The Murderers

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Are you asking me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s Washington’s role going to be in Ethical Affairs?”

  “I have been ordered to give Weisbach whatever support he needs. So far as I’m concerned, that means he gets the Special Operations Investigation Section, which means he gets Washington.”

  “Why don’t you leave it that way? Let Washington run that down independently of Homicide? If he’s investigating corruption, and comes across something that looks like the Kellog homicide, he can pass it along.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “And I will have a word with Henry Quaire and suggest that he have Wally Milham run down this—what was the name?—Frankie Foley lead. Assisted by Detective Payne.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “I think there may be something to it. Gut feeling.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I just told you: gut feeling. Write this down, Peter: When you don’t have a clue, go with your gut feeling.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” Wohl said, smiling.

  “And I would like Milham to come up with something, to prove to Carlucci that a detective can have a very active sex life and still be a good detective.”

  “I’ve known that all along,” Wohl said.

  “I’ll bet you have.” Lowenstein laughed. “I think that when we finally get the true story of Mr. Atchison’s recent tragedy, it will turn out that money was involved. Insurance on the wife, maybe. Business problems with the partner. If that’s so, that means he would not have the dough to hire a professional hit man. And the mob only does that sort of thing for adequate compensation. And I don’t think they’d be interested in doing a contract hit for somebody like Atchison in the first place.”

  Wohl nodded his head in agreement.

  “And following that lead will be instructional for Payne,” Lowenstein went on. “He will learn that most homicides are solved wearing out shoe leather, not by brilliant reasoning. Or, in this case, by an anonymous tip that takes a hell of a lot of legwork to come up with what’s necessary to make it stand up in court.”

  “Who do you think did Officer Kellog?”

  “If I had to bet, I’d bet on Washington’s gut feeling. He thinks the widow’s telling the truth. I hope to hell the Narcotics Five Squad is not involved, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there was a Narcotics connection.”

  “Neither would I,” Wohl said, somewhat sadly.

  He looked at his drink. It was empty. He idly moved the glass so that ice cubes spun inside.

  “Another, Peter?” Lowenstein asked.

  “I shouldn’t, but I will,” Wohl said, and held up the glass to attract the bartender.

  When he was to think about it afterward, with more than a little chagrin, Matt Payne realized that if he hadn’t been three quarters of the way into the bag, he never would have gone to Homicide at all that night.At the time, he hadn’t been thinking too clearly. The only thing he had been sure about was that he hadn’t wanted one of Amy’s pills. Pretending to swallow it while she watched was easier than arguing with her about it.

  What he would do, he originally thought, was have a couple of drinks, enough to make him sleepy, and then fall in bed.

  But by the third Famous Grouse, he thought that maybe it would be a good idea to go to the Fraternal Order of Police bar. By the fifth drink, it seemed to be a splendid idea. So he went down and got in the Porsche.

  By the time he got to Broad and Market, going to the FOP bar seemed less a splendid idea. Everybody in the place would have heard about Penny; everybody he knew would be offering sympathy, and he didn’t want that.

  He drove around City Hall, and headed down South Broad Street, headed for Charley McFadden’s house. Charley was working days, he would get him out of bed, and they would have a couple of drinks someplace.

  Five blocks down South Broad, he realized that would also be a bad idea, an imposition. Charley would, out of pity, get out of bed and be a good guy. Not fair to Charley.

  Dropping in on Peter Wohl was similarly a bad idea. For one thing, Peter lived way the hell out in Chestnut Hill. More importantly, he might have—probably did have—company, spelled A-m-y, and not only would he be an unwelcome guest, but they would correctly surmise that he had not swallowed Amy’s pill.

  And then he thought of Wally Milham. Milham was working midnight to eight. And Milham’s personal life was nearly as fucked up as his own. The Mayor had gotten up on a moral high horse at Martha Peebles’ party because Milham had gotten involved with his wife’s sister, and, worse, was using this as a basis to suspect that Milham was somehow involved in the Kellog shooting.

  Milham, Matt reasoned, would not only be up and awake, but might welcome some company.

  Matt made an illegal U-turn on South Broad Street and headed for the Roundhouse.

  Matt had been to Homicide often enough to know how to get past the wooden barrier. There was a little button on the inside of the barrier, which activated the solenoid that opened the gate.

  There were half a dozen detectives in the room, one of whom looked up, registering surprise, when he saw Matt. And then he gestured with his finger across the room to where Wally Milham sat at a desk before a typewriter.

  Matt walked over to him. It was a moment before Milham became aware that he was standing there.

  “Well, I expected you, but not so soon,” Wally Milham said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Milham pushed a memorandum across his desk. Matt picked it up.

  * * *

  CITY OF PHILADELPHIA

  MEMORANDUMTO: SERGEANT ZACHARY HOBBS

  FROM: COMMANDING OFFICER, HOMICIDE UNIT

  SUBJECT: INFORMANT’S TIP

  1. We have an informant’s tip on the Inferno job concerning an individual named Frank, or Frankie, Foley. The informant, whose information in the past has been reliable, identifies this subject as a “mob-connected hit man.”

  2. Neither Records, Intelligence or Organized Crime has anything on him.

  3. Assign Detective Milham to investigate this lead, instructing him to continue his investigation, making daily reports to you, until such time as further information is developed, or until he is convinced there is nothing to it.

  Detective Payne, of Special Operations, will be working in the Homicide Unit for an indefinite period. When he reports for duty, assign him to assist Detective Milham.

  Henry C. Quaire

  Captain

  cc: Chief Inspector Lowenstein

  82-S-1AE (Rev. 3/59) RESPONSE TO THIS MEMORANDUM MAY

  BE MADE HEREON IN LONGHAND

  * * *

  “I didn’t expect you for a couple of days,” Milham said. “I heard about…I thought the funeral was today.”“It was,” Matt said.

  Milham looked at Matt intently for a moment, then suddenly stood up. He took his coat from the back of the chair he had been sitting on and shrugged into it.

  “Come on, Payne,” he said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out,” Milham said, and gestured toward the door.

  “You drive over here?” Milham asked when they came out of the back door of the Roundhouse.“Yeah.”

  “Where’d you park?” Milham asked.

  Matt pointed at the Porsche.

  “Nice wheels,” Milham said. “Leave it, we’ll pick it up later.”

  “Whatever you say,” Matt replied.

  They got in Milham’s unmarked three-year-old Ford, left the parking lot, went south on Eighth Street, crossed Market and turned right on Walnut Street to South Broad, and then left.

  “How much have you had to drink?” Milham asked.

  “I had a couple.”

  “More than a couple, to judge from the smell,” Milham said. “That wasn’t really smart, Payne.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I mean coming into Homicide shitfaced,” Milham said. “Lucky for you, Hobbs and Natali went out on a job—a stabb
ing, two Schwartzers fighting over a tootsie in the East Falls project—and Logan, who was on the desk, either didn’t smell you or didn’t want to. It could have gone the other way. If it had, Lowenstein would have heard first thing in the morning that you showed up drunk. I get the feeling he would love to tell that to the Mayor.”

  “Oh, shit!” Matt said.

  “I think you were lucky, so forget it. But don’t do it again.”

  “Sorry,” Matt said.

  “We’re going to a bar called Meagan’s,” Milham said, changing the subject somewhat, “where you are going to have either coffee or a Coke.”

  Milham handed Matt a clipboard, then turned on the large, specially installed light mounted on the headliner. Matt saw that the clipboard held a pad of lined paper and a Xerox of a page from the telephone book. On closer examination, there were two Xerox pages. There was also a pencil-written list of what looked like bars.

  “There are ninety-seven Foleys in the phone book,” Milham said. “We may have to check every one of them out. Just because there’s no Frank or Francis listed doesn’t mean there’s nobody at that address named Frank or Francis. In the morning, I’ll check driver’s licenses in Harrisburg, and see if they have a Frank or Francis matching one of these addresses. Right now, I’m working on a hunch.”

  “What kind of a hunch?”

  “A hunch hunch. There are eleven Foleys in the phone book in a six-block area in South Philly. There are twelve bars in that six-block area. A couple of them will probably still be open. One—Meagan’s—I know stays open late. We will ask, ‘Is this the place where Ol’ Frankie Foley drinks?’”

  “What about this tip? Where did it come from? Is it any good?”

  “We are probably on a wild-goose chase, but you never know until you know. As to where it came from, I don’t know. Not from someone inside Homicide. Who knows? Lowenstein thinks it’s worth checking out, that’s all that matters.”

  Meagan’s Bar, on Jackson Street, turned out to be an ordinary neighborhood bar. There were half a dozen customers, two of them middle-aged women, sitting at the bar, each with a beer in front of them. There was a jukebox, but no one had fed it coins. A television, with a flickering picture, was showing a man and a peroxide blonde in an apron demonstrating a kitchen device guaranteed to make life in the kitchen a genuine joy.The bartender, a heavyset man in his fifties, hoisted himself with visible reluctance from his stool by the cash register and walked to them, putting both hands on the bar and wordlessly asking for their order.

  “Ortleib’s,” Milham ordered.

  “I think I better have coffee,” Matt said.

  “No coffee,” the bartender said.

  “One more, and then I’ll drive you home,” Milham said.

  “What the hell,” Matt said. “Why not?”

  When the bartender served the beer, Milham laid a five-dollar bill on the bar.

  “Where are we?” he asked the bartender.

  “What do you mean, where are you? This place is called Meagan’s.”

  “I mean where, where. What is this, Jackson Street?”

  “Jackson and Mole streets.”

  “Doesn’t Frank Foley live around here?”

  “Frank who?”

  “Frankie Foley. My cousin. I thought he lived right around here, on South Mole Street.”

  “Short fat guy? Works for Strawbridge’s?”

  “No. Ordinary-sized. Maybe a little bigger. And I thought he worked for Wanamaker’s.”

  “Right. Yeah. He comes in here every once in a while.”

  “He been in tonight?”

  “Haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “Yeah, well, what the hell. Listen, if he does come in, tell him his cousin Marty, from Conshohocken, said hi, will you?”

  “Yeah, if I see him, I’ll do that.”

  “I’d be obliged.”

  “You’re a long way from Conshohocken.”

  “Went to a wake. Jack O’Neill. May he rest in peace.”

  “Didn’t know him.”

  “He retired from Budd Company.”

  “Didn’t know him,” the bartender said, made change, and went back to his stool.

  Milham looked at Matt and raised his beer glass.

  “Good ol’ Jack,” he said.

  “May he rest in peace,” Matt said.

  “I think he made me,” Milham said when they were back in his car. “He was being cute with that ‘short fat guy?’ line. And I got lucky when I said Wanamaker’s. I’ll bet when we finally find Mr. Foley, he will work in Wanamaker’s, and now we know he lives around here. It may not be our Frankie, but you never can tell. Sometimes you get lucky.”“If he made you,” Matt said, “and was cute, he’s going to tell this guy somebody, a cop, was looking for him.”

  “Good. If it is our Frankie, it will make him nervous. Unless he’s got a cousin from Conshohocken. Give me the clipboard.”

  Milham switched on the light, consulted the Xerox pages of the telephone book, and drew a circle around the name “Foley, Mary” of 2320 South Eighteenth Street.

  “Maybe he lives with his mother,” Milham said, handing the clipboard back to Matt. He switched off the overhead light and started the engine.

  They drove to South Eighteenth Street, and drove slowly by 2320. It was a typical row house, in the center of the block. There were no lights on.They visited three more bars. Two of them had coffee. None of their bartenders had ever heard of Frank, or Frankie, Foley.

  “I don’t know what to do with you,” Milham said. “On one hand, you still smell like a brewery. On the other hand, so do I. You want to take a chance on going back to the Roundhouse with me, to see what everybody else has come up with?”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Matt said, chagrined.

  “What the hell, we have to get your car anyway,” Milham said. “Just try not to breathe on anybody.”

  “Sergeant, this is Detective Payne,” Milham said. “Payne, this is Sergeant Zachary Hobbs.”Hobbs offered his hand, and looked at Matt closely.

  “We didn’t expect you for a couple of days,” he said.

  “You weren’t here,” Milham replied for him, “when he came in. Your memo was in my box, so I took him with me.”

  “You find this Foley guy?”

  “I think we know where he lives, and that he works for Wanamaker’s.”

  “The bartender at the Inferno says there was a guy named Foley in there that night,” Hobbs said. “That’s in your box, too.”

  Milham nodded.

  “Payne, Captain Quaire knows about your, uh, personal problem. You don’t have to come to work, is what I’m saying, until you feel up to it,” Hobbs said.

  “I think I’d rather work than not,” Matt said. “But thank you.”

  “You need anything, you let me know. Did Wally show you the memo?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “OK. You work with Wally.”

  Matt nodded.

  “I think you’d better see Lieutenant Natali,” Hobbs said. “Let him know you’re here.” He gestured across the room. Matt saw Lieutenant Natali in a small office.

  Jesus, I hope he’s got a cold or something, and can’t smell the booze.

  He had met Lieutenant Natali once before. The circumstances flooded his mind.

  He had been escorting Miss Amanda Spencer to a prewedding dinner honoring Miss Daphne Soames Brown and Mr. Chadwick Thomas Nesbitt IV, at the Union League Club.

  No wonder Amanda said I hadn’t seen her at Martha Peebles’s party; she hadn’t wanted me to. I’m trouble, dangerous. If I were her, I wouldn’t have wanted to see me either.

  When he had pulled the Porsche onto the top floor of the Penn Center Parking Garage, there had been a body lying in a pool of blood, that of a second-rate gangster named Tony the Zee Dezito, who had been taken out with a shotgun blast in what was almost certainly a contract hit by party or parties unknown for reasons unknown.

  Nearby was Miss Penelope Detweiler
, a lifelong acquaintance, also lying in a pool of blood. Matt’s original conclusion that Penny, like him and Amanda en route to Daffy and Chad’s party, was an innocent bystander was soon corrected by the facts. She had been in the parking garage to meet Tony the Zee, with whom she was having an affair.

  And almost certainly, I know now, to get something from him to stick in her arm, or sniff up her nose. It was that goddamn Dezito who gave Penny her habit.

  Narcotics had had a tail on Tony the Zee, and when Matt had gone to Homicide to give them a statement, a Narcotics sergeant, an asshole named Dolan, and another Narcotics asshole had been waiting for him there. They had taken him into the interview room, sat him down in the steel captain’s chair with the handcuffs, and as much as accused him of being involved with either Tony the Zee or Narcotics, or both. And then taken him to Narcotics, if not under arrest, then the next thing to it, to continue the interrogation and to search the Porsche.

  Lieutenant Natali had been the tour lieutenant in Homicide that night, hadn’t liked what he had seen, and had called Peter Wohl. Wohl had come to Narcotics like the Cavalry to the rescue and gotten him out.

  Natali had bent, if not regulations, then departmental protocol, and thus stuck his neck out, by calling Peter Wohl. He was therefore, by definition, a proven good guy.

  Matt walked to the office and stood in the door until Natali looked up and waved him inside. He stood up and put out his hand.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Payne,” he said. “I, uh, heard what happened. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Matt said.

  It was evident on Natali’s face that he, too, was recalling the circumstances of their first meeting.

  “I thought I would rather work than sit around.”