"Have you any particular lady in mind?"
"I asked Vice"-he paused and chuckled-"to round up the usual suspects. Actually for a list of girls who worked for him, or did."
Wohl chuckled and then asked, "Whose gun?"
"We don't have that yet," D'Amata said. "Those are in-teresting questions you're asking, Inspector."
"Just letting my mind wander," Wohl said. "Try this one: Can you think of any reason that Mr. Lanier's name would be known to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese?"
"Jesus!" D'Amata said. "Was it?"
"Let your mind wander," Wohl said.
"He could have owed the mob some money," D'Amata said. "He liked to pass himself off as a gambler. The mob likes to get paid."
"That would get him a broken leg, not five well-placed shots, and from someone with whom Mr. Savarese would be only faintly acquainted," Wohl said.
"Yeah," D'Amata said thoughtfully.
"What would that leave? Drugs?" Wohl asked.
There was not time for D'Amata to consider that, much less offer an answer. Pekach came back in the office.
"There's nothing in the records about a Highway car being anywhere near 48th and Haverford last night," he said.
"You sure?" D'Amata challenged, surprised.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Pekach said sharply. "Are you?"
"Captain," D'Amata said, "I got the same story from four different people. There was a Highway car there."
There was a knock at the door.
"Not now!" Wohl called.
There came another knock.
"Open the door, Dave," Wohl said coldly.
Pekach opened the door.
Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden stood there, looking more than a little uncomfortable.
"Didn't you hear me say not now?" Wohl said. "How many times do I have to-"
"Inspector," Charley McFadden blurted, "we heard Cap-tain Pekach asking-"
"Goddammit, we're busy," Pekach flared. "The Inspector said not now. And whatever's on your mind, go through your sergeant!"
"That was us," Charley said. "At 48th and Haverford. With Marvin Lanier." He looked at Pekach. "That's what we wanted to see you about, Captain."
"Officer McFadden," Wohl said, "please come in, and bring Officer Martinez with you."
They came into the office.
"You have heard, I gather, that Mr. Lanier was shot to death last night?" Wohl asked.
"Just now, sir," Hay-zus said.
"Before we get started, this is Detective D'Amata of Homicide," Wohl said. "Joe, these two are Jesus Martinez and Charley McFadden, who before they became probation-ary Highway Patrolmen worked for Captain Pekach when they were all in Narcotics."
"I know who they are," D'Amata said.
"What is your connection with Mr. Lanier?" Wohl asked.
Charley McFadden looked at Hay-zus, then at Wohl, then at Pekach.
"What we wanted to tell Captain Pekach was that Marvin told us another guinea shot Tony the Zee," he blurted.
"Fascinating," Wohl said.
"What I want to know is what you were doing with Lanier when you were supposed to be patrolling the Schuylkill Ex-pressway," Captain Pekach said.
"Isn't that fairly obvious, Dave?" Wohl said sarcastically. "Officers McFadden and Martinez decided that since no one else has any idea who shot Mr. DeZego and Miss Detweiler, it was clearly their duty to solve those crimes themselves, even if that meant leaving their assigned patrol area, which we, not having the proper respect for their ability as super-cops-they are, after all, former undercover Narcs-had so foolishly given them."
I said that, he thought, because I'm pissed at what they did and wanted to both let them know I'm pissed, and to humiliate them. Having done that, I now realize that I am very likely to be humiliated myself. I have a gut feeling these two are at least going to be part of the solution.
"I used to be a Homicide detective," Wohl said. "Let me see if I still remember how. McFadden-first of all, what was your relationship to Marvin Lanier?"
"He was one of our snitches. When we were in Narcot-ics."
"Then I think we'll start with that," Wohl said. "Let me begin this by telling you I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Leave nothing out. You are already so deeply in trouble that nothing you admit can get you in any deeper. You understand that?"
The two mumbled "Yes, sir."
"Okay. Martinez, tell me how you turned Marvin Lanier into a snitch."
Wohl was convinced that the story was related truthfully and in whole. He didn't particularly like hearing that they had turned Lanier loose with a kilogram of cocaine-and could tell from the look on his face that Dave Pekach, who had been their lieutenant, was very embarrassed by it-but it con-vinced him both that McFadden and Martinez were going to tell the whole truth and that they had turned Lanier into a good snitch, defined as one that was more terrified of the cops who were using him than of the people on whom he was snitching.
He noticed, too, that neither Sabara, Pekach, or D'Amata had added their questions to his. On the part of D'Amata, that might have been the deference of a detective to a staff inspector-he didn't think so-but on the parts of Sabara and Pekach, who were not awed by his rank, it very well could be that they could think of nothing to ask that he hadn't asked.
Christ, maybe what I should have done was just stay in Homicide. I'm not all that bad at being a detective. And by now I probably would have made a pretty good Homicide detective. And all I would have to do is worry about bagging people, not about how pissed the mayor is going to be because one of my people ran off at the mouth.
"So when Marvin wanted to put his jack in the backseat instead of his trunk," Hay-zus said, "we knew there was something in the trunk he didn't want us to see. So there was. A shotgun."
"A shotgun?" Joe D'Amata asked. It was the first time he had spoken. "A Remington 12 Model 1100, 12-gauge?"
"A Model 870," Martinez said. "Not the 1100. A pump gun."
"Is there an 1100 involved?" Wohl asked.
"There was an 1100 under his bed," D'Amata said. "I've got it out in my car."
"And you say there was an 870 in his trunk?" Wohl asked Martinez.
"Yes, sir."
"Where is it?"
"Outside in my car."
"You took it away from him? Why?"
"On what authority?" Pekach demanded. Wohl made a calm-down sign to him with his hand.
"He didn't know it was legal," McFadden said.
"So you just decided to take it away from him? That's theft," Wohl said.
"We wanted something on him," McFadden protested. "We was going to turn it in."
Bullshit!
"That's when he told us another guinea shot Tony DeZego," Hay-zus said. "I don't know if that's so or not, but Marvin believed it."
"He didn't offer a name?" Wohl asked.
"We told him to come up with one by four this after-noon," McFadden said.
"And you think he would have come up with a name?"
"If he could have, he would have. Yes, sir."
Wohl looked at Mike Sabara.
"Do you know where Washington is?"
"No, sir. But Payne's outside. They're working together, aren't they?"
"See if either of them is still there," Wohl ordered.
Pekach went to the door and a moment later returned with Matt Payne.
"Do you know where Washington is?"
"No, sir. He told me he would either see me here or phone."
"Find him," Wohl ordered. "Tell him I want to see him as soon as I can."
"Yes, sir," Matt said, and left the room.
Wohl looked at Joe D'Amata.
"You know where this is going, don't you?" he asked.
"Sir, you're thinking there's a connection to the DeZego shooting?''
"Right. And since Special Operations has that job, I've got to call Chief Lowenstein and tell him I want the Lanier job-and that means you, too, Joe, of course-as part of that."
"He's not going to like that," Sabara said.
"If you're sure about that, Mike, you call him," Wohl said, and let Sabara wait ten seconds before he reached for the telephone himself.
To Peter Wohl's genuine surprise Chief Lowenstein agreed to have D'Amata work the Lanier job under Special Opera-tions supervision with absolutely no argument.
"I don't believe that," he said when he hung up. "All he said was that you're a good man, D'Amata, and if there is anything else I need, all I have to do is ask for it."
"Well, how do you want me to handle it?" D'Amata asked.
"Very simply, ask Washington how he wants it handled. Aside from one wild one, I am about out of ideas."
"Wild idea?"
"I want to send the two shotguns to the lab. I have a wild idea that one of them is the one that popped DeZego."
"Yeah," D'Amata said thoughtfully, "could be."
"Do you two clowns think you could take the shotguns to the lab and tell them I need to know, as soon as possible, if the shells we have were ejected from either of them, without getting in any more trouble?"
"Yes, sir," Martinez and McFadden said in unison, and then McFadden asked, "You want us to come back here, sir?"
"No," Wohl said. "You're working four to twelve, right?"
"Yes, sir. Twelve to twelve with the overtime."
"I haven't made up my mind what to do with you," Wohl said. "Let your sergeant know where you're going to be, in case Washington or somebody wants to talk to you, and then report for duty at four. Maybe by then Captain Pekach can find somebody to sit on the both of you. Separately, I mean. Together you're dangerous."
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
"Dave," Wohl said, turning to Pekach, "as soon as D'Amata gets Sherlock Holmes and his partner the shotgun, tell D'Amata what happened in the Ristorante Alfredo," Wohl ordered.
"Yes, sir."
The door opened. Matt Payne put his head in.
"Can't find Washington, sir. He doesn't answer the radio, and he's not at home."
"What I told you to do, Payne, is find him. Not report that you can't. Get in a car and go look for him. The next time I hear from you, I want it to be when you tell me De-tective Washington is on his way here."
"Yes, sir," Matt said, and quickly closed the door again.
The telephone rang. Obviously his calls were being held. So the ring indicated that this call was too important to hold.
"Inspector Wohl," he said, answering it himself.
"Dennis Coughlin, Peter."
"Good morning, Chief."
"We're due in the mayor's office at 10:15. You, Matt Lowenstein, and me."
"Yes, sir."
"He's mad, Peter. I guess you know."
"Yes, sir."
The phone went dead.
Well, that explains Chief Lowenstein's inexplicable spirit of enthusiastic cooperation. He knew we were all going to have a little chat with the mayor. He can now go on in there and truthfully say that this very morning, when I asked for it, he gave one more of his brighter detectives and asked if there was anything else he could do for me.
SEVENTEEN
Detective Jason Washington did not like Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan, and he was reasonably convinced the reverse was true.
Specifically, as Washington drove his freshly waxed and polished, practically brand-new unmarked car into the park-ing lot behind the former district station house that was now the headquarters for both the Narcotics and Intelligence Di-visions at 4th and Girard and parked it beside one of the dozen or more battered, ancient, and filthy Narcotics unmarked cars, he thought, I will have to keep in mind that Dolan thinks I'm a slick nigger. It would be better for me if he thought I was a plain old, that is to say, mentally retarded nigger, but he is just smart enough to know that isn't so. He knows that Affirmative Action does not go so far as to put mentally retarded niggers to work as Homicide detectives.
I will also have to remember that in his own way Dolan is a pretty good cop, that is to say, that a certain degree of intelligence does indeed flicker behind that profanely loudmouthed mick exterior. He is not really as stupid as I would like to think he is, notwithstanding that really stupid business of hauling Matt Payne over here in the belief that he was dealing drugs.
Most important, I will have to remember that what Dolan hasn't told me-and there is something he hasn't told me-is because he doesn't even know he saw it. The dumb mick has tunnel vision. He was looking for a drug bust and saw two rich kids, one driving a Mercedes and one driving a Porsche, and he was so anxious to put them in the bag, what was important to him, a good drug bust, that he just didn't see Murder One going down.
Inside the building, Washington found Sergeant Patrick J. Dolan in the office of Lieutenant Mick Mikkles.
"Good morning, sir," Jason Washington said politely. "And thank you, Sergeant, for making yourself available."
"I'm due in court in an hour," Sergeant Dolan said. "What's on your mind, Washington?"
"I need a little help, Sergeant," Washington said. "I'm getting nowhere with the DeZego job."
"You probably won't," Dolan said. "You want to know what I think?"
"Yes, I really do."
"It was a mob hit. Pure and simple. DeZego broke the rules and they put him out of the game. It's just that simple. You're Homicide. You tell me how many mob hits ever wind up in court."
"Very, very few of them."
"Fucking right! You don't mind me telling you that you're spinning your wheels on this job, Washington?"
"Sergeant, I think you're absolutely right," Washington said. "But because of the Detweiler girl-"
"She's a junkie. I told you that."
"She's also H. Richard Detweiler's daughter," Washington said, "and so the mayor wants to know who did the shooting. If she wasn't involved-"
"I get the picture," Dolan interrupted. "So you go through the motions, right?"
"Exactly."
"So you came back here and interviewed me again. And I told you exactly the same thing I told you the first time, all right? So now we're finished, right?"
"I'd really like to go over it all again," Washington said.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Washington," Dolan said. He looked at his watch. "I told you, I'm due in fucking court in fifty-five minutes. I gotta go over my notes."
He really wants to get rid of me. And I don't think it has a damn thing to do with him being due in court.
"The mayor's on Inspector Wohl's back, so he's on mine. I really-"
"Fuck Inspector Wohl! That's your problem."
"Hey, Pat," Lieutenant Mikkles said, "take it easy!"
"You're thinking that if Wohl hadn't come here and turned his driver loose, you could have gotten something, right?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I think."
"Well, then you know my problem with Wohl," Washing-ton said.
"No, I don't know your problem with Wohl," Dolan said.
"You don't think I wanted to leave Homicide to go work for him, do you?"
Dolan considered that for a moment.
"Yeah, I heard about that. You and Tony Harris, right?"
"Right. Wohl's got a lot of clout, Sergeant. He generally gets what he wants."
That last remark was for you, Lieutenant Mikkles, to feed your understandable concern that if this doesn't go well, your face will be in the breeze when the shit hits the fan.
"Maybe from you," Dolan said.
"Pat," Lieutenant Mikkles said, "give him fifteen min-utes. Go through the motions. You know how it is."
Dolan looked at Mikkles, his face indicating that he thought he had been betrayed. Mikkles nodded at him.
"Fifteen minutes," he said. "You'll still have time to make court."
"Okay," Sergeant Dolan said. "Fifteen minutes. Okay?"
"We'll just go through the motions," Washington said.
"Okay. Start."
"Those pictures you took handy?"
"What the hell do you need thos
e for? I already showed them to you."
Why doesn't he want me to look at the pictures?
W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 03 - The Victim Page 30
