When he had tried looking for Jason Washington in all the places he could think, starting with his home, and then going to the Roundhouse and over to the parking garage and even to Hahneman Hospital, he went back to the Roundhouse, on the admittedly somewhat flimsy reasoning that Washington had told him to meet him in Homicide in the Roundhouse before he left word on the answering machine not to meet him there.
Washington was not in Homicide and had not been there.
It occurred to Matt that very possibly Washington had finished doing whatever he was doing and had gone, as he said he would, out to Bustleton and Bowler. If Washingtonwas at Bustleton and Bowler, where he said he would be, and Officer Payne was downtown at the Roundhouse looking for him, Officer Payne was going to look like a goddamn fool.
Which, in the final analysis, was probably a just evaluation.
He called Bustleton and Bowler. "Special Operations, Sergeant Anderson."
"This is Payne, Sergeant. Is Detective Washington around there someplace?"
"No. He called in and wanted to talk to you. He said he told you to wait for him here."
"Did he say where he was?"
"No. He just said if I saw you, I was to sit on you."
"Okay."
"Wait a minute. He said that he would be at City Hall."
"Thank you very much," Matt said.
He hung up, rode the elevator down from Homicide, and ran out of the building into the parking lot, where a white-capped Traffic officer was in the process of putting an illegal-parking citation under the Porsche's windshield wiper.
"Could I change your mind about doing that if I told you I was on the job?" Matt asked.
The Traffic cop, who was old enough to be Matt's father, looked at him dubiously.
"You're a 369?"
Matt nodded.
"Where?"
"Special Operations," Matt said.
The Traffic cop, shaking his head, removed the citation.
"What did you guys do?" he asked, nodding at the Porsche. " Confiscate that from a drug dealer?"
This is not the time to tell Daddy that I chopped down the cherry tree.
"Yeah," Matt said. "Nice, huh?"
The Traffic cop shook his head resignedly and walked off without another word.
Matt drove to City Hall and parked the Porsche in an area reserved FOR POLICE VEHICLES ONLY.
I would not be at all surprised, the way things are going today, that when I come out of here, to find a cop, maybe that same cop, putting another ticket on me here.
He went inside the building and trotted up the stairs to the second floor. Thirty seconds after that he spotted Detective Jason Washington walking toward him. From the look on Washington's face, Matt could tell he was not overcome with joy to see him.
"What are you doing here?" Washington asked in greeting.
"Inspector Wohl sent me to find you," Matt said. "He wants to see you right away."
"Keep looking," Washington said. "You didn't find me yet."
"Okay," Matt said, with only a moment's hesitation. "I didn't."
"In ten minutes, give or take, you will find me in the groundfloor stairwell, on the southeast corner of the building."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
"It's important, Matt," Washington said. "Trust me."
"Certainly."
Wait a minute! If my intention is to put Dolan off-balance, the kid can help. Dolan doesn't like him.
"I don't have time to explain this, even if I were sure I could," Washington said. "But I just changed my mind. I want you to come with me. I'm looking for your friend, Sergeant Dolan."
Matt's face registered surprise.
"I don't want you to open your mouth, understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You any kind of an actor?"
"I don't know."
"Let us suppose that I have caught your friend Dolan doing something he shouldn't have," Washington said, "and I told you. Do you think you could work up a smug, self-satisfied look? So that Dolan would think you know he's in trouble and are very pleased about it?"
"If that son of a bitch is in trouble, I wouldn't have to do very much acting," Matt said.
"Just keep your mouth shut," Washington said. "I mean that. If I blow this, we could both be in trouble."
"Okay," Matt said.
"And there, obviously at the intervention of a benign deity," Washington said softly, "is the son of a bitch."
Matt looked over his shoulder. Sergeant Dolan was coming down the crowded corridor. At the moment Matt looked, Dolan spotted them. He did not look very happy about it.
"Sergeant Dolan," Washington called out, "may I see you a moment, please?"
He walked over to him with Matt at his heels.
"What's on your mind, Washington?" Sergeant Dolan asked.
Washington turned to Matt and handed him two of the three large manila envelopes.
"Give one to Chief Lowenstein and the other one to Chief Coughlin," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"But I'd suggest you stick around, Matt, until we have Sergeant Dolan's explanation."
"Yes, sir."
"You know Officer Payne, don't you, Sergeant? He's Inspector Wohl' s special assistant."
"Yeah, I know him. Whaddaya say, Payne?"
Matt nodded at Sergeant Dolan.
"Sorry to bother you again, Sergeant," Washington said. "But I've come up with some more photographs. I'd like to show them to you."
He handed Dolan the third envelope. Dolan opened it. His face showed that what he considered the worst possible scenario had begun to play.
"So?" he said with transparent belligerence.
"I was hoping you could tell me who those two gentlemen are," Washington said.
"Haven't the faintest fucking idea. They was just on the street."
"I was wondering why those photographs weren't included in your report, or in the photographs you showed me."
"They wasn't important."
"You wouldn't want to even guess who those two gentlemen are?"
"No, I wouldn't," Dolan said.
"Let's stop the crap, Dolan," Washington said. "This has gone too far."
"Fuck you, Washington," Dolan said, his bravado transparent.
"Payne, get on the phone and tell Inspector Wohl that Sergeant Dolan is being uncooperative," Washington said. "And ask him to please let me know whether he wants to take it from here or whether I should take this directly to Chief Lowenstein. I'll wait here with Sergeant Dolan."
"Yes, sir," Matt said.
"Washington, can I talk to you private?" Dolan asked. "It's not what you think it is."
"How do you know what I think it is?"
"It's dumb but it's not dirty," Dolan said, "is what I mean."
Detective Washington's face registered suspicion and distaste.
"Come on, Washington," Sergeant Dolan said, "I've got as much time on the job as you do. I told you this isn't dirty."
"But you don't want Payne to hear it, right?" Washington said. "So you tell me about it, and later it's your word against mine?"
"That's not it at all," Dolan said.
"Then what is it?"
"Well, okay, then. But not here in the fucking corridor."
Washington let him sweat fifteen seconds, which seemed to be much longer, and then he said, "Okay, Dolan. I know you're a good cop. You and I will find someplace to talk. Alone. And Payne will wait here until we're finished."
Dolan nodded. He looked at Matt Payne. "Nothing personal, Payne."
Matt nodded.
Washington took Dolan's arm and they walked down the wide, highceilinged corridor. Washington opened a door, looked inside, and then held it wide for Dolan to precede him.
Matt waited where he had been told to wait for three or four minutes, and then curiosity got the better of him and he walked down the corridor. Through a very dirty pane of glass he saw Washington and Dolan in an empty courtroom. They were standing beside one of the l
arge, ornately carved tables provided for counsel during trial.
Matt walked back down the corridor to where he had been told to wait.
A minute later Washington and Dolan came out of the courtroom. Dolan walked toward Matt. Washington beckoned for Matt to follow him and then walked quickly in the other direction, toward the staircase. Dolan avoided looking at Matt as he passed him. Matt thought he looked sick.
Washington didn't wait for Matt to catch up with him. On the stair landing Matt looked down and saw Washington going down the stairs two at a time. He ran after him and caught up with him in the courtyard. By then Washington was in his car, and had taken the microphone from the glove compartment.
"W-William One, W-William Seven," Washington said.
"W-William One."
"Inspector, I'm at City Hall. Can I meet you somewhere?"
"I'm headed for Bustleton and Bowler. Did Payne find you?"
"Yeah. But I would rather talk to you before you get to the office."
"Okay. I'm at Broad and 66^th Avenue at the Oak Lane Diner. I'll wait for you there."
"On my way. Thank you," Washington said, and put the microphone away. He looked at Payne. "You ever readThrough the Looking Glass!"
Matt nodded.
"Profound book, although I understand he wrote it stoned on cocaine. Things really are more Curiouser than you would believe. If I lose you in traffic, Wohl's waiting for us in the Oak Lane Diner at Broad and 66^th Avenue."
He pulled the door closed and started the engine.
Matt ran across the interior courtyard to the Porsche. There was an illegal parking citation under the windshield wiper.
He didn't see Washington in traffic, but when he got to the Oak Lane Diner, Washington's car was parked beside Wohl's. When he went inside, a waitress was delivering three cups of coffee to a booth table, on which Washington was spreading out the eight-by-ten photographs he had shown Sergeant Dolan.
Wohl looked up.
"Mr. Payne, well-known tracer of lost detectives," he said, "sit." He slid over to make room.
Washington was smiling.
"Okay, I give up," Wohl said. "What am I looking at?"
Matt looked at the photographs. A neatly dressed man carrying an attache case and looking in the window of the cocktail lounge of the Warwick Hotel. A bald-headed man driving a Pontiac. The first man getting into the Pontiac. There were a dozen variations.
"Your FBI at work," Washington said.
"What?"
"They were apparently-what's the word they use, surveilling?surveilling Mr. DeZego."
"Where'd these come from?"
"Sergeant Dolan."
"Why haven't we seen them before?"
"You're not going to believe this," Washington said.
"Try me."
"Sergeant Dolan does not like the FBI."
"So what? I'm not all that in love with them myself," Wohl said.
"So he decided to zing them," Washington said.
"What does that mean?"
"He wanted to make them squirm, to let them know that their surveillance was not as discreet as they like to think it is."
"You've lost me."
"He sent the FBI office pictures of themselves at work," Washington said. "In a plain brown envelope."
"Jesus Christ, that's childish!" Wohl said disgustedly.
"I would tend to agree," Washington said.
"Didn't he know Homicide would want to talk to these guys?" Wohl asked, and then, before there could be a reply, he thought of something else: "And the goddamn FBI! They must have known what went down. Why didn't they come forward?"
"Far be it from me to cast aspersions on our federal cousins," Washington said dryly, "but it has sometimes been alleged that the FBI doesn't like to waste its time dealing with the local authoritiesunless, of course, they can steal the arrest and get their pictures in the newspapers."
"I'll be a son of a bitch!" Wohl said furiously.
"Can I say something to you as a friend, Inspector?" Washington asked.
"Sure," Wohl said. "I just can'tbelieve this shit! God damn those arrogant bastards! DeZego was murdered! Assassinated! And the fucking FBI can't be bothered with it!"
"Peter, go by the book," Washington said.
"Meaning?"
"There is a departmental regulation that says any contact with federal agencies will be conducted through the Office of Extradepartmental Affairs. There's a captain in the Roundhouse-"
"Duffy," Wohl said. "Jack Duffy."
"Right. Go through Duffy."
Wohl looked at Washington for a long moment, his jaws working.
"When you're angry, Peter," Washington said, "you really give the word a whole new meaning. You getangry. And youstay angry."
A faint smile appeared on Wohl's face.
"You remember, huh, Jason?"
"I'm one of the few people who knows that it's not true you have never lost your temper," Washington said.
"Now Sherlock Holmes knows too," Wohl said, nodding at Matt Payne. "He tell you about the pimp?"
"No."
"What pimp?" Matt asked.
"That's right," Wohl said. "You don't know, either, do you?"
"No, sir."
Wohl related the whole sequence of events leading up to the death of Marvin Lanier.
"So what I think you should do, Jason," he concluded, "is get on the radio and get in touch with Tony Harris, and see what, if anything, they-he and D'Amata-have come up with. And then tell Tony I saw the mayor this morning, and he wants the Magnella shooting solved. I wish he'd get back on that."
"You saw the mayor? I saw your car at City Hall."
"Just a friendly little chat, to assure me of his absolute faith in me," Wohl said dryly.
"Yes, sir," Washington said. "You want me to take Payne with me? Or have you got something for him to do?"
Wohl gathered the photographs together, stacked them neatly, and put them back in the envelope. "Payne, you go out to Bustleton and Bowler, driving slowly and carefully, obeying all the speed limits. When you get there, telephone Captain John J. Duffy at the Roundhouse and tell him that I would be grateful for an appointment at his earliest convenience."
"Yes, sir."
"And then contact me and tell me when Captain Duffy will be able to see me."
"Where will you be, Inspector?"
"Around," Wohl said. "Around."
"Come on, Peter!" Washington said.
"You made your point, Jason. Leave it," Wohl said. He bumped hips with Matt, signaling he wanted to get up, then picked up the envelope with the photographs. When Matt was standing in the aisle, Wohl dropped money on the table and started to walk away. Then he turned. " Good job, Jason, coming up with the photographs. Thank you."
"Just don't do something with them that will make me regret it," Washington said.
"I told you to leave it, Jason!" Wohl said, icily furious. Then he walked out of the Oak Lane Diner and got in his car. Neither Jason Washington nor Matt Payne was surprised to see him head back downtown rather than toward Bustleton and Bowler. The Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was downtown.
"Until a moment ago," Washington said, "there was an element of humor in this. Now it's not at all funny."
"So he tells the FBI what he thinks of them. So what?"
Washington looked at him, as if surprised that Matt could ask such a stupid question.
"I really don't understand," Matt said.
"The FBI doesn't like criticism," he explained. "Especially in a case like this, where it's justified. So instead of admitting they acted like horses' asses, they will come up with a good reason why they didn't happen to mention to us that they had men on DeZego. 'A continuing investigation' is one phrase they use; 'classified national security matters' is another one. And they go to Commissioner Czernick and say, 'We thought we had an agreement that whenever one of your people wants something from us, he would go through Captain Duffy's Office of Extradep
artmental Affairs. Your man Wohl was just in here making all kinds of wild accusations and behaving in a most unprofessional manner."'
"But they were wrong," Matt protested.
"We don't like to admit it, but we need the FBI, use it a lot. The NCIC is an FBI operation. They have the best forensic laboratories in the world. They sometimes tip us off to things. They pass out spaces at the FBI Academy. You get an FBI expert to testify in court, the jury believes him if he announces the moon is made of green cheese. The bottom line is that we need them as much, maybe more, than they need us. For another example, the FBI was 'consulted' before we got the federal grant to set up Special Operations. If they had said-even suggested-that we wouldn't use the money wisely, we wouldn't have gotten it. So we try to maintain the best possible relationship with the FBI."
"And Wohl doesn't know that?"
"Wohl's angry. He has every right to be. He doesn't get that way very often, but when he does-"
"Shit," Matt said.
"Let's just hope he cools off a little before he storms through the door and tells the SAC what he thinks of him and the other assholes," Washington said.
"The what?"
"SAC, special agent in charge," Washington explained, translating. "There are also AACs, three of them, which stands for assistant agent in charge. But as pissed as Peter is, he's going to see the head man, not one of the underlings."
He slid off the seat and stood up.
"If you hear anything, let me know, and vice versa," he said.
"If that goddamn Dolan hadn't gotten clever-"
"Don't be too hard on him," Washington said. "I think one of the reasons Peter Wohl is so angry is that he knows that if he had a chance to take pictures of a couple of FBI clowns on a surveillance, he would have mailed them to their office too. I've pulled their chain once or twice myself. There's something in their anointed-by-theAlmighty demeanor that brings that sort of thing out in most cops."
He smiled at Matt and then walked out of the diner. Matt got in the Porsche and turned right onto North Broad Street.
A minute or two later he glanced at the passenger seat and saw that he still had the two envelopes with duplicate sets of photographs Washington had given him in City Hall.
The Victim boh-3 Page 30
