"I'm Larkin, Secret Service," Larkin said, leaning across Matt to speak to him.
"Yes, sir, we've been waiting for you," the sheriff said. "Pull it over there. Everybody's in the garbage dump."
Matt parked the car and then followed Larkin to the depression, which he saw was in fact a garbage dump.
A tall, slender man with rimless glasses detached himself from a group of men, half in one kind or another of police uniform, a few in civilian clothes, and several in overalls with FEDERAL AGENT printed in large letters across their backs.
"Mr. Larkin?" the man asked, and when Larkin nodded, he went on, " I'm Howard Samm, I have the Atlantic City office of ATF."
"I'm very glad to meet you," Larkin said. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help with this."
"I like to think we have a pretty good team," Samm said. "And Agent Glynes was really on the ball with this, wasn't he? We didn't get that Request for All Information teletype until yesterday."
"He certainly was," Larkin said. "Mr. Samm, this is Detective Payne of the Philadelphia Police Department. He's working with us."
Samm shook Matt's hand.
Well, that's very nice of you, Mr. Larkin, but it's bullshit. Unless driving you around and running errands is "working with you."
"Well, what have we got?" Larkin asked.
"Somebody has been blowing things-specifically metal lockers, the kind you find in airports, bus stations-up with high explosives. My senior technician-the large fellow, in the coveralls?-says he's almost sure it's Composition C-4."
"When will we know for sure?"
"We just finished making sure the rest of the lockers weren't booby-trapped. The next step is taking a locker to the lab."
He pointed. Matt looked. Two of the men in coveralls were dragging a cable from a wrecker with MODERN CHEVROLET painted on its doors down to the remnants of a row of rental lockers. A Dodge van with no identifying marks on it waited for it, its rear doors open.
"We have any idea who's been doing this?" Larkin asked.
"That's going to be a problem, I'm afraid," Samms said.
"Not even a wild hair?" Larkin asked. "Who owns this property? Has anybody talked to him?"
"We don't know who owns the property. One of the deputies found a cabin a quarter of a mile over there. But there's no signs of life in it."
"A deserted cabin?"
"Well, of course, we haven't been able to go inside. So I really don't know."
"You haven't gone inside?"
"We don't have a search warrant."
"We'll go inside," Larkin said. "I'll take the responsibility."
Samm, visibly, did not like that.
"Christ," Larkin said. "Don't you think we have reasonable cause, even if there wasn't a threat to the Vice President?"
"You're right, of course," Samm said. He raised his voice. " Meador!"
The large man in the coveralls with FEDERAL AGENT on the back looked at him. Samm waved him over.
"This is Mr. Larkin of the Secret Service," he said. "He wants to have a look inside that house. Will you check it for booby traps, please?"
"No search warrant?" Meador asked.
"Just open the place for me, please," Larkin said. "I'll worry about a search warrant."
"Okay," Meador said.
Meador, with Larkin, Samm, and Matt following him, went to the van and took a toolbox from it, and led the way to the house. They stood to one side as he carefully probed a window for trip wires, and then smashed a pane with a screwdriver.
When he had the window open, he crawled through it. He was inside a minute or two, and then crawled back out.
"The door's clean," he said. "What do I do with the padlock?"
"You got any bolt cutters in that box?" Larkin asked.
Meador was putting bolt cutters in place on the padlock when two men in business suits walked up. Matt was surprised to see Jack Matthews, who was also surprised to see him. The other man, somewhat older, was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.
"Mr. Larkin," he said, "I'm Frank Young, Criminal A-SAC [Assistant Special Agent in Charge] for the FBI in Philadelphia."
"I think we've met, Frank, haven't we?" Larkin said.
"Yes, sir, now that I see you, I think we have met. Maybe Quantico?"
"How about Denver?" Larkin asked.
"Right. I was in the Denver field office. This is Special Agent Jack Matthews."
"We've met," Larkin said. "And I think you know Matthews too, don' t you, Matt?"
"Yes, indeed," Matt said. "How nice to see you, Special Agent Matthews."
"Why do I think he's needling him?" Larkin said. "Payne is a Philadelphia detective. Do you know each other?"
"I know who he is," Young said, and shook Matt's hand. "What are we doing here?"
"Well, Frank, if you're the Criminal A-SAC, this will be right down your alley," Larkin said. "Detective Payne and I were walking through the woods and came across this building. Into which, I believe, person or persons unknown have recently broken in. We were just about to have a look."
Meador of ATF looked at Larkin and smiled.
"I wouldn't be at all surprised," he said as he lowered his bolt cutters, "if the burglar used a bolt cutter to cut through that padlock."
"That's very astute of you," Larkin said.
"What are we looking for?" Young asked.
"Signs of occupancy. If we get lucky, a name. So we can ask if he' s noticed anything strange, like loud explosions, around here."
"There are tractor tracks that look fresh," Jack Matthews said, pointing.
"Take a look at the dipstick in the tractor engine," Young ordered. "I'll take a look inside."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't open any doors or cabinets until Meador here checks them," Larkin said. "And it would probably be a good idea to watch for trip wires."
"You think this is your bomber?" Young asked.
"I don't know that it's not," Larkin said.
Matthews came into the cabin after a minute or two to report that the tractor battery was charged, and from the condition of the dipstick, he thought the engine had been run in the last week or ten days.
Matt wondered how he could tell that, but was damned if he would reveal his ignorance by asking.
Jack Matthews moved quickly and efficiently around the cabin, and seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Matt felt ignorant.
There were no trip wires or booby traps, but there was evidence of recent occupancy.
"There is something about this place that bothers me," Larkin said thoughtfully. "It's too damned neat and clean for a cabin in the boondocks."
"Yeah," Young agreed thoughtfully.
"I think we have to find out who owns this, who comes here."
"County courthouse?" Young said.
"Unless one of the deputies knows offhand," Larkin said.
"Are you going back to Philadelphia?" Young asked.
"I don't see what else I can do here," Larkin said.
"Why don't I send Jack to the county courthouse with my car?" Young asked. "And catch a ride back with you?"
"Great," Larkin said. He turned to Meador of ATF. "Meador, look into your crystal ball and tell me what he used for detonators."
"The explosive looks like C-4," Meador said. "Somebody with access to C-4 would probably have access to military detonators. I'll know for sure when I'm finished in the laboratory."
"Depressing thought," Larkin said.
"Sir?"
"Somebody with access to C-4 and military detonators who blew up those lockers the way he did knows how to use that stuff, wouldn't you say?"
"Yeah," Meador said.
"Well, at least it gives us a lead or two," Larkin said. "Which is a lead or two more than we had when I woke up this morning."
He put his hand out to H. Howard Samm.
"Your team really did a fine job, Samm. I think my boss would like to write a letter of commendation."
"Why," Samm said. "That would be very nice, but unnecessary."
"Nonsense. A commendation is in order," Larkin said, and then touched Matt's shoulder. "Let's go home, Matthew."
****
A moment after they turned off the dirt road onto the highway, Larkin said, "You noticed, Frank, how Mr. Samm was so anxious to make sure that his guy who found that place got the credit?"
"I noticed. His name wasn't mentioned."
"His names is Glynes," Larkin said. "C.V. Glynes."
"And he gets the commendation?"
"They both do. And Meador too. But on his, Samm gets his name misspelled," Larkin said.
Young laughed, and Larkin joined in.
"I don't know why we're laughing," Young said. "Now weknow we have a lunatic on our hands who knows what he's doing with high explosives, and presumably has more in his kitchen closet."
TWENTY-FIVE
Inspector Peter F. Wohl, of the Philadelphia Police Department, who had, ten minutes before, been Staff Inspector Wohl, came out of Commissioner Czernick's office in the company of Chief Inspector (retired) and Mrs. Augustus Wohl.
They are happy about this, Peter Wohl thought, but they are in the minority. Czernick, despite the warm smile and the hearty handshake, didn't like it at all. And a lot of other people aren't going to like it either, when they hear about it.
Part of this, he felt, was because before he had become a staff inspector, he had been the youngest captain in the Department. And there was the matter of the anomaly in the rank structure of the Philadelphia Police Department: Captains are immediately subordinate to staff inspectors, who are immediately subordinate to Inspectors. The insignia of the ranks parallels that of the Army and Marine Corps. Captains wear two gold bars, "railroad tracks"; staff inspectors wear gold oak leaves, corresponding to military majors; and inspectors wear, like military lieutenant colonels, silver oak leaves.
There were only sixteen staff inspectors in the Department, all of them (with the sole exception of Wohl, Peter F.) assigned to the Staff Inspection Office of the Internal Affairs Division. There they handled "sensitive" investigations, which translated to mean they were a group of really first-rate investigators who went after criminals who were also high governmental officials, elected, appointed, or civil service.
Being a staff inspector is considered both prestigious and a good, interesting job. Many staff inspectors consider it the apex of their police careers.
Consequently, the promotion path from captain to inspector for most officers usually skips staff inspector. A lieutenant is promoted to captain, and spends the next five or six or even ten years commanding a District, or in a special unit, and/or working somewhere in administration until finally he ranks high enough on an inspector's examination-given every two years-to be promoted off it.
Peter Wohl, who everyone was willing to admit was one of the better staff inspectors, had been transferred out of Internal Affairs to command of the newly formed Special Operations Division. Officially, this was a decision of Police Commissioner Taddeus Czernick. Anyone who had been on the job more than six months suspected, correctly, that Wohl's transfer had been made at the " suggestion" of Mayor Jerry Carlucci, whose suggestions carried about as much weight with Czernick as a Papal pronouncement, ex cathedra.
Anyone who had been on the job six months also was aware that Wohl had friends in high places. Chief Inspector Augustus Wohl, retired, it was generally conceded, had been Mayor Carlucci's rabbi as the mayor had climbed through the ranks of the Department. And Peter Wohl was close to Chief Inspectors Lowenstein and Coughlin. It was far easier, and much more satisfying for personal egos, to conclude that Wohl's rapid rise in rank was due to his closeness to the mayor than to give the mayor the benefit of the doubt, and to believe Carlucci had given Wohl Special Operations, and had the expired Inspector's List reopened, because he really believed Wohl was the best man in the Department for the job, and that he deserved the promotion.
When the Wohls came out of the Commissioner's office door into one of the curving corridors of the Roundhouse, and started walking toward the elevators, Captain Richard Olsen of Internal Affairs walked up to them.
"Looking for me, Swede?" Wohl asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I guess you know my dad? What about my mother?"
"Chief," Olsen said. "Good to see you again. How do you do, Mrs. Wohl?"
"I'm doing very well, thank you, after what just happened in there," Olga Wohl said.
"And just what happened in there?"
"Say hello to the newest inspector," Chief Wohl said.
"No kidding?" Olsen said. "Jesus, Peter, congratulations. Well deserved."
He took Wohl's hand and shook it with enthusiasm.
Swede seems genuinely pleased. But my fans are still outnumbered by maybe ten to one.
"Thanks, Swede. It will not be necessary for you to kiss my ring."
"Peter!" Olga Wohl said. "Really!"
"What's up Swede? Youwere looking for me?"
"First of all, don't jump on Mike Sabara for telling me where I could find you. I practically had to get down on my knees and beg."
"That's not good enough," Wohl said. "As my first official act as an inspector, I'll have him shot at sunrise. Did your guys come up with something last night?"
"Yeah. Could you give me a minute?"
"Peter, I understand," Chief Wohl said. "We'll get out of your way."
He hugged his son briefly, but affectionately, and then, after she'd kissed their son, propelled Olga Wohl toward the elevator.
"You want to go get a cup of coffee or something?" Olsen asked.
"I didn't have any breakfast," Wohl said. "So I need some, which I think, under the circumstances, I'll even pay for."
"I know just the place," Olsen said. "If that was an invitation."
Olsen led him, on foot, to The Mall, a bar and restaurant on 9^th Street. It was popular not only with the Internal Affairs people, but also with Homicide detectives. Wohl had spent a lot of time and money in The Mall as both a staff inspector and when he'd been in Homicide. It was just what he wanted now, for it offered a nice menu and comfortable chairs at a table where their conversation would not be overheard.
He ordered Taylor ham and eggs, hash browns and coffee.
"Same for me, please," Olsen said, and waited for the waitress to leave.
"I sent for Sergeant Framm and Detective Pillare first thing this morning…" Olsen began.
"They're the two you had on Lanza?" Wohl interrupted.
Olsen nodded.
"…Framm opened the conversation by saying, 'It couldn't be helped, Captain, he dodged through traffic'"
"Oh, shit, they lost him?"
"They did," Olsen said. "And your Sergeant O'Dowd did…"
"O'Dowd was there too?"
Olsen nodded again. "And he lost him too, but your man Payne stayed with him."
"Detective Payne was there too?"
Goddammit, Lanza knows Matt, and he shouldn't have been anywhere near him. I am going to have to sit on him, and hard.
"And he followed him to an apartment house in Center City, and then arranged for a somewhat chagrined Sergeant Framm, Detective Pillare, and Sergeant O'Dowd to join him."
If O'Dowd was there, and what the hell was he doing there, he knew Payne was there, and should not have been there. Unless, of course, O 'Dowd told Matt to be there. Jesus Christ!
"You lose people. It happens to everybody. It's certainly happened to me," Wohl said.
"Shortly after Lanza got to the apartment building, Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselliand Mr. Paulo Cassandro entered the premises, stayed approximately twenty minutes, and then left, obviously pleased with themselves, and went to the bar at the Hotel Warwick where they stayed until closing."
"Who did Lanza see in the apartment building?"
"A lady," Olsen said, and handed Wohl a photograph. "Brilliant detective work by myself this morning identified her as Antoinette Marie Wo
linski Schermer, believed by Organized Crime to be the girlfriend of Mr. Ricco Baltazari, proprietor of Ristorante Alfredo."
"What's she doing with Lanza? He spend the night there?"
"Yeah, and it's not the first time."
The waitress delivered the coffee.
"I'm going to need another one of these," Wohl said to her.
She nodded and left. Wohl took a sip, then another, then looked at Olsen.
"It would seem he has nice friends, our Corporal Lanza," Wohl said.
"Yeah, doesn't he?" Olsen replied. "So I took this to Chief Marchessi…"
"Right," Wohl said.
"Peter, I didn't mention to him that Framm and Pillare lost Lanza. He's… Framm is, this is not the first time he's lost somebody…and he's already on the chief's shit list."
If Olsen is covering for Framm, he has his reasons, and it's not because Framm's a nice guy.
"He wasn't lost, that's all that counts," Wohl said.
"Thank you," Olsen said. "The chief asked what you thought of all this, and I told him you were unavailable…At this point in time, Mike Sabara was still stonewalling me."
"Good for him," Wohl said.
"So the chief said that what we should do is bring the airline security people in on this. You remember Dickie Lowell?"
"Sure."
Before my time, Wohl thought. But I remember him. H. Dickinson Lowell had been one of the first, if not the first, black staff inspectors. And then he made inspector. Well, dammit, 1 am not the first staff inspector to have the gall to try to get myself promoted.
"Well, they had him running the Headquarters Division in the Detective Bureau and he didn't like it, all the paperwork, so he took retirement. He's chief of security for Eastern at the airport. More important, he and Marchessi are old pals."
"He was a good cop, as I recall," Wohl said.
"Marchessi called him, and explained the situation. Lowell is going to have his people keep an eye on Lanza, and he told Marchessi he has some friends, other airlines security, that he can go to. He will not go to the feds, which is important to Marchessi…"
"And me," Wohl interjected.
"…but he will call Marchessi or me if Lanza does something suspicious. And we'll keep sitting on Lanza when he's not on the job."
The Assassin boh-5 Page 42
