The Witness boh-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  His concern, which he recognized to contain more than a small element of fear for Matt Payne's well-being, immediately chagrined him.

  You're getting paranoid. They have this clever thing called "police radio." You have one. If something had happened, you 'd have heard about it.

  He had trouble finding a place to park and finally decided he had as much right to park by the main entrance as the Highway RPC did. He wasn't here to visit an ailing aunt.

  He walked past the "Visitors Register Here" desk by holding out his leather badge-and-photo-ID case to the rent-a-cop on duty. But when he walked across the lobby toward the bank of elevators he saw that the hospital rent-a-cops had set up another barrier, a guy sitting behind a table you had to get past before you could get on an elevator.

  This time, holding out the leather folder and murmuring the magic words "police officer" didn't work.

  "Excuse me, sir," the rent-a-cop said, getting to his feet after Wohl had waved the leather folder in front of him. "I don't see your visitor's badge."

  Another rent-a-cop he hadn't noticed before stepped between Wohl and the elevator.

  "I don't have one," Wohl said. "I'm a police officer." He gave the rent-a-cop a better look at his identification.

  "Who are you going to see?"

  "Matthew M. Payne," Wohl said. "He's on the surgical floor."

  "I'm sorry, sir, there's no patient here by that name," the rent-acop said.

  He had not, Wohl noticed, checked any kind of a list before making that announcement.

  He chuckled. "I'mInspector Wohl," he said. "The police officers keeping an eye on Officer Payne work for me."

  "Just a moment, sir," the rent-a-cop said, and sat down at his table and dialed a number. A moment later he said, "You can go up, sir."

  "You guys are really doing your job," Wohl said. "Thank you."

  The compliment, which was genuine, didn't seem to make much of an impression on either of the rent-a-cops.

  When Wohl stepped off the elevator, there was a Highway Patrolman Wohl could not remember having seen before, and a Highway Sergeant he had seen around and whose name came to him almost instantly.

  "Hello, Sergeant Carter," Wohl said, smiling, extending his hand. " For a while there, I didn't think they were going to let me come up here."

  "Good evening, sir," Sergeant Carter said. "You know Hughes, don't you?"

  "I've seen him around," Wohl said, offering his hand. "How are you, Hughes?"

  "Inspector."

  Then Wohl saw something he didn't like. Behind Hughes, leaning against the wall, was a short-barreled pump shotgun.

  I don't think that's a Remington 870, Wohl thought automatically. Probably an Ithaca.

  "Do you really think we're going to need the shotgun?" Wohl asked.

  "My experience is, Inspector," Carter said, "that if you have a shotgun, you seldom need one."

  Wohl smiled.

  Now, how am I going to tactfully tell him to get it out of sight without hurting his feelings?

  The first time he had seen Carter, shortly after assuming command of Highway, Wohl had taken the trouble of reading his name on the name tag and committing it to memory. First impressionsdid matter, and he had been favorably impressed with his first look at Carter. He was a good-looking guy, tall and lean, about as black as Jason Washington, who wore his uniform not only with evident pride, but according to the regulations. Highway guys were prone-Sergeant Peter Wohl had himself been prone-to add little sartorial touches to the prescribed uniform that sometimes crossed the line into ludicrous. Most commonly this was a crushed brim cap four sizes too small, shined cartridges (and/or extra cartridges), patent leather boots, and Sam Browne belt, that sort of thing. Carter looked like he could pose for a picture with the caption "The Prescribed Uniform for a Highway Patrol Sergeant."

  "I understand that the Secret Service guys guarding the President carry their shotguns in golf bags," Wohl said. "To keep from frightening the voters. Is there some way you can think of to get that out of sight, but handy?"

  "Not offhand, but I'll come up with something. You said 'handy,' inspector. Does that mean you take this threat seriously?"

  "They threw a Molotov cocktail at Sergeant Washington. You would have to be serious, or crazy, to do something like that. Yeah, I take them seriously. These people want two things, I think. To get themselves in the newspapers and to frighten off the witnesses to the Goldblatt job. They're already facing murder one. From their perspective, they have more to gain than to lose from killing a cop."

  "Did it scare off the witness?"

  "It made him mad," Wohl laughed. "I just talked to Jason Washington. He said Mr. Monahan couldn't wait to get over to the Detention Center and identify these creeps."

  "I looked in on Payne," Carter said. "I wondered if he was-if he had a gun. I didn't think I should ask him. I didn't know how much he knows about what the ILA has threatened."

  "Do me a favor, Sergeant," Wohl said. "Don't use the term 'ILA.' Don' t call these scumbags an army. That's just what they want. They're thieves and murderers, that's all."

  "Sorry," Carter said. "I see what you mean."

  "And pass that word too," Wohl said. "To answer your question: Yes, he's got one. The Mobile Crime Lab guys took his to the laboratory, so I loaned him one."

  "How long is he going to be in here?"

  "I'm not sure that I know what I'm talking about, but I think he'll be out of here tomorrow. Apparently, the doctors think the sooner you' re moving around, the better it is."

  "And then what?"

  "It's sort of a delicate question. We don't want these lunatics to think they have frightened us silly. Payne is, after all, a cop. Captain Pekach is working out some kind of an arrangement where Payne' s friends can keep an eye on him in plainclothes, maybe on overtime."

  "I'd be happy to take a little of that, if you need somebody."

  Wohl chuckled. "You'd look a little out of place, Sergeant, but thank you any way."

  "Because I'm black, you mean?"

  "No. Because you're what-thirty-five? And because you look like a cop. The three guys who are going to sit on Payne are his age."

  "And white?"

  I can't let that pass.

  "Tiny Lewis is as black as you are," Wohl said coldly. "He's also as old as Payne. He's one of the three. And since we're on this sensitive minority kick, Hay-zus Martinez is the second one. That means only one of the three will be what these scumbags would call a honky."

  "No offense, Inspector. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

  "Okay. I hope not. But just for the record, the only color I see in a cop is blue."

  "Yes, sir."

  Wohl saw that Carter looked genuinely unhappy.

  Did I have to jump on his ass that way? Was it because this whole thing has got me more upset than I should let it?

  The elevator door whooshed open again. The Highway cop with the shotgun, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened, and then relaxed when he recognized Captain David Pekach.

  "Inspector," Pekach said, somewhat stiffly. "Sergeant Carter." He nodded at the Highway cop standing against the wall.

  Martha Peebles, smiling a little uneasily, stood behind him.

  Nice-looking woman, Wohl thought.

  "Hello, Dave."

  "Inspector, I don't think you know Miss Peebles," Pekach said, slowly and carefully, as if reciting something polite he had memorized, and then he blurted, "my fiancee."

  "No, I don't," Wohl said, and, catching the look on Martha Peebles's face, decided,I'll bet that's the first time he ever used that word. Confirmation came when he looked at Pekach, whose face was now red.

  "How do you do?" Martha Peebles said, offering Wohl her hand.

  Classy, Wohl decided. Just what Dave needs.

  "I'm very pleased to meet you," Wohl said.

  "Honey," Pekach went on, "this is Sergeant Carter and Officer Hughes."

  They nodded at one another.
>
  "I hope I'm not intruding, Inspector," Martha Peebles said. "Matt Payne's father is an old family friend."

  "We were at the Roundhouse, and they told me I'd just missed you; that you were coming here," Pekach said. "We were already on our way here when Sabara called and told me what happened."

  "I'm sure Matt will be delighted to see you," Wohl said. "Why don't you go on in? I'd like a quick word with Dave."

  He pointed toward Matt's door. Martha walked to it, opened it a crack, peered in, and then pushed the door fully open and went in.

  Pekach waited until the automatic closing device had closed the door and then looked at Wohl.

  "Well, what do you think?"

  "About the security arrangements for Matt or Miss Peebles?"

  Pekach flushed again, and then smiled.

  "Both," he said.

  "Frankly, I can't see what a beautiful woman like that sees in an ugly Polack like you, but they say there's no accounting for taste."

  "Thanks a lot."

  "And so far as the security arrangements are concerned, it looks to me as if Sergeant Carter has things well in hand," Wohl said.

  Why am I uneasy saying that?

  "What about when Payne leaves the hospital?"

  "We're working on that. Question one, to be answered, is when he will be leaving. We can talk about that in the morning."

  Why didn't I just say we're going to have Lewis, McFadden, and Martinez sit on him?

  Wohl put his hand on Pekach's arm and led him to Matt Payne's door.

  EIGHTEEN

  "I'm sorry, we have no patient by that name," the hospital operator said.

  "But I know he's there," Helene Stillwell said snappishly. "Ivisited him this morning."

  "One moment, please," the operator said.

  "Damn!" Helene said.

  A male voice came on the line: "May I help you, ma'am?"

  Helene hung up.

  They're monitoring his calls. Obviously. After that threat to-what did it say?

  She dropped her eyes to theLedger, which she had laid on the marble top of the bar in the sun room, and found what she was looking for. It was in a front-page story with the headline : ISLAMIC LIBERATION ARMY THREATENS REVENGE FOR POLICE SHOOTING.

  "Death to the Zionist oppressors of our people and the murderers who call themselves police!" she read aloud. "My God!"

  Under the headline was a photograph of Matt and Jerry Carlucci, with the caption "Officer M. M. Payne, of Special Operations, apparently the target of the ILA threat, shown with Mayor Jerome Carlucci three months ago, shortly after Payne shot to death Germantown resident Warren K. Fletcher, allegedly the 'North Philadelphia serial rapist.'"

  Looking at Matt's face, she had a sudden very clear mental image of his gun, and the slick, menacing cartridges for it, which was then replaced by the memory of his naked body next to hers, and of him and the eruption, the explosion, in her, which had followed.

  "Christ!" she said softly, and reached for the cognac snifter on the marble.

  There was the clunking noise the garage door always made the moment the mechanism was triggered. When she looked out the glass wall at the end of the sun room, she saw Farny's Lincoln coupe waiting for the garage door to open fully.

  I didn't see him come up the drive, she thought, and then: I wonder what he's doing home so early.

  Helene went behind the bar, intending to give the cognac snifter a quick rinse and to put the bottle away. But then she changed her mind, splashed more Remy Martin in the glass and drank it all down at a gulp. Then she rinsed the glass and put the Remy Martin bottle back on the shelf beneath the bar.

  Before Farny came into the house, there was time for her to fish in her purse for a spray bottle of breath sweetener, to use it, replace it, and then move purse and newspaper to the glass-topped coffee table. She had seated herself on the couch and found and lit a cigarette by the time she heard the kitchen door open and then slam.

  He always slams that goddamn door!

  "I'm in here," she called.

  He didn't respond. She heard the sound of his opening the cloak closet under the stairs, the rattling of hangers, and then the clunk of the door closing.

  He appeared in the entrance to the sun room.

  "Hello," he said.

  "Hi," Helene said. "I didn't expect you until later."

  "I've got to go way the hell across town to the Detention Center," he said. "I thought it made more sense to get dressed now. I may have to call you and ask you to meet me at the Thompson's. All right?"

  She nodded. "I've been thinking about having a drink. Specifically, a straight cognac. Does that sound appealing?"

  "Very tempting, but I'd better not. I don't want someone sniffing my breath over there."

  "You don't mind if I do? I think I'm fighting a cold."

  "Don't fight too hard. You heard what I said about you maybe having to drive yourself to the Thompson's?"

  "Why don't I just skip the Thompson's?"

  "We've been over this before. Thompson is important in the party."

  "You make him, you make the both of you sound like apparatchiks in the Supreme Soviet," Helene said.

  "That's the second, maybe the third, time you made that little joke. I don't find it funny this time, either."

  "You're certainly in a lousy mood. Has it to do with-what did you say? 'The Detention Center'? What is that, anyway?"

  She got up and walked to the bar, retrieved her glass and the bottle of Remy Martin, and poured a half inch into the snifter.

  "The Detention Center is where they lock people up before they're indicted, or if they can't make bail. Essentially, it's a prison in everything but name."

  "What are you going to be doing there?"

  "The one witness we have to the robbery and murder at Goldblatt's is going to try to pick the guilty parties out in lineups. Washingtonthat great big Negro detective?-has scheduled it for half past six. Christ only knows how long it will take."

  "I think you're supposed to say 'black,' not 'Negro,'" Helene said.

  "Whatever."

  "Have you seen the paper?"

  "I wasn't in it, my secretary said."

  "I meant about the Islamic Liberation Army threatening reprisal, revenge, whatever."

  "I heard about it," he said, and then followed her pointing finger and went and picked up theLedger.

  She waited until he had read the newspaper story, and then asked, "Do they mean it?"

  "Who the hell knows?" he said, and then had a thought. "Going over to see that kid was a good idea. I don't know if I knew or not, but I didn't make the connection. You do know who his father is?"

  "Tell me."

  "Brewster Cortland Payne, of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester."

  "He's important in the party too, I suppose?"

  "Helene, you're being a bitch, and I'm really not in the mood for it."

  "Sorry."

  "But to answer your question, yes. He is important in the party. And if this political thing doesn't work out, Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester is the sort of firm with which I would like to be associated."

  "Then maybe we should have gotten him a box of candy or something."

  He looked at her and took a moment to consider whether she was being sarcastic again.

  "It's not too late, I suppose," Helene said.

  He considered that a moment.

  "I think that's a lost opportunity," he said.

  Damn, it would have given me an excuse to go see him.

  "Well, maybe we could have him for drinks or dinner or something," Helen said. "If it's important."

  "We'll see," Farnsworth Stillwell said. "I'm going to get dressed."

  He had just started up the stairs when the telephone rang. Helene answered it.

  "Mr. Farnsworth Stillwell, please," a female voice said. "Mr. Armando Giacomo is calling."

  "Just a moment, please," Helene said, and covered the mouthpiece with her hand.r />
  "Are you home for a Mr. Giacomo?" she called.

  "ArmandoGiacomo?" Stillwell asked, already coming back into the room.

  She nodded. "His secretary, I think."

  Stillwell took the phone from her.

  "This is Farnsworth Stillwell," he said, and then, a moment later, " How are you, Armando? What can I do for you?"

  The charm is on, Helene thought, Armando Whatsisname must be somebody else important in the party.

  "Well, I must say I'm surprised," Stillwell said to the telephone. " If I may say so, Armando, hiring you is tantamount to saying 'I'm guilty as sin and need a genius to get me off.'"

  There was a reply that Helene could not hear.

  He's wearing one of his patently insincere smiles. Whatever this was about, he doesn't like it.

  "Well, I'll see you there, then, Armando," Stillwell said. "I'm going to change my clothes and go over there. Helene and I are having dinner with Jack Thompson, and I have no idea how long the business at the Detention Center will take. I appreciate your courtesy in calling me."

  He absentmindedly handed her the handset.

  "What was that all about?" Helene asked.

  "That was Armando C. Giacomo," he said.

  "So the girl said. Whois Armando C. Giawhatever?"

  A look of annoyance crossed his face, but he almost visibly made the decision to answer her.

  "The top two criminal lawyers in Philadelphia, in my judgment, and practically everyone else's, are Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson of the aforementioned Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester and Armando C. Giacomo. Giacomo telephoned to tell me he has been retained to represent the people the police arrested this morning."

  "That's bad news, I gather."

  "Frankly, I would rather face some public defender six months out of law school, or one of the less expensive members of the criminal bar," Stillwell said. "I don't want to walk out of the courtroom with egg all over my face. I'll have to give this development some thought."

  He turned and left the room and went to their bedroom on the second floor.

  Farnsworth Stillwell had several disturbing thoughts. Armando C. Giacomo was very good, and consequently very expensive. Like Colonel J. Dunlop Mawson, he had a well-earned reputation for defending, most often successfully and invariably with great skill, people charged with violation of the whole gamut of criminal offenses.