The Murderers

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I reluctantly grant the point,” Peter said.

  “On the other hand, for the sake of friendly argument, if Captain Cazerra were to plead guilty and throw himself upon the mercy of the court because he became aware that Mr. Cassandro’s public-spirited testimony was going to see him convicted…”

  Or if the mob struck a deal with him, Peter thought. “Take the fall and we’ll take care of your family.” Which is not such an unlikely idea. I wonder why it’s so important that they keep Paulo out of jail. Has he moved up in the mob hierarchy? I’ll pass this on to Intelligence and Organized Crime, anyway.

  “…there would only be, on one day only,” Giacomo went on, “a short story, buried in the back pages, that a dishonest policeman had admitted his guilt and had been sentenced. There are people who are wise in public relations, and I would include our beloved mayor among them, who would think that alternative would be preferable to a long and sordid public trial.”

  I’m agreeing with him again, which means that I am getting in over my head. I am now going to swim for shore before I drown.

  “Before we go in for lunch, Armando, and apropos of nothing whatever, I would suggest that if Mr. Cassandro wants any kind of consideration at all from anybody you know, he’s going to have to come up with more than a possible solution to a public relations problem.”

  “I understand, Peter,” Armando said smoothly. “Such as what?”

  “You’ve heard about the murder of Officer Jerry Kellog?” Wohl asked.

  Giacomo nodded. “Tragic. Shot down in cold blood in his own house, according to the Ledger.”

  “The Ledger also implied that a Homicide detective was involved,” Wohl said. “My bet is that it’s related to Narcotics. I would be grateful for any information that would lead the Department down that path.”

  “And then there’s the double murder at the Inferno Lounge,” Weisbach said. “Some people think that looks like a contract hit. I think the Department might be grateful for information that would help them there.”

  From the look on his face, Peter Wohl thought, he thinks there is a mob connection.

  Confirmation came immediately.

  “Those people, and you two know this as well as I do, have a code of honor…”

  “Call it a code, if you like, but the word ‘honor’ is inappropriate,” Peter said.

  “Whatever you want to call it, turning in one of their own violates it,” Giacomo said.

  “They also don’t fool around with each other’s wives, either, do they?” Weisbach said. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they give a percentage of their earnings from prostitution and drugs to worthy causes and the church. Despite what you may have heard, they’re really not bad people, are they, Armando?”

  Giacomo looked very uncomfortable.

  “A top-level decision would have to be made,” Peter interrupted. “Who goes to jail? Who is more valuable? Paulo Cassandro or a hit man? Who goes directly to jail without passing ‘go’?”

  What the hell am I doing? Bargaining with the mob? Making a deal to have the mob do something the Police Department should be doing itself? Cassandro bribed some dirty cops. We caught them. They should all go to jail, not just the cops. Paulo Cassandro should not walk because it will increase Jerry Carlucci’s chances of getting re-elected.

  Wohl stood up.

  “Is something wrong?” Giacomo asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to eat lunch,” he said. “And I know I have enough of this conversation.”

  Weisbach stood up. Giacomo looked up at them, and then stood up himself.

  “I thank you for your indulgence,” he said. “I would be deeply pained if this conversation affected our friendship.”

  Oddly enough, I believe him. Which probably proves I was right about getting in over my head.

  “Please, let’s not let this ruin a lunch with friends. Come and break bread with me, please,” Giacomo said.

  Wohl didn’t reply for a moment.

  “I was about to say, only if I can pay. But I can’t pay in here, can I?”

  “No. And it is an expulsable offense for a member to let a guest reimburse him. If that’s important to you, Peter, would you like to go somewhere else?”

  Wohl met his eyes for a moment.

  “No,” he said finally. “I think we understand each other, Armando. We can eat here.”

  South Rittenhouse Square—on the south side of Rittenhouse Square in Center City Philadelphia—is no wider than it was when it was laid out at the time of the American Revolution. There are a half-dozen NO PARKING AT ANY TIME—TOW AWAY ZONE signs, warning citizens that if they park there at any time, it is virtually certain that to reclaim their car, it will be necessary for them to somehow make their way halfway across Philadelphia to the Parking Authority impoundment lot at Delaware Avenue and Spring Garden Street and there both pay a hefty fine for illegal parking and generously compensate the City of Brotherly Love for the services of the Parking Authority tow truck that hauled their car away.Despite this, when Amelia Payne, M.D., drove past the building housing the Delaware Valley Cancer Society, there were seven automobiles parked in front of it, all of them with their right-side wheels on the sidewalk. There was a new Oldsmobile sedan, a battered Volkswagen, a ten-year-old, gleaming Jaguar XK 120, a new Mercedes convertible, a new Buick sedan, and two new sedans, a Ford and a Chevrolet.

  There’s not even room enough for me, Dr. Payne thought somewhat indignantly. Like most of her fellow practitioners of the healing arts, she was in the habit of interpreting rather loosely the privilege granted to physicians of ignoring NO PARKING AT ANY TIME signs when making emergency calls.

  And she had intended to do so now, by placing her official PHYSICIAN MAKING CALL card on the dashboard of the Buick station wagon, because the basement garage of the Cancer Society Building, to which she had access, had a very narrow entrance passage that she had difficulty negotiating.

  She continued past the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, noticing with annoyance the beat cop on the corner, his arms folded on his chest, calmly surveying his domain and oblivious to the multiple violations of parking laws.

  Professional courtesy, she thought. Damn the cops!

  She had recognized four of the cars—the Oldsmobile, the Volkswagen, the Jaguar, and the Mercedes—as belonging respectively to Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Detective Charles McFadden, Inspector Peter Wohl, and Captain David Pekach, and had drawn, as the cop obviously had, the natural and correct conclusion that the rest of the cars were also the official or personal automobiles of other policemen (or in the case of Pekach, belonged to his fiancée, Miss Martha Peebles, which was just about the same thing) who regarded parking regulations as applying only to civilians.

  She drove to South Nineteenth Street, where she turned right, and then made the next right, and ultimately reached the entrance of the underground garage, which, surprising her not at all, she failed to maneuver through unscathed. This time she scraped the right fender against a wall.

  This served to further lower her morale. In addition to the early-morning horror at the Detweilers’, she had just come from University Hospital, where a patient of hers, an attractive young woman whom she had originally diagnosed as suffering from routine postpartum depression, was manifesting symptoms of more serious mental illness that Amy simply could not fathom, nor could anyone else she had consulted.

  She was not surprised, either, to find both of the reserved parking places she intended to use already occupied. One of them held a silver Porsche 911, and the other a Buick wagon identical to hers, save it was two years younger and unscratched and undented.

  The Buick belonged to her father, who could be expected to offer some clever witticism about the dents in her Buick, and the Porsche to her brother. The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building was owned by her father, and her brother occupied a tiny apartment in what had been the garret before the 1850s building had been gutted and converted into offices
behind the original facade.

  She parked the Buick—neatly straddling a marking line between spaces—and got out of the car. The elevator did not respond to her summons, and only after a while did she remember that it was late—she consulted her watch and saw that it was well after midnight—and remembered that at this hour, the elevator was locked. It would be necessary to call Matt’s apartment by telephone, whereupon he could push a button activating the elevator.

  And he took his damned sweet time answering the telephone, and when he did, it wasn’t him, but a clipped, metallic voice she did not at first recognize.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Dr. Payne. Would you please push the elevator button?”

  There was the sound of male laughter in the background.

  “Just a moment, darlin’,” the voice said. “I’ll ask Matty how to work it.”

  She now recognized the voice to be that of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. Normally, she did not mind his addressing her as “darlin’,” but now it annoyed her.

  The line went dead, and she stood there for a full minute, waiting for the sound of a buzzer, or whatever, which would bring the elevator to life. It gave her time to consider that what was going on upstairs was really an Irish wake, the males of the clan gathering to console one of their number who had suffered a loss.

  She reached for the telephone again, then changed her mind and pushed the elevator button again. This time she was rewarded with the sound of the elevator moving.

  It took her to the third floor. A closed door led to the narrow flight of stairs to Matt’s apartment. She pushed the button, and in a moment, a solenoid buzzed and she was able to push the door open.

  She was greeted again with the sound of male laughter, which for some reason annoyed her, although another part of her mind said that it was probably therapeutic.

  She walked up the stairs.

  The tiny apartment was jammed. In the living room, she saw Martha Peebles sitting on a small couch with Mary-Margaret McCarthy—Detective Charley McFadden’s girlfriend—and a tall young man she recognized as Matt’s friend Jack Matthews, an FBI agent. The small table in front of the couch was covered with jackets. It was hot in the apartment, and most of the men had taken off their jackets and pulled down their ties and rolled up their sleeves.

  Which also served to reveal that most of them were armed. There were shoulder holsters and waist holsters, most of them carrying snub-nosed .38-caliber revolvers.

  The tribal insignia, Amy thought, like that little purse or whatever Scots wear hanging down over their kilts.

  Matt’s two small armchairs held Captain David Pekach and Lieutenant Jack Malone, having what seemed to be a serious conversation; they didn’t look at her.

  Martha Peebles smiled and stood up when she saw her, and stepped over Mary-Margaret McCarthy and the FBI agent to come to her. Mary-Margaret and the FBI agent smiled at her.

  “How’s Grace?” Martha Peebles asked softly as she put her cheek next to Amy’s.

  “I stopped off earlier and gave her something to help her sleep,” Amy said.

  “How terrible for her!”

  Amy nodded.

  A large arm gently draped itself around Amy’s shoulders. She looked up into the face of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin.

  “I checked with the Medical Examiner,” he said softly. “He released the body at noon. Kirk and Nice picked it up at half past twelve.”

  “I know, Uncle Denny,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She looked around for Matt. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator, holding a can of beer. He didn’t seem drunk, which could or could not be a good thing. There was no sign that he was armed, but Amy knew better. Matt carried his .38 snub-nose in an ankle holster.

  “It was the right way to go, darlin’,” Coughlin said. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “I always trust you, Uncle Denny,” she said sincerely, and with a smile.

  He squeezed her shoulder.

  “Uncle Denny, I think it might be a good idea to get all these people out of here.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, darlin’.”

  “Getting him to take it might be a problem, but I’ll try to give him something to help him sleep.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Coughlin said, and raised his voice. “David? See you a minute?”

  Amy walked into the kitchen. Sitting at the small table, which was covered with whiskey bottles, empty cans, and the remnants of a take-out Chinese buffet were Inspector Peter Wohl, his father, Chief Inspector August Wohl (Retired), Captain Mike Sabara, Detective Charley McFadden, and her father.

  “I agree with McFadden,” Amy heard Chief Wohl say. “If he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four, or something, I’d say he walked in on a burglar, but two bullets in the back of the head? That makes it a hit.”

  Detective McFadden beamed to have the Chief agree with him.

  Amy walked up to her brother, and resisted the temptation to kiss him. He looked desolate.

  “How’re you doing, Sherlock?”

  He nodded and raised his beer can.

  “OK. You want a beer?”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think I would. Thank you.”

  “The beer’s been gone for an hour,” Peter Wohl said. “We can call and get some. Or would you like something stronger?”

  “Hello, Peter,” Amy said. “How are you?”

  “Long time no see,” he said evenly.

  “There’s scotch, bourbon, and gin, honey,” Brewster C. Payne said. “And Irish.”

  “Yes, of course, Irish,” Amy said. “An Irish, please. A short one, over the rocks. And then I think we should call off the wake.”

  Her father nodded and stood up to make the drink.

  “Have you been out to Chestnut Hill?” he asked.

  “Not since I saw you there. I gave Grace something to help her sleep, and I called a while ago and Violet said she’d gone to bed. I was tied up at the hospital.”

  “I left when Dick went to sleep,” her father said.

  In other words, passed out, Amy thought. He was three-quarters drunk when I left there.

  “I’ll go out there first thing in the morning,” Amy said, and then turned to her brother. “I asked you how you’re doing?”

  He shrugged.

  “What a goddamned waste,” he said.

  “I want a minute with you alone when everybody’s gone,” she said.

  “None of your goddamned pills, Amy.”

  “I’m trying to help,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Your beer must be warm.”

  “Is that a prescription? Booze in lieu of happy pills?”

  “It might help you sleep.”

  He met her eyes for a moment.

  “Dad, could you make two of those, please?” he called.

  Their father turned to look over his shoulder at her. She nodded, just perceptibly, and he reached for another glass.

  “Charley,” Mary-Margaret McCarthy called, “we’re going.”

  There was a tone of command in her voice. She was a nurse, an R.N. who had gone back to school to get a degree, and was, she had once confided in Amy, thinking about going for an M.D.

  McFadden immediately stood up.

  Matt needs somebody like that, Amy thought. A strong-willed young woman as smart as he is. He didn’t need Penny.

  God, what a terrible thing to even think!

  “We’re going too,” Martha Peebles announced. She already had her David—whom she usually called, to his intense embarrassment, “Precious”—in tow.

  One by one, the men filed into the kitchen and shook Matt’s hand.

  “Circumstances aside, it was good to see you, Amy,” Peter Wohl said, and offered her his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He was almost at the top of the stairs when she went quickly after him.

  “Peter, wait a moment,”
she called, and he stopped. “I’d like to talk to you,” Amy said.

  “Sure. When? Will it wait until morning?”

  “I won’t be with Matt more than a minute,” she said.

  “OK,” he said with what she interpreted as reluctance, and then went down the stairs.

  Her father touched her shoulder.

  “You’re the doctor. Is there anything I should be doing for Matt?”

  “Just what you are doing,” she said.

  “Should I go out to Chestnut Hill in the morning, or is it better…”

  “He’s your friend, Dad,” Amy said. “You’ll have to decide.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Finally, after a final hug from Denny Coughlin, Amy was alone with Matt.

  He met her eyes, waiting for whatever she had to say.

  “This was not your fault, Matt. She had a chemical addiction—”

  “She was a junkie.”

  “—which she was unable to manage.”

  “And I wasn’t a hell of a lot of help, was I?”

  “What happened is not your fault, Matt.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “The best thing you can do—an emotional trauma like this is exhausting—is to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “And things will seem better in the morning, right?”

  “I’ve got something to give you…”

  “No, thank you.”

  “…a mild sedative.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not climbing the walls, or hysterical, or…”

  “It’s inside, Matt, it’s a pain. It will have to come out. The better shape you’re in when it does, the better. That’s why you need to sleep.”

  “You are your father’s daughter, aren’t you? You never know when to take no for an answer.”

  “OK. But people, even tough guys like you, have been known to change their minds. I’ll leave the pills.”

  “Take two and call me in the morning?” Matt asked, now smiling.

  “If you take two, you won’t be able to use a telephone in the morning. One, Matt, with water, preferably not on an empty stomach.”