She pushed buttons on her new, state-of-the-art telephone system that caused one of the telephones on the desk of A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young to ring. She did not want to go through the hassle of telling A-SAC Young’s secretary why she wanted to talk to him.
“Frank Young.”
“This is Miss Gray at reception, Mr. Young. Officer Payne of the police is here.”
“Tell him I’ll be right out,” Young said.
“Mr. Young will be out in a moment,” Lenore said with a smile. “Mr. Young is our A-SAC, Criminal Affairs.”
“As opposed to romantic?” Matt asked.
He was obviously making a joke, but it took Lenore a moment to search for and find the point.
“Oh, aren’t you terrible!” she said.
“You do have an A-SAC, Romantic Affairs?”
“No,” Lenore said. “But it sounds like a marvelous idea.”
“I’m Frank Young,” Young announced, coming into the reception area with his hand out. “The chief had to leave, I’m afraid, and you’re stuck with me. Come on in.”
Matt was surprised. He had considered himself an errand boy, delivering a package, and errand boys are not normally greeted with a smile and a handshake.
“Thank you,” Matt said.
Young led him into the brightly lit, spacious interior, and then into his own well-furnished office, through the windows of which he could see Billy Penn atop City Hall. He could not help but make the comparison between this and Inspector Wohl’s crowded office, and then between it and the new home of Special Operations at Frankford and Castor.
In the icy cold, dark recesses of which, I will now spend the next three or four hours, with my little tape measure.
“I’m sure this is just what we asked for,” Young said, “but I think it would be a good idea if I took a quick look at it. Can I have my girl get you a cup of coffee?”
“Thank you,” Matt said. “Black, please.”
The coffee was served in cups and saucers, with a cream pitcher and a bowl of sugar cubes on the side, which was certainly more elegant, Matt thought, than the collection of chipped china mugs, can of condensed milk, and coffee can full of little sugar packets reading McDonald’s and Roy Rogers and Peking Palace in Peter Wohl’s office coffee service.
There were more surprises. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Young was more than complimentary about the completeness of the Nelson files Matt had brought him. They would be very helpful, he said, and the FBI was grateful.
Then, with great tact, he asked Matt all sorts of questions about himself, why he had joined the cops, how he liked it, whether he liked law enforcement in general—“I don’t really know why I asked that. You seem to have proven that you take to law enforcement like a duck to water. I think everybody with a badge in Philadelphia was delighted when you terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher’s criminal career.”—and what his long-term career plans were.
“I intend to work myself up through the ranks,” Matt said solemnly, “to police commissioner. And then I will seek an appropriate political office.”
Young laughed heartily. “Jerry Carlucci’s going to be a tough act to follow. But why not? You’ve got the potential.”
If I didn’t know better, Matt thought, I’d think he was about to offer me a job.
Then came the question: I am being charmed. Why should they bother to charm me? All I am is an errand-boy-by-another-name to Wohl.
Young then offered to give him a tour of the office, which Matt, after a moment’s indecision, accepted. For one thing, he was curious to see what the inside of an FBI office looked like. And maybe they would actually ask him for something. In any event, the school building could wait.
He was introduced to another A-SAC, whose name he promptly forgot, and to a dozen FBI agents, some singly and some in groups. Every time, A-SAC Young used the same words, “This is the Philadelphia plainclothesman who terminated Mr. Warren K. Fletcher’s criminal career.”
And everyone seemed pleased to have the opportunity to shake the hand that held the gun that terminated the criminal career of Mr. Warren K. Fletcher.
I really don’t know what the hell is going on here, but there is some reason I’m being given the grand tour. It may be that Young is being nice to Wohl through his errand boy; or that he is genuinely impressed with the guy who shot Fletcher—if he knew the circumstances, of course, he would be far less impressed—or, really, that they are going to offer me a job. But it’s damned sure they don’t give the grand tour to every cop from the Department who shows up here with a pile of records.
The subject of employment with the FBI did not come up. A-SAC Young walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, and said that he was sure he would see Matt again and looked forward to it.
When he was on the street again, Matt saw that the skies were dark. It was probably going to snow.
Not only is it going to be bitter cold in that goddamn building, it’s going to be dark.
Shit!
He drove back to Bustleton and Bowler, and turned in the Department car. He couldn’t keep it overnight without permission, and he didn’t want to ask Wohl for permission, so it was either turn it in now or when he was finished with the measuring job, and now seemed to be better than later.
On the way to the Frankford and Castor building, he remembered thinking that it was going to be dark, as well as cold, inside the building. He would need more than a flashlight. He could go back and draw a battery-powered floodlight from supply, but he didn’t want to go back.
He drove down Frankford Avenue until he found a hardware store, and went in and bought the largest battery-powered floodlight they had, plus a spare battery. Then he bought a fifty-foot tape measure.
It then occurred to him that he would need something that provided more space than his pocket notebook. He found a stationery store and bought a clipboard, two mechanical pencils, and a pad of graph paper.
He was carrying all this back to his car when a Highway car suddenly pulled to the curb, in the process spraying his trousers and overcoat with a mixture of snow, soot, grime, and slush.
The driver’s door opened and the head and shoulders of Officer Charles McFadden appeared.
“I thought those were your wheels,” McFadden said, nodding up the street toward where Matt had parked his Porsche. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m on a scavenger hunt. The next thing on my list is the severed head of an Irishman.”
McFadden laughed.
“No shit, Matt, what are you doing?”
“Would you believe I am going to measure the school building at Frankford and Castor?”
“I heard we were getting that,” McFadden said. “And Inspector Wohl’s making you measure it?”
“Right.”
“All by yourself?”
“Right.”
“Have fun,” McFadden said, and got behind the wheel again.
Matt could see in the car. Officer McFadden was explaining to Officer Quinn why Officer Payne was wading through the slush with a floodlight, a tape measure, and a clipboard. To judge by the look on Officer Quinn’s face, he found this rather amusing.
Officer McFadden put the Highway RPC in gear and stepped on the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the dirty slush, spraying same on Officer Payne.
TWELVE
There was a telephone in Lieutenant Jack Malone’s suite in the St. Charles Hotel, through which, by the miracle of modern telecommunications, he could converse with anyone in the whole wide world, with perhaps a few minor exceptions like Ulan Bator or Leningrad.
He had learned, however, to his horror, when he paid his first bill for two weeks residency, that local calls, which had been free on his home phone, and which cost a dime at any pay station, were billed by the hotel at fifty cents each.
Thereafter, whenever possible, Lieutenant Malone made his outgoing calls from a pay station in the lobby.
When he dropped the dime in the slot this time, he knew the numb
er from memory. It was the fourth time he’d called since returning to the hotel shortly before six.
“Hello?”
“Officer McFadden, please?”
“You’re the one who’s been calling, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, he hasn’t come home,” Mrs. Agnes McFadden said.
“I don’t really have any idea where he is. You want to give me a number, I’ll have him call back the minute he walks in the door.”
“I’ll be moving around, I’m afraid,” Malone said. “I’ll try again. Thank you very much.”
“What did you say your name was?”
Malone broke the connection with his finger.
“My name is Asshole, madam,” he said softly, bitterly. “Lieutenant J. Asshole Malone.”
He put the handset back and pushed open the door.
He was not going to get to talk to Officer McFadden tonight, and he would not try again. He had carefully avoided giving McFadden’s mother his name—she had volunteered her identity on the first call.
When Officer McFadden finally returns home, his mother will tell him that some guy who had not given his name had called four times for him, but had not said what he wanted or where he could be reached.
McFadden will be naturally curious, but there will be no way for him to connect the calls with me.
On the other hand, if I did call back, and finally got through to him, he would know not only who I am, but whatever I had in mind was important enough that I would try five times to get through to him.
Under those circumstances, there would be no way I could casually, nonchalantly, let it be known that I would be grateful if he didn’t tell his pal Payne that I was staking out Holland’s body shop. I already know he has an active curiosity, and if I said please don’t tell Payne, that’s exactly what he will do. And Payne would lose no time in telling Wohl.
That triggered thoughts of Payne in a different area: The poor bastard’s probably still over there in that falling-down building, stumbling around in the dark, measuring it.
That was chickenshit of Wohl, making him do that. He sent me over there to look it over. I should not have let myself be talked out of doing what I was sent to do by a rookie cop, even if the rookie works for Wohl. I’m a lieutenant, although there seems to be some questions at all levels about just how good a lieutenant. But he’s taking the heat for what I did, and that’s not right.
If I were a good guy, I’d get in the car and go over there and help him. But Wohl might not like that. He sent the kid over there to rap his knuckles and Wohl might not like it if I held his hand.
Fuck Wohl! A man is responsible for his actions, and other people should not take the heat for them.
He walked out of the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel and found his car and started out for the school building at Frankford and Castor.
Halfway there, he had another thought, which almost made him change his mind: Am I really being a nice guy about this? A supervisor doing the right thing? Or am I trying to show Payne what a nice guy I am, so that if I get the chance to ask him not to tell Wohl that I am watching Holland, he will go along?
You can be a conniving prick, Jack Malone, always working the angles, he finally decided, but this is not one of those times. You are going there because Payne wouldn’t be there if you hadn’t been a jackass.
When he reached the building, he at first thought that he was too late, that Payne had done what he had to do and left, because the building was dark. But then he saw, on the second floor, lights. Moving around.
A flashlight. No. A floodlight. Too much light for a flashlight. That’s Payne.
Stupid, you know the lights aren’t turned on!
He had another stupid thought a moment later, when he turned off Frankford Avenue onto Castor Avenue. There was a Porsche 911, what looked like a new one, parked against the curb, lightly dusted by the snow that had begun to fall as he had driven out here.
If there is a more stupid place to park a car like that, I don’t know where the hell it would be. When the jackass who owns that car comes back for it, he’ll be lucky to find the door handles.
He pulled his Mustang to the curb behind a battered Volkswagen, and added to his previous judgment: Because of the generosity of the Porsche owner, the Bug is probably safe. Why bother to strip a Bug when you can strip a Porsche?
It occurred to him, finally, as he got out of the car that possibly the Porsche was stolen. Not stolen-stolen, never to show up again, but stolen for a joy ride by some kids who had found it with the keys in the ignition.
Maybe I should find a phone and call it in.
Fuck it, it’s none of my business. A district RPC will roll by here eventually and he’ll see it.
Fuck it, it is my business. I’m a cop, and what cops do is protect the citizenry, even from their own stupidity. As soon as I have a word with Payne, I will call it in.
There was now a layer of snow covering the thawed and then refrozen snow on the steps to the building, and he slipped and almost went down, catching himself at the last moment.
When he straightened up, he could see Payne’s light, now on the first floor. He stopped just outside the outer door. The light grew brighter, and then Payne appeared. Except it wasn’t Payne. It was a Highway cop.
McFadden!
Payne appeared a moment later.
I should have guessed he might be over here helping out his buddy.
All of a sudden, he was blinded by the light from one of the lamps.
“Who are you?” McFadden demanded firmly, but before Malone could speak, McFadden recognized him, and the light went back on the ground. “Hello, Lieutenant. Sorry.”
“How’s it going?” Malone asked, far more cheerfully than he felt.
“Aside from terminal frostbite, you mean?” Payne said. “Did Wo—Inspector Wohl send you to check on me?”
“No. I just thought you might be able to use some help. You’re finished. I guess?”
“Yes, sir. McFadden’s been helping me. Do you know McFadden, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, sure. Whaddaya say, McFadden?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Well, at least let me buy you fellas a hamburger, or a cheese-steak, something, and a cup of coffee,” Malone said, adding mentally, said the last of the big spenders.
“Well, that’s very kind, Lieutenant,” Payne said. “But not necessary. We’re going over to my place and, presuming our fingers thaw, make a nice drawing, drawings, for Inspector Wohl. I thought we’d pick up some ribs on the way.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” Malone said. “Where do you live?”
“Downtown. Rittenhouse Square.”
“I live at 19th and Arch,” Malone said. “We’re all headed in the same direction. And I haven’t had my dinner. Why don’t you let me buy the ribs?”
He looked at Payne and saw suspicion in his eyes.
“Why don’t we all go to my place for ribs?” Payne said, finally.
“Where’s your car?” Malone asked.
“We’re parked over there,” McFadden said, and pointed to where Malone had parked behind the Volkswagen.
“I want to find a phone,” Malone said. “And call that Porsche in.”
“Why?” Payne asked, obviously surprised.
“I have a gut feeling it’s wrong,” Malone said. “A Porsche like that shouldn’t be parked in this neighborhood.”
“That’s Payne’s car, Lieutenant,” McFadden said. “Nice, huh?”
Malone thought he saw amusement in McFadden’s eyes.
“Very nice,” Malone said.
“Lieutenant,” Payne said. “You’re sure welcome to come with us. I appreciate your coming out here.”
“I haven’t had my dinner.”
“You’d better follow me, otherwise there will be a hassle getting you into the garage,” Payne said.
“I’m sorry?” Malone asked.
“The parking lot in my building,” Payne s
aid. “There’s a rent-a-cop—it would be easier if we stuck together.”
“Okay. Sure,” Malone said.
The little convoy stopped twice on the way to Payne’s apartment, first in a gas station on Frankford Avenue, where Payne made a telephone call from a pay booth, and then on Chestnut Street in downtown Philadelphia. There Payne walked quickly around the nose of his Porsche and into Ribs Unlimited, an eatery Jack Malone remembered from happier days as a place to which husbands took wives on their birthdays for arguably the best ribs in Philadelphia, and which were priced accordingly.
In a moment Payne came back out, trailed by the manager and two costumed rib-cookers in red chef’s hats and white jackets and aprons, bearing large foil-wrapped packages and what looked like a half case of beer.
Payne opened the nose of his Porsche, and everything was loaded inside. Payne reached in his pocket and handed bills to the manager and the two guys in cook’s suits. They beamed at him.
Payne closed the nose of his Porsche, got behind the wheel, and the three-car convoy rolled off again.
I didn’t know Ribs Unlimited offered takeouts, Malone thought, and then, Jesus Christ, me and my big mouth: When I offer to pay for the ribs, as I have to, I will have to give him a check, because I have maybe nineteen dollars in my pocket. A check that will be drawn against insufficient funds and will bounce, unless I can get to the bank and beg that four-eyed asshole of an assistant manager to hold it until payday.
Five minutes later they were unloading the nose of the Porsche in a basement garage.
Payne’s apartment, which they reached after riding an elevator and then walking up a narrow flight of stairs, was something of a disappointment.
It was nicely furnished, but it was very small. Somehow, after the Porsche, and because it was on Rittenhouse Square, he had expected something far more luxurious.
McFadden carried the case of beer into the kitchen, and Malone heard bottles being opened.
“Here you are, Lieutenant,” he said. “You ever had any of this? Tuborg. Comes from Holland.”
“Denmark,” Payne corrected him, tolerantly.
Malone took out his wallet.
“This is my treat, you will recall,” he said. “What’s the tab?”
The Witness Page 20
