“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid you’re right about that,” Washington agreed. “You would say, then, that it’s probable she didn’t have more than a hundred dollars in her purse?”
“I would be very surprised if she had more than—actually, as much as—fifty dollars. She had credit cards, of course.”
“There were seven or eight of those in her purse,” Washington said. “They weren’t stolen.”
“Well, this pretty much shoots down your professional-thief theory then, doesn’t it, Mr. Washington?” H. Richard Detweiler said.
“Yes, sir. It certainly looks that way, doesn’t it? We’re back to Matt’s theory that Miss Detweiler was an innocent bystander.”
“Does that mean that whoever did this to my daughter is going to get away with it?” Grace Detweiler asked unpleasantly.
“No, ma’am,” Washington said. “I think we’ll find whoever did it.”
“I called Jeanne Browne, Matt,” Grace Detweiler said, “and told her that there is absolutely no reason to let what happened to Penny interfere with Daffy and Chad’s wedding.”
“I was out there this morning,” Matt replied. “They were worried about it. What to do, I mean.”
“Well, as I say, Mr. Detweiler and I have agreed that this should not interfere with the wedding in any way. Are we going to see you there?”
“I’ll be holding Chad up,” Matt said.
“Nice to have met you, Mr. Washington,” she said, and marched out of the room.
“She didn’t mean to jump on you that way, Matt,” H. Richard Detweiler said. “She’s naturally upset.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt said.
“Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Detweiler,” Washington said.
“Thank you, Mr. Washington,” Detweiler said. “And you, too, Matt.”
In the car Washington asked, even before they’d passed through the gate, “What’s going on this afternoon? With the wedding party?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking,” Matt confessed.
“If you weren’t out Sherlock Holmesing with me, where would you be?”
Pushing a typewriter outside Wohl’s office, Matt thought, then, That’s not what he’s asking.
“With Chad Nesbitt,” Matt said.
“The bridegroom?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what I hoped,” Washington said. “Where’s that gorgeous new car of yours?”
“Bustleton and Bowler.”
Washington reached for the microphone, then flicked a switch.
“W-William Three,” he said into the mike. “I need a Highway car to meet me at City Line and Monument.”
“W-William Three, this is Highway Twenty. I’m westbound on the Schuylkill Expressway at City Line.”
“Highway Twenty, meet me at City Line and Monument.”
“Twenty, ’kay.”
Washington put down the microphone and turned to Matt. “They’ll give you a ride to get your car,” he said. “What I’m hoping is that your peers will not be struck dumb when they remember you’re a cop. You just might pick up something. Go through the whole business. What is that again?”
“Not much. Just the wedding itself and the reception.”
“The bachelor party was last night?”
“Yeah. I missed it.”
“Pity. It might have been interesting.”
Washington shifted around on the seat, taking out the stuff he had removed from Penelope Detweiler’s wastebasket and clothing pockets and handing it to Matt. There were half a dozen matchbooks, several crumpled pieces of paper, several tissues with what could have been spots of dried blood on them, and the small plastic vial.
“What do you think is in the vial?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if what was in the vial was cocaine,” Washington said. “I’ll drop it by the lab and find out. The tissues indicate she might have been injecting heroin.”
Washington saw the look of mingled surprise and confusion on Matt’s face and went on: “Heroin users will often dab the needle mark with tissues. Thus the blood spots. Cocaine is usually snorted or smoked, but some experienced junkies sometimes mix cocaine with their heroin and then inject it. They call it a speedball. The cocaine provides an immediate euphoria, a rush, lasting maybe fifteen, twenty, twenty-five minutes. Then the heroin kicks in, as a depressant, and brings the user down from the high into a mellow low lasting for several hours. Very powerful, very dangerous.”
“Jesus,” Matt said, visibly upset. Then he asked, “Is it evidence? I mean, we didn’t have a search warrant or probable cause.”
“No. Moot point. No Assistant DA in his right mind is going to try to indict Penelope Detweiler for simple possession.”
“Her mother said she probably didn’t have fifty dollars in cash; she really had seven hundred and change.”
“Her mother told us the truth, as far as she knew it. I don’t think she knows that her daughter is doing cocaine. But that does suggest, since Penelope uses coke and didn’t have any but had a lot of money, that she was shopping for some, doesn’t it?”
“From DeZego?”
“We don’t know that, but—”
“Somebody was trying to rip DeZego off, and/or his customer?”
“But why the shotgun? Why kill him?” Washington replied. “Any of that stuff ring a bell?”
“Gin-mill matchbooks,” Matt said. “From saloons where Penny and her kind drink.”
“They all familiar?”
“This one’s new to me,” Matt said, holding up a large matchbook with a flocked purple cover and the legend INDULGENCES stamped in silver.
Washington glanced at it.
“New to me too,” he said. “Is there an address?”
“Not outside,” Matt said. He opened it. “There’s a phone number, printed inside.”
“I’ll check that out,” Washington said. “Anything else?”
Matt examined the other matchbooks.
“Phone number in this one, handwritten.”
Matt unfolded the crumpled pieces of paper.
“This one has a printed number: four eight two. Looks like something from the factory. There’s another phone number in one of the others, and the last one is the same as the first.”
“Call in to Special Operations every hour or so. When I get addresses, I’ll pass them on to you. If you come up with something, pass it on. Leave a phone number, so if something interesting turns up I think you should know, I can call you.” He paused and smiled. “I’ll say I’m the Porsche service department.”
“Clever,” Matt said, chuckling.
“Yes, I sometimes think so,” Washington said. “The evidence is overwhelming.”
A Highway Patrol car was waiting at City Line and Monument when Jason Washington and Matt Payne got there. Washington stopped on the pedestrian crosswalk and Matt got out. Matt walked to the Highway car, opened the back door, and got in.
“Hi,” he said. “I need a ride to Bustleton and Bowler.”
“What the hell are we supposed to be, a fucking taxi?” asked the driver, a burly cop with an acne-scarred face.
“I thought you were supposed to be the Gestapo,” Matt said.
Oh, shit, there goes the automatic, out-of-control mouth again.
The Highway cop in the passenger seat, a lean, sharp-featured man with cold blue eyes, turned and put his arm on the back of the seat and looked at Matt. Then he smiled. It did not make him look much warmer.
“He can’t be in the Gestapo, Payne,” he said. “You have to be able to read and write to be in the Gestapo.”
“Fuck you too,” the driver said.
“You in a hurry or what?” the other one asked. “We was about to get coffee when we got the call.”
“Coffee sounds like a fine idea,” Matt said.
“Why don’t we go to the Marriott on City Line?” he said to the driver, and then turned back to Matt. “Is that Washington as good as people say?”
&
nbsp; “I was just thinking about that,” Matt said. “Yeah. He’s good. Very good. He not only knows what questions to ask, but how to ask them. A master psychologist.”
“He better be a master something,” the driver said. “They don’t have shit on who shot the cop, much less the mob guy.”
“Instead of going off shift,” the cop with the cold blue eyes said, “we’re doing four hours of overtime.”
“I heard about that,” Matt said. Peter Wohl had told him how it worked: While detectives rang doorbells and talked to people—conducted “neighborhood interviews”—Highway cops would cover the area, stopping people on the street and in cars, both looking for information and hoping to find someone with contraband—drugs, for example, or stolen property. If they did, the people caught would be given a chance to cooperate, in other words provide information. If they did, the contraband might get lost down the gutter or even dropped on the sidewalk where it could be recovered.
If they didn’t have any information to offer, they would be arrested for the violation. By the time their trial came up, they might work hard on coming up with something the police could use, knowing that if they did and the Highway cops told one of the ADAs (assistant district attorneys) of their cooperation, he would be inclined to drop the charges.
Anyone caught in the area with an unlicensed pistol would be taken into Homicide for further questioning.
They pulled into the parking lot of the Marriott on City Line Avenue and went into the restaurant and sat at the counter. Matt sensed that they immediately had become the center of attention—much, if not most, of it nervous.
He remembered Amanda’s reaction to the Highway cops in the diner at breakfast.
There is something menacing about the Highway Patrol. Is that bad? Any cop in uniform is a symbol of authority; that’s why there is a badge, which, if you think about it, is descended from the coat of arms of a feudal lord and meansabout the same thing: I am in the service of authority. The badge says, “I am here to enforce the law, the purpose of which is to protect you. If you are obeying the law, you have nothing to fear from me. But, malefactor, watch out!”
Given that, isn’t the very presence of these two, in their leather jackets and boots and rows of shiny cartridges, a deterrent to crime and thus of benefit to society? No stickup man in his right mind would try to rob this place with these two in here.
On the other hand, if some third-rate amateur came in here and saw only Officer Matthew Payne, in plainclothes, with his pistol cleverly concealed and his badge in his pocket, he would figure it was safe to help himself to what’s in the cash register, using what force he considered necessary and appropriate.
A little fear of law enforcers, ergo sum, is not necessarily a bad thing.
There was almost immediate substantiation of Officer Payne’s philosophic ruminations. The proprietor, wrapped in a grease-spotted white apron, came out from the kitchen smiling. He shook hands with both Highway Patrolmen.
“How about a cheese steak?” he asked. “I just finished slicing—”
“No thanks,” the Highway cop with the cold blue eyes said. “Just coffee.”
The driver said, “Thanks, anyway. Next time.”
The proprietor, Matt saw, was genuinely disappointed.
He’s genuinely pleased to see the Gestapo and sorry he can’t show his appreciation for what they do for him; allow him, so to speak, his constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness.
“You hungry, Payne?” the blue-eyed cop asked, then saw the look of surprise in the proprietor’s eyes and added, “He might not look it, but he’s a cop.”
“Actually,” the driver said, “he’s a pretty good cop. Dave, say hello to Matt Payne. He’s the guy who took down the Northwest Philly rapist.”
“No shit?” the proprietor said, and grabbed Matt’s hand. “I’m really happy to meet you. Jesus Christ, I…can’t I get you something more than a lousy cup of coffee?”
“Coffee’s fine, thank you,” Matt said.
“Well, then, you got to promise to come back when you have an appetite, for chrissake. My pleasure.”
“Thank you, I will,” Matt said.
I’m sorry he brought that up, Matt thought. And then, Don’t be a hypocrite. No, you’re not. You love it.
There was a good deal of resentment in Highway about Staff Inspector Peter Wohl’s having named Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden as “probationary Highway Patrolmen.”
It was not directed toward Martinez or McFadden. It wasn’t their fault. But it was almost universally perceived as a diminution of what being Highway meant. An absolute minimum of three years, most often four or five or even longer, in a district before transfer to Highway. Then Wheel School, where motorcycling skills were taught, and then a year or so patrolling I-95 and the Schuykill Expressway, and only then, finally, being assigned to a Highway RPC and sent out to high-crime areas citywide.
Martinez had been on the job less than two years, and McFadden even less, and here they were riding around with Sergeant DeBenedito on probation, and unless he could really find something wrong with them, when they finished, they would go to Wheel School and be in Highway.
The resentment was directed primarily at Inspector Wohl, but some went toward Captain Sabara (who really should have told Wohl what a dumb idea it was, and talked him out of it) and Captain Pekach (ditto, but what can you expect from a guy who used to wear a pigtail when he was in Narcotics?).
A problem arose when Officers Martinez and McFadden reported, four hours early, for overtime duty in connection with the investigation of the murder of Officer Magnella. Written instructions, later updated, had come down from Captain Pekach’s office concerning the probationary periods of Officers McFadden and Martinez. Among other things, they stated, in writing, that the probationary officers would ride with either Sergeant DeBenedito or with Highway officers on a list attached and with no one else.
Captain Pekach, who, it was suspected, was not overly enthusiastic about Inspector Wohl’s brainstorm, was nevertheless determined to see that it was carried out as well as it could be. He was not going to see Martinez and McFadden turned into passengers in Highway RPCs. He spread the word that it was to be a learning experience for them, watching the best Highway cops on the job.
The list of officers who would take the probationers with them had been drawn up by Sergeant DeBenedito, approved by Captain Pekach and then by Captain Sabara. The officers on it were experienced, intelligent, and a cut above their peers.
The same qualities that had gotten them on the probationary officer supervisor’s list were the qualities that had seen them assigned to ring doorbells and otherwise assist Detective Tony Harris in the investigation of the murder of Officer Magnella.
When Officers Martinez and McFadden reported, four hours early, for overtime work, Sergeant DeBenedito was not around. Inspector Wohl had learned that DeBenedito was related to Officer Magnella, had relieved him of his regular duties, and told him to do what he could for Magnella’s family, both personally and as the official representative of Highway and Special Operations.
Neither was anyone on the list of Highway cops authorized to supervise the probationers available.
So what to do with Martinez and McFadden?
The first thought of Sergeant William “Big Bill” Henderson was to find something useful for them to do around Bustleton and Bowler. There was always paperwork to catch up with, and housekeeping chores. They could take care of that while real Highway cops went about their normal duties. He proposed this to Lieutenant Lucci.
Lieutenant Lucci had been a Highway sergeant under Mike Sabara before he had gone off to be the mayor’s driver. He clearly remembered, from painful personal experience, that when Mike Sabara said something, he grew very annoyed when later he learned that only the letter, and not the spirit, of his orders had been followed. And he had been present when Captain Sabara had said, “I don’t want these two riding around as passengers or shove
d off somewhere in a corner.”
The problem was presented to Captain David Pekach. It annoyed him. For one thing, it struck him as the sort of question that a sergeant should be able to decide on his own, without involving his lieutenant and the commanding officer. For another, Officers Martinez and McFadden had worked for him in Narcotics, and it was his judgment that they were pretty good cops who had learned more working undercover about what it takes to be a good cop in their brief careers than most cops, including some in Highway, learned in ten years.
“For chrissake, Luke!” he said, his Polish temper bubbling over slightly. “If you really need me to make this momentous decision, I will. Put them in a goddamn car and have them hand out goddamn speeding tickets on the goddamn Schuykill Expressway!”
Almost immediately, after Lucci had fled his office, he regretted having lost his temper. What he should have done, he realized—what really would have been the most efficient utilization of available manpower resources—was to order the two of them back into civilian clothes and given them to Tony Harris. And if that had offended the prima donnas of Highway, fuck them.
But it was too late for that now that he had lost his temper and ordered the first thing that came into his mind. A commanding officer who is always changing his orders is correctly perceived by his subordinates to be someone who isn’t sure what he’s doing.
Lieutenant Lucci relayed the commanding officer’s decision vis-à-vis Officers Martinez and McFadden to Sergeant Big Bill Henderson, who relayed it, via a ten-minute pep talk, to Martinez and McFadden.
Following a review of the applicable motor vehicle codes of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the City and County of Philadelphia, he explained, in some detail, the intricacies of filling out the citation form.
Then he turned philosophical, trying to make them understand that because of the personnel shortage caused by the murder of Officer Magnella, they were being given a special opportunity to show their stuff. He could not remember, he told them (honestly) any other time when two untrained officers had been sent out by themselves in a Highway car. If they performed well, he told them, it certainly would reflect well on the report Sergeant DeBenedito would ultimately write on them. And he made the point that they should feel no embarrassment, or reluctance, to call for assistance or advice anytime they encountered a situation they weren’t quite sure how to handle.
The Victim Page 19
