The Witness boh-4

by W. E. B Griffin

  "Okay, Joe," Washington said.

  "Lights," D'Amata ordered.

  One of the corrections officers flicked switches that killed all the lights in the room except the floodlights shining on the platform. The people in the room would be only barely visible to the men on the platform.

  "Okay," D'Amata ordered. "Bring them in."

  The door to the room at the end of the platform opened, and eight men came into the room and took the two steps up to the platform.

  "Stand directly under the number, look forward," D'Amata ordered. The men complied.

  The Major Crimes lieutenant with the 35-mm camera walked in front of the men sitting in the chairs. He took three flash photographs, one from the left, one from the center, and one from the right.

  "You didn't have to do that, Jason," Giacomo said.

  "Oh, yes, I did, Manny." Washington said. "I only get burned once."

  I wonder what the hell that's all about, Stillwell thought, and then the answer came to him: I will get copies of those photographs. If Giacomo suggests during the trial that Monahan was able to pick out Estivez because the other people in the lineup were conspicuously different in age, or size, or complexion, or whatever, I can introduce the pictures he's taking.

  He remembered what Tony Callis had said about Washington having forgotten more about criminal law than he knew.

  "Number one, step forward," D'Amata ordered when the photographer had stepped out of the way.

  "Number three," Albert J. Monahan said positively.

  "Just a moment, please, Mr. Monahan," Washington said.

  "Number three is one of them. I recognize the bastard when I see him."

  "Mr. Monahan," Washington said, "I ask you now if you recognize any of the men on the platform."

  "Number three," Monahan said impatiently. "I told you already."

  "Can you tell us where you have seen the man standing under the number three on the platform?" Washington asked.

  "He's one of the bastards who came into the store and robbed it and shot it up."

  "You are referring to January third of this year, and the robbery and murder that occurred at Goldblatt's furniture store on South Street?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "There is no question in your mind that the man standing under number three is one of the participants in that robbery and murder?"

  "None whatever. That's one of them. That's him. Number three."

  "Mr. Giacomo?" Washington asked.

  Armando G. Giacomo shook his head, signifying that he had nothing to say.

  "Jason?" Joe D'Amata asked.

  "We're through with this bunch," Washington said.

  "Take them out," D'Amata ordered.

  A corrections officer opened the door at the end of the platform and gestured for the men on the platform to get off it.

  That man didn't show any sign of anything at all when Monahan picked him out, Stillwell thought. What kind of people are we dealing with here?

  "Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I see that you're wearing glasses."

  "That's right."

  "Before this is all over, I'd be grateful if you would give me the name of your eye doctor."

  "You're not going to try to tell me I couldn't see that bastard? Recognize him?"

  "I'm just trying to do the best job I can, Mr. Monahan," Giacomo said. "I'm sure you understand."

  "No, I don't," Monahan said. "I don't understand at all."

  NINETEEN

  Lieutenant Jack Malone had just carefully rewrapped the aluminum foil around the remnants of his dinner-two egg rolls and beef-and-pepperand was about to shoot it, basketball-like, into the wastebasket under the writing desk in his room in the St. Charles Hotel when his telephone rang.

  He glanced at his watch as he reached for the telephone. Quarter past seven. Sometimes Little Jack would telephone him around this hour. His first reaction was pleasure, which was almost immediately replaced with something close to pain:

  If it is Little Jack, he's liable to ask again why I'm not coming home.

  "Peter Wohl, Jack," his caller said. "Am I interrupting anything?"

  "No, sir."

  "Sorry to bother you at home, but I want to talk to you about something."

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Have you had dinner?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Would you mind watching me eat? I've got to get something in my stomach."

  "Not at all."

  "You know Ribs Unlimited on Chestnut Street?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Can you meet me there in-thirty, thirty-five minutes?"

  "Yes, sir, I'll be there."

  "At the bar, Jack. Thank you," Wohl said, and hung up.

  What the fuck does Wohl want? Is this going to be one of those heartto-heart talks better held in an informal atmosphere? Has word finally got to him that I was watching Holland's body shop?

  "Malone, you disappoint me. A word to the wise should have been sufficient. Get Bob Holland out of your mind. In other words, get off his case."

  Malone pushed himself out of bed and started to dress. He really hated to wear anything but blue jeans and a sweater and a nylon jacket,because sure as Christ made little apples, if I put on a suit and shirt, I will get something -slush or barbecue sauce, something-on them and have to take them to the cleaners.

  "But on the other hand," he said aloud as he took a tweed sports coat and a pair of cavalry twill trousers from the closet, "one must look one's best when one is about to socialize with one's superior officer. Clothes indeed do make the man."

  When he got outside the hotel, he saw that the temperature had dropped, and frozen the slush. He decided to walk. It wasn't really that close, but if he drove, he might not be able to find a place to park when he came back, and he had plenty of time. Wohl had said thirty, thirty-five minutes.

  Now I won't soil my clothes, I'll slip on the goddamn ice and break my fucking leg.

  Ribs Unlimited, despite the lousy weather, was crowded. There was a line of people waiting for the nod of the head-waiter in the narrow entrance foyer.

  Malone stood in the line for a minute or two, and then remembered Wohl had said "in the bar." The headwaiter tried to stop him.

  "I'm meeting someone," Malone said, and kept walking. He found an empty stool next to a woman who was desperately trying to appear younger than the calendar made her, and whose perfume filled his nostrils with a scent that reminded him of something else he hadn't been getting much-any-of lately.

  When the bartender appeared, he almost automatically said "Ortleib's" but at the last moment changed his mind.

  "John Jameson, easy on the ice," he said.

  Fuck it, I've been a good boy lately. One little shooter will be good for me. And one I can afford.

  Wohl appeared as the bartender served the drink.

  "Been waiting long?"

  "No, sir, I just got here."

  "What is that?"

  "Irish."

  "I feel Irish," Wohl said to the bartender. "Same way, please. Not too much ice."

  A heavyset man appeared, beaming.

  "How are you, Inspector?"

  "How are you, Charley?" Wohl replied. "Charley, this is Lieutenant Jack Malone. Jack, Charley Meader, our host."

  "You work with the inspector, Lieutenant?" Meader said, pumping Malone's hand.

  "Yes, sir," Malone said.

  "I've got you a table in the back anytime you're ready, Inspector," Meader said.

  "I guess we could carry our drinks, right?" Wohl said. "When I get mine, that is."

  "Whatever you'd prefer," Meader said, and waited until the bartender served Wohl.

  "House account that, Jerry," he said.

  "Very kind, thank you," Wohl said.

  "My pleasure, Inspector. And anytime, you know that."

  He patted Wohl on the shoulder and shook hands with both of them.

  "Whenever you're ready, Inspector, your table's available," Meader said. "Good to see you. And to
meet you, Lieutenant."

  Wohl waited until he was gone, then said, "There was once a Department of Health inspector who led Charley Meader to believe that he would have far less trouble passing his inspections if he handed him an envelope once a week when he came in for a free meal."

  "Oh," Malone said.

  "Charley belongs to the Jaguar Club," Wohl went on. "You know I have a Jaguar?"

  "I've seen it."

  "1950 SK-120 Drophead Coupe," Wohl said. "So he came to me after a meeting one night and said he had heard I was a cop, and that he didn' t want to put me on the spot, but did I know an honest sergeant, or maybe even an honest lieutenant. He would go to him, without mentioning my name, and tell him his problem."

  "A long time ago?"

  "Just before they gave me Special Operations," Wohl said.

  "He didn't know you were a staff inspector?"

  "No. Not until I testified in court."

  "So what happened?"

  "The next time the Health Department sleaze-ball came in, I was tending bar and I had a photographer up there." He gestured toward a balcony overlooking the bar and smiled. "I put a microphone in the pretzel bowl. Hanging Harriet gave the Health Department guy three to five," Wohl said.

  Hanging Harriet was the Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a formidable black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based upon a civil service whose honesty was above question.

  "No wonder he buys you drinks."

  "The sad part of the story, Jack, is that Charley really was afraid to go to the cops until he found one he thoughtmight be honest."

  Wohl took a swallow of his drink, and then said, "Let's carry these to the table. I've got to get something to eat."

  The headwaiter left his padded rope and showed them to a table at the rear of the room. A waiter immediately appeared.

  "The El Rancho Special," Wohl ordered. "Hold the beans. French fries."

  "What's that?"

  "Barbecued beef. Great sauce. You really ought to try it."

  "I think I will," Malone said.

  "Yes, sir. And can I get you gentlemen a drink?"

  "Please. The same thing. Jameson's, isn't it?"

  "Jameson's," Malone offered.

  "And I don't care what Mr. Meader says, I want the check for this," Wohl said.

  The waiter looked uncomfortable.

  "You're going to have to talk to Mr. Meader about that, sir."

  "All right," Wohl said. He waited until the waiter left, and then said, "Well, you can't say I didn't try to pay for this, can you?"

  Malone chuckled.

  Wohl reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and came out with several sheets of blue-lined paper and handed them to Malone.

  "I'd like to know what you think about that, Jack. I don't have muchpractically no-experience in this sort of thing."

  "What is it?"

  "How to protect Monahan, the witness in the Goldblatt job, and Matt Payne. Monahan positively identified everybody we arrested, by the way. Washington called me just after I called you."

  The protection plan was detailed and precise, even including drawings of Monahan's house, Matt's apartment, and the areas around them. That didn't surprise Malone, for he expected as much from Wohl. His brief association with him had convinced him that he really was as smart as his reputation held him to be.

  But he was surprised at the handwriting. He had read somewhere, years before, and come to accept, that a very good clue to a man's character was his handwriting. From what he had seen of Wohl, what he knew about him, there was a certain flamboyance to his character, which, according to the handwriting theory, should have manifested itself in flamboyant, perhaps even careless, writing. But the writing on the sheets of lined paper was quite the opposite. Wohl's characters were small, carefully formed, with dots over the I's, and neatly crossed T' s. Even his abbreviations were followed by periods.

  Maybe that's what he's really like, Malone thought. Beneath the fashionable clothing and the anti-establishment public attitude, there really beats the heart of a very careful man, one who doesn't really like to take the chance of being wrong.

  "You have three officers at Monahan's house when he's there," Malone said, but it was meant as a question, and Wohl answered it.

  "Two two-man Special Operations RPCs," Wohl said. "Four cops. One car and three cops at Monahan's. The fourth officer will be the guy wearing the rent-a-cop uniform in the garage on Rittenhouse Square."

  "He'll have the second car with him at Payne's place?" Malone asked.

  Wohl nodded, and went on. "I think Monahan's at the greatest risk. There is a real chance that they will try to kill him. And I don't want everybody there just sitting in a car. I want one man, all the time, walking around. It's cold as hell now, so they can split it up any way they want."

  "I understand."

  "Payne's apartment is really easy to protect. After five-thirty, the main door is locked. There's a pretty good burglar alarm not only on the door, but on the first-, second-, and third-floor windows. There's a key for the elevator from the basement. They haven't been using it, but starting tomorrow, they'll have to."

  "Payne gets out of the hospital tomorrow?"

  "Right. Before lunch. He'll go to the Roundhouse for the Homicide interviews-Chief Coughlin got Chief Lowenstein to hold off on that, kept them out of Frankford Hospital, but it has to be done-and then he'll go to his apartment. We'll give the officer in the rent-a-cop uniform a shotgun; he can stay inside that little cubicle with it. And, of course, we'll have one of the three guys with Payne around the clock. I don't think that's going to be a problem. Monahan might be."

  "And district and Highway cars will make passes by both places all night, right?"

  "District, Highway, and Special Operations," Wohl said. "There should be at least one of them going by both places at least once an hour, maybe more often. And if Monahan keeps insisting on going to work, by Goldblatt's during the day."

  "I don't want to sound like I'm polishing the apple, Inspector, but I can't think of a thing I'd do differently."

  "Good," Wohl said. "Because, until further notice, you're in charge. I told Captain Sabara and Captain Pekach that they are to give you whatever you think you need."

  "Yes, sir," Malone said. "I met McFadden, and I've seen Martinez, but I don't know this man Lewis."

  "Great big black kid," Wohl said. "He just came on the job, sort of."

  "Sort of?"

  "He worked Police Radio for four, five years before he came on the job, while he was in college. His father is a cop. He made lieutenant on the list before yours. He used to be a sergeant in the 18^th District."

  "Great big guy? Mean as hell, and goes strictly by the book?"

  "That's him."

  "And the young one's in Highway?"

  "No. He's been working as a gofer for Detective Harris. Frankly-don't misunderstand this, he's a nice kid and he'll probably make a very good cop-he's in Special Operations because the mayor made a speech at some black church saying Czernick had assigned him to Special Operations. The same sort of thing that Carlucci did with Payne. Carlucci told the newspapers Payne was my administrative assistant, so I named Payne my administrative assistant. Carlucci told the people at the church that Czernick had assigned this well-educated, highly motivated young black officer to Special Operations, so Czernick assigned him to us-"

  The waiter delivered two plates heaped high with food. The smell made Malone's mouth water.

  "I'll get your drinks, gentlemen," the waiter said.

  "-so not knowing what to do with him," Wohl went on, "I gave him to Harris. He needed a gofer. We still don't have a fucking clue about who shot that young Italian cop, Magnella. That's what Harris is working."

  Malone, who had heard the gossip about Detective Tony Harris being on a monumental bender, wondered if Wohl knew.

  Wohl started eating.

  "The idea, if I didn't make this clear," he said a moment later, "is
that with three young cops, in plainclothes, one of whom is actually Payne's buddy, it will look, I hope, that they're just hanging around with him."

  "I got that. Instead of a protection detail, you mean?"

  "Right. I don't want these scumbags to get the idea that they're worrying us as much as they are."

  "How long is this going to go on?"

  "So far as Monahan is concerned, I don't know. At least until the end of the trial, and probably a little longer. Stillwell is going to go before the Grand Jury as soon as he can, probably in the next couple of days, and then they're going to put it on the docket as soon as that can be arranged. Giacomo will do his damnedest to get continuances, of course, but with a little bit of luck, we'll have a judge who won't indulge him. As far as Payne is concerned: He's a cop. As soon as he's back for duty, we'll call off official protection. Encourage him to do his drinking and wenching in the FOP."

  Malone nodded and chuckled.

  "There is also a chance that we'll be able to get our hands on the people who are issuing the press releases. I want the people on Monahan's house to take license numbers, that sort of thing."

  "That wasn't in here," Malone said, tapping the lined paper Wohl had given him, "but I thought about it."

  "There is also a chance, a very slim one, that we can get some of the other witnesses to agree to testify. Washington's going to talk to them. And I'm sure that Stillwell will probably try too. If we can get more people to come forward-"

  "Which is exactly what these scumbags are worried about, what they're trying to prevent," Malone said, and then, really surprising Wohl, said bitterly, "Shit!"

  Then, having heard what he said, and seeing the look on Wohl's face, he explained.

  "Second table from the headwaiter's table. My wife. Ex-wife."

  Wohl looked, saw a not-especially-attractive woman, facing in their direction, across a table from a man with long, silver-gray hair, and then turned to Malone.

  "That the lawyer?"

  "That's him."

  "What I think you should do, Jack," Wohl said, "is smile and act as if you're having a great time. I'm only sorry that I'm not a longlegged blonde with spectacular breastworks."