Wohl looked up.
“Mr. Payne, well-known tracer of lost detectives,” he said, “sit.” He slid over to make room.
Washington was smiling.
“Okay, I give up,” Wohl said. “What am I looking at?”
Matt looked at the photographs. A neatly dressed man carrying an attaché case and looking in the window of the cocktail lounge of the Warwick Hotel. A bald-headed man driving a Pontiac. The first man getting into the Pontiac. There were a dozen variations.
“Your FBI at work,” Washington said.
“What?”
“They were apparently—what’s the word they use, surveilling?—surveilling Mr. DeZego.”
“Where’d these come from?”
“Sergeant Dolan.”
“Why haven’t we seen them before?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” Washington said.
“Try me.”
“Sergeant Dolan does not like the FBI.”
“So what? I’m not all that in love with them myself,” Wohl said.
“So he decided to zing them,” Washington said.
“What does that mean?”
“He wanted to make them squirm, to let them know that their surveillance was not as discreet as they like to think it is.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“He sent the FBI office pictures of themselves at work,” Washington said. “In a plain brown envelope.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s childish!” Wohl said disgustedly.
“I would tend to agree,” Washington said.
“Didn’t he know Homicide would want to talk to these guys?” Wohl asked, and then, before there could be a reply, he thought of something else: “And the goddamn FBI! They must have known what went down. Why didn’t they come forward?”
“Far be it from me to cast aspersions on our federal cousins,” Washington said dryly, “but it has sometimes been alleged that the FBI doesn’t like to waste its time dealing with the local authorities—unless, of course, they can steal the arrest and get their pictures in the newspapers.”
“I’ll be a son of a bitch!” Wohl said furiously.
“Can I say something to you as a friend, Inspector?” Washington asked.
“Sure,” Wohl said. “I just can’t believe this shit! God damn those arrogant bastards! DeZego was murdered! Assassinated! And the fucking FBI can’t be bothered with it!”
“Peter, go by the book,” Washington said.
“Meaning?”
“There is a departmental regulation that says any contact with federal agencies will be conducted through the Office of Extradepartmental Affairs. There’s a captain in the Roundhouse—”
“Duffy,” Wohl said. “Jack Duffy.”
“Right. Go through Duffy!”
Wohl looked at Washington for a long moment, his jaws working.
“When you’re angry, Peter,” Washington said, “you really give the word a whole new meaning. You get angry. And you stay angry.”
A faint smile appeared on Wohl’s face.
“You remember, huh, Jason?”
“I’m one of the few people who knows that it’s not true you have never lost your temper,” Washington said.
“Now Sherlock Holmes knows too,” Wohl said, nodding at Matt Payne. “He tell you about the pimp?”
“No.”
“What pimp?” Matt asked.
“That’s right,” Wohl said. “You don’t know, either, do you?”
“No, sir.”
Wohl related the whole sequence of events leading up to the death of Marvin Lanier.
“So what I think you should do, Jason,” he concluded, “is get on the radio and get in touch with Tony Harris, and see what, if anything, they—he and D’Amata—have come up with. And then tell Tony I saw the mayor this morning, and he wants the Magnella shooting solved. I wish he’d get back on that.”
“You saw the mayor? I saw your car at City Hall.”
“Just a friendly little chat, to assure me of his absolute faith in me,” Wohl said dryly.
“Yes, sir,” Washington said. “You want me to take Payne with me? Or have you got something for him to do?”
Wohl gathered the photographs together, stacked them neatly, and put them back in the envelope. “Payne, you go out to Bustleton and Bowler, driving slowly and carefully, obeying all the speed limits. When you get there, telephone Captain John J. Duffy at the Roundhouse and tell him that I would be grateful for an appointment at his earliest convenience.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then contact me and tell me when Captain Duffy will be able to see me.”
“Where will you be, Inspector?”
“Around,” Wohl said. “Around.”
“Come on, Peter!” Washington said.
“You made your point, Jason. Leave it,” Wohl said. He bumped hips with Matt, signaling he wanted to get up, then picked up the envelope with the photographs. When Matt was standing in the aisle, Wohl dropped money on the table and started to walk away. Then he turned. “Good job, Jason, coming up with the photographs. Thank you.”
“Just don’t do something with them that will make me regret it,” Washington said.
“I told you to leave it, Jason!” Wohl said, icily furious. Then he walked out of the Oak Lane Diner and got in his car. Neither Jason Washington nor Matt Payne was surprised to see him head back downtown rather than toward Bustleton and Bowler. The Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was downtown.
“Until a moment ago,” Washington said, “there was an element of humor in this. Now it’s not at all funny.”
“So he tells the FBI what he thinks of them. So what?”
Washington looked at him, as if surprised that Matt could ask such a stupid question.
“I really don’t understand,” Matt said.
“The FBI doesn’t like criticism,” he explained. “Especially in a case like this, where it’s justified. So instead of admitting they acted like horses’ asses, they will come up with a good reason why they didn’t happen to mention to us that they had men on DeZego. ‘A continuing investigation’ is one phrase they use; ‘classified national security matters’ is another one. And they go to Commissioner Czernich and say, ‘We thought we had an agreement that whenever one of your people wants something from us, he would go through Captain Duffy’s Office of Extradepartmental Affairs. Your man Wohl was just in here making all kinds of wild accusations and behaving in a most unprofessional manner.’”
“But they were wrong,” Matt protested.
“We don’t like to admit it, but we need the FBI, use it a lot. The NCIC is an FBI operation. They have the best forensic laboratories in the world. They sometimes tip us off to things. They pass out spaces at the FBI Academy. You get an FBI expert to testify in court, the jury believes him if he announces the moon is made of green cheese. The bottom line is that we need them as much, maybe more, than they need us. For another example, the FBI was ‘consulted’ before we got the federal grant to set up Special Operations. If they had said—even suggested—that we wouldn’t use the money wisely, we wouldn’t have gotten it. So we try to maintain the best possible relationship with the FBI.”
“And Wohl doesn’t know that?”
“Wohl’s angry. He has every right to be. He doesn’t get that way very often, but when he does—”
“Shit,” Matt said.
“Let’s just hope he cools off a little before he storms through the door and tells the SAC what he thinks of him and the other assholes,” Washington said.
“The what?”
“SAC, special agent in charge,” Washington explained, translating. “There are also AACs, three of them, which stands for assistant agent in charge. But as pissed as Peter is, he’s going to see the head man, not one of the underlings.”
He slid off the seat and stood up.
“If you hear anything, let me know, and vice versa,” he said.
“If that goddamn Do
lan hadn’t gotten clever—”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Washington said. “I think one of the reasons Peter Wohl is so angry is that he knows that if he had a chance to take pictures of a couple of FBI clowns on a surveillance, he would have mailed them to their office too. I’ve pulled their chain once or twice myself. There’s something in their anointed-by-the-Almighty demeanor that brings that sort of thing out in most cops.”
He smiled at Matt and then walked out of the diner. Matt got in the Porsche and turned right onto North Broad Street. A minute or two later he glanced at the passenger seat and saw that he still had the two envelopes with duplicate sets of photographs Washington had given him in City Hall.
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 terminated the 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 mentioned en 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 telling 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.”
The Victim Page 32