He walked purposefully toward Broad Street until he was certain his mother, sure to be peering from behind the lace curtain on the door, couldn’t see him anymore, and then he cut across the street and went back to the McCarthy house, where he quickly climbed the steps and rang the bell, hoping it would be answered before his mother made one of her regularly scheduled, every-five-minutes inspections of the neighborhood.
Mr. McCarthy, wearing a suit, opened the door.
“Hello, Charley, what can I do for you?”
“Is Margaret around?”
“We’re going to pay our respects to the Magnellas,” Mr. McCarthy said.
“Oh,” Charley said.
“You been over there yet?”
“No.”
“You want to go with us?”
“Yeah,” Charley said.
“I thought maybe that’s what you had in mind,” Mr. McCarthy said. “You’re all dressed up.”
“Yeah,” Charley said.
“Goddamn shame,” Mr. McCarthy said.
“Hello, Charley,” Margaret McCarthy said. “You going with us?”
She was wearing a suit with a white blouse and a little round hat.
Jesus Christ, that’s a good-looking woman!
“I wanted to pay my respects,” Charley said.
“You might as well ride with us,” Mr. McCarthy said.
The ride to Stanley Rocco and Sons, Funeral Directors, was pleasant until they got there. That is to say, he got to ride in the backseat with Margaret and he could smell her—an entirely delightful sensation—even over his after-shave. He could even see the lace at the hem of her slip, which triggered his imagination.
But then, when Mr. McCarthy had parked the Ford and Margaret had climbed out and he had in a gentlemanly manner averted his eyes from the unintentional display of lower limbs and he got out, he saw that the place was crowded with cops, in uniform and out.
“Jesus, wait a minute,” he said to Margaret.
He took out his wallet and sighed with relief when he found a narrow strip of black elasticized material. He had put it in there after the funeral of Captain Dutch Moffitt, intending to put it in a drawer when he got home.
Thank God I forgot!
“What is that?” Margaret asked.
“A mourning stripe,” Charley said. “You cut up a hatband.”
“Oh,” she said, obviously not understanding.
“When there’s a dead cop, you wear it across your badge,” he explained as he worked the band across his. “I almost forgot.”
He started to pin the badge to his lapel.
“You got it on crooked,” Margaret said. “Let me.”
He could see her scalp where her hair was parted as she pinned the badge on correctly.
She looked up at him and met his eyes and smiled, and his heart jumped.
“There,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
They caught up with Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy and walked to the funeral home.
There was a book for people to write their names in on a stand just inside the door. It was just about full.
He wrote “Officer Charles McFadden, Badge 8774, Special Operations” under the name of some captain he didn’t know from the 3rd District.
Officer Joseph Magnella was in an open casket, surrounded by flowers. They were burying him in his uniform, Charley saw. There were two cops from his district, wearing white gloves, standing at each end of the casket, and there was an American flag on a pole behind each of them.
In his turn Charley followed Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy and Margaret to the prie-dieu and dropped to his knees. He made the sign of the cross and, with part of his mind, offered the prayers a Roman Catholic does in such circumstances. They came to him automatically, and although his lips moved, he didn’t hear them.
He was thinking, Christ, they put face powder and lipstick on him.
I wonder if they will take the badge off before they close the casket, or whether they’ll bury him with it.
The last time I saw him, he was still in the gutter with somebody’s coat over his face and shoulders.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, don’t let that happen to me!
And the word is, they’re not even close to finding the scumbags who did this to him!
I’d like to find those cocksuckers! They wouldn’t look as good in their coffins as this poor bastard does!
As he had approached the coffin he had noticed the Magnella family, plus the girlfriend, sitting in the first row of chairs. When he rose from the prie-dieu, they were all standing up. Mr. Magnella was embracing Mr. McCarthy, and Mrs. McCarthy was patting Mrs. Magnella. The girlfriend looked as if somebody had punched her in the stomach; Margaret was smiling at her uncomfortably.
“Al,” Mr. McCarthy said when Charley approached, “this is Charley McFadden, from the neighborhood.”
“I’m real sorry this happened,” Charley said as Mr. Magnella shook his hand.
“You knew my Joe?”
“No. I seen him around, though.”
“It was nice of you to come.”
“I wanted to pay my respects.”
“This is Joe’s mother.”
“Mrs. Magnella, I’m real sorry for you.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I was Joe’s fiancée,” the girlfriend said.
“I’m real sorry.”
“We were going to get married in two months.”
“I’m really sorry for you.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’m Joe’s brother.”
“I’m really sorry this happened.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Bob,” Mr. Magnella said to Mr. McCarthy, “go in the room on the other side and fix yourself and Officer McFadden a drink.”
“Thank you, Al,” Mr. McCarthy said. “I might just do that.”
Margaret put her hand on Charley’s arm, and they followed Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy across the room to a smaller room, where a knot of men were gathered around a table on which sat a dozen bottles of whiskey.
Margaret opened her purse and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“Seagram’s all right for you, Charley?” Mr. McCarthy asked.
“Fine,” Charley said.
As he put the glass to his mouth the soft murmur of voices died out. Curious, he turned to see what was going on.
Mrs. Magnella had entered the room. She looked like she was headed right for him.
She was. Her son and husband were on her heels, looking worried.
“I know who you are,” Mrs. Magnella said to Charley McFadden. “I seen your picture in the papers. You’re the cop who caught the junkie and pushed him under the subway, right?”
That wasn’t what happened. I was chasing the son of a bitch and he fell!
“Uh!” Charley said.
“I want you to find the people who did this to my Joseph and push them under the subway!”
“Mama,” Officer Magnella’s brother said. “Come on, Mama!”
“I want them dead! I want them dead!”
“Come on, Mama! Pop, where’s Father Loretto?”
“I’m here,” a silver-haired priest said. “Elena, what’s the matter?”
“I want them dead! I want them dead!”
“It’s going to be all right, Elena,” the priest said. “Come with me, we’ll talk.”
“I’m sorry about this,” Officer Magnella’s brother said to Officer McFadden as the priest led Officer Magnella’s mother away.
“It’s all right, don’t worry about it,” Charley said.
Margaret McCarthy looked at Charley McFadden and saw that it wasn’t all right. Without thinking what she was doing, she put her hand out to his face, and when he looked at her, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.
EIGHTEEN
Officer Matthew Payne was feeling a little sorry for himself. He had been given an impossible task—how the hell was he supposed to find one man
in a city the size of Philadelphia?—and Peter Wohl had made it plain that he expected him to accomplish it: No excuses, please. Just do it.
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 Washington was 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 ground-floor 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, high-ceilinged 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 large, 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 66th 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 read Through 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 66th 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.
The Victim Page 31
