"I need what you have as soon as I can get it, and I want everything you have, not just what a normal request for information would produce."
The waitress delivered three round water glasses, now scarred nearly gray by a thousand trips through the dishwasher. She half filled them, from a battered stainless-steel water pitcher, with a red liquid.
"Frankie said his grandfather made it over in Jersey," the waitress said.
Wohl picked up his glass, then stood up, called "Frankie," and, when he had his attention, called "Salud!" and then sat down again.
Walter Davis, thinking,Oh, God, homemade Dago Red! took a swallow. It was surprisingly good.
"You're almost certainly drinking an alcoholic beverage on which the applicable federal tax has not been paid," Wohl said. "Does that bother you?"
"Not a damned bit, to tell you the truth," Davis said. He stood up, called "Frankie" and then "Salud!" and then sat down, looking at Wohl, obviously pleased with himself.
Wohl chuckled, then looked at Matt Payne.
"Matt, when we get back to the office, round up everything in my files on the Nelson murder case. Make a copy of everything. Then go to Homicide and do the same thing. Then find Detective Harris and photocopy everything he has. Have it ready for me in the morning."
"Yes, sir," Matt Payne said.
"I'll take a look at it, see if anything is missing, and then you can take it to the FBI. Soon enough for you, Walter?"
"Thank you, Peter. 'Harris,' you said, was the detective on the job? Any chance that I could talk to him?"
"You, or one of your people?"
"Actually, I was thinking of one of my people."
"Tony Harris is the exception to the rule that most detectives really would rather be FBI agents, Walter. I don't think that would be very productive."
"I thought everybody loved us," Davis said.
"We all do. Isn't that so, Officer Payne?"
"Yes, sir. We all love the FBI."
The waitress with the beehive hairdo delivered their meal.
The veal was, Walter Davis was willing to admit, better than the veal in Ristorante Alfredo. And the homemade Chianti was nicer than some of the dry red wine he'd had at twenty-five dollars a bottle in Ristorante Alfredo.
But he knew that neither the quality of the food nor its considerably cheaper than Ristorante Alfredo prices were the reasons Peter Wohl had brought him here for lunch.
SIX
Under the special agent in charge (the "SAC") of the Philadelphia Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were three divisions, Criminal Affairs, Counterintelligence, and Administration. Each division was under an assistant agent in charge, called an "A-SAC."
It was SAC Davis's custom to hold two daily Senior Staff Conferences, called "SSCs, each business day, one first thing in the morning, and the other at four P.M. Participation at the SSCs was limited to the SAC and the three A-SACs. The conferences were informal. No stenographic record was made of them, except when the SAC could not be present, and one of the A-SACs was standing in for him. The SAC naturally wanted to know what he had missed, so a steno was called in to make a written record.
If one of the A-SACs could not make a SSC, one of his assistants, customarily, but not always, the most senior special agent in that division, would be appointed to stand in for him.
This was very common. The A-SACs were busy men, and it was often inconvenient for them to make both daily SSCs, although they generally tried to make at least one of them, and took especial pains not to miss two days' SSCs in a row.
But it was a rare thing for SAC Davis to find, as he did when he returned to his office from lunch with Staff Inspector Wohl and Officer Payne, all three A-SACs waiting outside his office for the afternoon SSC.
He was pleased. In addition to whatever else would be discussed, he intended to discuss the upcoming trials of Clifford Wallis and Delmore Travis. The political aspects were mind-boggling. Washington was going to be breathing down his neck on this one, and not only the senior hierarchy of the FBI, joining which was one of SAC Davis's most fond dreams, but the higher-highest-echelons of the Department of Justice.
If he handled this well, it would reflect well upon him. If he dropped the ball (or someone he was responsible for dropped it), there would be no chance whatever that he would be transferred to Washington and named a deputy inspector. And from what he had seen of the situation, there was a saber-toothed tiger behind every filing cabinet, just waiting to leap and bite off somebody's ass.
This sort of a case was the sort of thing one should discuss with the A-SACs personally, not with one of their subordinates. With all three of the A-SACs present at this SSC, it would not be necessary to call a special SSC.
Davis waited until he had heard all the reports of what was going on in the Criminal, Administrative, and Counterintelligence Divisions, and made the few decisions necessary before getting into what he was now thinking of as the " Wallis/Travis Sticky Ball of Wax."
Then he gave a report, the essentials and the flavor, of both the personal conference he had had in Washington the day before and the two telephone calls he had had that morning before going off to lunch with Staff Inspector Wohl and his straight man.
"I had lunch today with Staff Inspector Wohl of the Philadelphia Police Department," he announced. "Everybody know who Wohl is?"
The three A-SACs nodded.
"I didn't go through you, Glenn," he explained to Glenn Williamson, A-SAC (Administration), "I know Peter Wohl, and this was unofficial. But I think you should open a line of communication with CaptainWhat's his name?"
"Duffy. Jack Duffy, Chief," Williamson furnished. Williamson was a well-dressed man of forty-two who took especial pains with his full head of silver-gray hair.
"-Duffy of-what's his title, Glenn?"
"Assistant to the commissioner, Chief."
"-whatever-as soon as possible. Either this afternoon, or first thing in the morning," Davis finished.
For reasons SAC Davis really did not understand, cooperation between the Philadelphia Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not what he believed it should be. Getting anything out of them was like pulling teeth. When he had found the opportunity, he had discussed the problem with Commissioner Czernick. Czernick had told him that whenever he wanted anything from the Department, he should contact Captain Duffy, who would take care of whatever was requested. It had been Davis's experience that bringing Duffy into the loop had served primarily to promptly inform Czernick that the FBI was asking for something; it had not measurably speeded up getting anything. The reverse, he thought, might actually be the case.
But now that Duffy was in the loop, Duffy would have to be consulted.
"Yes, sir."
"You might mention I had an unofficial word with Wohl. Whatever you think best."
"Yes, sir. How did it go with Wohl, sir?"
"Very interesting man. He had his straight man with him. I was thinking of lunch at Alfredo's, and we wound up in a greasy spoon in South Philadelphia."
"His straight man, sir?" A-SAC (Criminal Affairs) Frank F. Young asked. Young was a redhead, pale-faced, and on the edge between muscular and plump.
"His driver. A young plainclothes cop named Payne. They have a little comedy routine they use on people Wohl's annoyed with. I had to keep Wohl waiting twice, you see-"
"Oh, you met Payne, Chief?" A-SAC (Counterintelligence) Isaac J. Towne asked. He was a thirty-nine-year-old, balding Mormon, who took his religion seriously, a tall, hawk-featured man who had once told Davis, perfectly serious, that he regarded the Communists as the Antichrist.
"You know him?" Davis asked, surprised.
"I know about him," Towne replied. "Actually, I know a good deal about him. Among other things, he's the fellow who blew the brains of the serial rapist all over his van."
"Oh, really?" A-SAC Young asked, genuine interest evident in his voice. Davis knew that Young had a fascination for what he had once cal
led "real street cop stuff"; Davis suspected he was less interested in some of the white-collar crime that occupied a good deal of the FBI's time and effort.
"How is it you know 'a good deal about him,' Isaac?" Davis asked.
"Well, when I saw the story in the papers, the name rang a bell, and I checked my files. We had just finished a CBI on him." (Complete Background Investigation.)
"He'd applied for the FBI?"
"The Marine Corps. He was about to be commissioned."
"Apparently he wasn't?"
"He flunked the physical," Towne said. "His father, hisadoptive father, is Brewster Cortland Payne."
"As in Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo and whatever else?"
"And Lester. Right, Chief."
SAC Davis found that fascinating. He was himself an attorney, and although he had never actively practiced law, he was active in the Philadelphia Bar Association. He knew enough about the Bar in Philadelphia to know that Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester was one of the more prestigious firms.
"His 'adoptive' father, you said?"
"Yes, sir. His father was a Philadelphia cop. A sergeant. Killed in the line of duty. His mother remarried Payne, and Payne adopted the boy."
That would stick in your mind, Davis thought, a street cop killed in the line of duty.
"I wonder why he became a cop?" Davis wondered aloud, and then, without waiting for a reply, asked, "You say he was the man who shot the serial rapist?"
"Right, Chief. In the head, with his service revolver. Blew his brains all over the inside of his van."
And that, too, would stick in your mind, wouldn't it, Isaac?
"I seem to remember seeing something about that in the papers," Davis said. "But as I was saying, Wohl, once he'd made his annoyance with me quite clear, was very cooperative.
He's going to photocopy everything in his files and have this Payne fellow bring it over here tomorrow."
The three A-SACs nodded their understanding.
"I just had a thought," Davis went on. "Do you happen to recall precisely why Payne failed the Marine Corps physical?"
Isaac Young searched his memory, then shook his head. "No."
"Can you find out?" Davis ordered. "The FBI is always looking for outstanding young men."
"Right, Chief," Isaac Young said.
"And when Officer Payne delivers the material from Inspector Wohl, I think one of us should receive it. Tell the receptionist. Make sure she understands. Show him around the office."
"Right, Chief," Young said.
I mean, after all, Davis thought, why would a bright young man of good family want to be a cop when he could be an FBI agent?
And if that doesn't turn out, it can't hurt to have a friendespecially a kid like that, who must hear all sorts of interesting things in the Department.
****
Matt Payne, feeding documents into the Xerox machine, jumped when Peter Wohl spoke in his ear.
"I have bled enough for the city for one day," Wohl announced. "I am going home and get into a cold martini or a hot blonde, whichever comes first."
"Yes, sir." Matt chuckled. "I'll see you in the morning."
"One of the wounds from which I'm bleeding has to do with what you're doing-"
"Sir?" Matt asked, confused.
"I just got off the phone with Commissioner Czernick," Wohl went on. "I don't know what Davis's agenda really is, and I wondered why he came to me with the request for all that stuff. One possibility was that he didn't want the commissioner to know he was asking for it. With that in mind, I called the commissioner and told him where and with whom we had lunch-" He saw the confused look still on Payne's face and stopped.
"I'm-I don't follow you, Inspector," Matt said.
"For reasons I'm sure I don't have to explain, we are very careful what we pass to the FBI," Wohl said.
I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about.
"Yes, sir."
"Nothing goes over to them unless the commissioner approves it. Denny Coughlin or Matt Lowenstein might slip them something quietly, but since career suicide is not one of my aims, I won't, and Davis must know that."
"So why did he ask you?"
"Right. So I called the commissioner. The commissioner told me I had done the right thing in calling him, and that I should use my good judgment in giving him whatever I felt like giving him."
"Okay," Matt said thoughtfully.
"Two minutes after I hung up, Czernick called back. 'Peter,' he said, 'I've been thinking it over, and I think I know why Davis went directly to you.' So I said, 'Yes, sir?' and he said, 'It's because you and the Payne kid look more like FBI agents than cops. Hahaha!' And then he hung up."
"Jesus!" Matt said.
"It may well be Polish humor," Wohl said. "But I'm paranoid. The moral to this little story is that I want you to clearly understand you are to pass nothing to the FBI, or the feds generally, unless I tell you to. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Then I will say good night."
"I'll see you in the morning, sir."
"God willing, and if the creek don't rise," Wohl said solemnly, and walked out of the room.
Matt Payne finished making copies of the documents he had taken from the file, stuffed the copies into a large manila envelope, and then returned the originals to their filing cabinet.
It was quarter to four. He would still have to see Detective Tony Harris, and then go downtown to Homicide and see if their files contained something he hadn't found, or would get from Harris. He would not be able to quit at five.
Tony Harris was not in the closet-sized office he shared with Detective Jason Washington. Washington, he knew, had taken the day off; he had a place at The Shore that always seemed to need some kind of emergency repair.
He really should, he thought, talk to Washington about the file Wohl wanted to pass to the FBI. Washington had worked with Harris on the Nelson job. He remembered overhearing Washington telling Wohl he would be back sometime in the afternoon.
The tour lieutenant, Harry Jensen, a Highway guy, said that Harris was out on the street somewhere. Both he and Washington were running down increasingly less promising leads to find whoever had shot down Joe Magnella, the young 22^nd District cop. Wohl, Matt thought, had not really been kidding when he had said he had bled enough for the city for one day; the pressure on him to find the Magnella doers was enormous.
Payne went to Special Operations communications and tried to raise Harris on the radio. There was no reply, which meant that Harris was either working and away from his car, or that he had hung it up for the day.
That left Homicide, and opened the question of how to get there. He could go to the sergeant and get keys to one of the Special Operations cars. Or he could see if he could catch a ride downtown in either a Special Operations car or a Highway car. In either case, when he was finished at the Roundhouse, that would leave him downtown and his personal car here.
There was no reason for him to come back here, except to get his car, because it would be long past quitting before he finished at Homicide and finally ran Harris down, if he managed to do that.
He went back to Lieutenant Jensen and told him that if Inspector Wohl called for him, to tell him that he had gone to Homicide in his own car, and was going to quit for the day when he finished there.
"The inspector know where to reach you?"
"I'll either be home or I'll call in," Matt said.
"But youare going to Homicide?"
"Yes, sir."
Lieutenant Jensen, Matt suspected, was one of a large number of people, in and out of Highway, who nursed a resentment toward him. That a rookie should have a plainclothes assignment as administrative assistant to a division commander was part of it; and part of it, Matt knew, was that he had about as powerful a rabbi, in the person of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, as they came.
He had once discussed this with Detective Jason Washington, who had said it was clear to him tha
t the only option Matt had in the circumstances was to adopt a "fuck you" philosophy.
"You didn't ask for the assignment, Matt, the mayor set that up. And it's not your fault that Denny Coughlin looks on you as the son he never had. If people can't figure that out for themselves, fuck 'em."
In time, Matt hoped, the resentment would pass.
He drove downtown via North Broad Street, and was surprised, until he considered the hour, to find a spot in the parking area behind the Roundhouse.
If I were a cynical man, he thought, I might be prone to suspect that not all of the captains, inspectors, and chief inspectors who toil here in The Palace scrupulously avoid leaving their place of duty before five P.M.
He entered the Roundhouse by the rear door, waved his ID at the corporal behind the thick plastic window, and the corporal pushed the button that triggered the solenoid in the door to the lobby.
He got in one of the curved elevators and rode it up one floor, and then walked down the curved corridor to the Homicide Bureau.
He had been here often before, and twice under more or less involuntary conditions. The first time, which ranked among the top two or three most unpleasant experiences of his life, had been an eighthour visit following his shooting of Warren K. Fletcher, aka the Northwest serial rapist.
He had been "interviewed" by two very unpleasant Homicide detectives, under the cold eye of a Homicide captain named Henry Quaire, all three of whom seemed to feel that the shooting was not a good shooting. It had not helped at all that both Peter Wohl and Denny Coughlin had established themselves in Quaire's office during the "interview." By the time the "interview" was over, Matt was beginning to wonder whose side the Homicide guys were on.
The second time was when an asshole Narcotics sergeant had actually suspected (with nothing more, really, to go on than the Porsche) that Matt was (a) involved with drugs, and therefore (b) connected with the shotgun slaying of a Mafia guy named Tony DeZego.
That was all the bastard had. And all Matt had done to arouse his suspicion was to have driven onto the crime scene a minute or two after the shooting had taken place. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if Matt had been involved, he wouldn't have been the one who had sent his date to call theshooting, hospital case in.
The Witness boh-4 Page 9
