the man who had had half his head blown off was still where Matt had first seen it, slumped against the concrete block wall of the stairwell.
It was horrible, and Matt felt a sense of nausea. He pushed open the stairwell door and started down them. The urge to vomit passed.
And I didn’t faint, Matt thought, not without a sense of satisfaction. When I saw the mutilated body of Miss Elizabeth Woodham, 33, of 300 East Mermaid Lane, Roxborough, I went out like a light and looked like an ass in front of Detective Washington.
Detective Jason Washington, acknowledged to be the best Homicide detective in the department, had been transferred, over his bitter objections, to the newly formed Special Operations Division. When the state police had found a body in Bucks County meeting the description of Elizabeth Woodham, who had been seen as she was forced into a van, Washington had gone to the country to have a look at it and had taken Matt with him. Not as a fellow police officer, to help with the investigation, but as an errand boy, a gofer. And Matt hadn’t even been able to do that; one look at the body and he’d fainted.
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