“I been going thirty-two miles an hour,” Mr. Cassandro said.
“You sure it’s a cop?” Mr. Savarese said as they pulled up to the curb.
“It’s that gigantic nigger that gave us the trouble before,” Mr. Rosselli said.
“Jesus,” Mr. Savarese said.
Officer Lewis walked up to the car and flashed his flashlight at Mr. Cassandro, Mr. Rosselli, and Mr. Savarese in turn.
“Is something wrong, Officer?” Mr. Cassandro said.
“May I have your driver’s license and registration, please?” Tiny Lewis asked.
“Yeah, sure. You gonna tell me what I did wrong?”
“You were weaving as you drove down the street,” Officer Lewis said.
“No I wasn’t!” Mr. Cassandro said.
“Have you been drinking, sir?”
“Not a goddamn drop,” Mr. Cassandro said. “What is this shit?”
“Shut your mouth,” Mr. Savarese said sharply to Mr. Cassandro.
Officer Lewis flashed his light at Mr. Savarese.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Savarese, aren’t you?”
After a discernible pause Mr. Savarese said, “Yes, my name is Savarese.”
“You left something behind you in the restaurant, Mr. Savarese,” Officer Lewis said.
“I did? I don’t recall—”
“Here it is, sir,” Tiny Lewis said, and handed Mr. Savarese a large manila envelope.
“Please try to drive in a straight line,” Tiny Lewis said. “Good night.”
He walked back to his car and turned off the flashing lights.
“What did he give you?” Mr. Rosselli asked.
“Feels like photographs,” Mr. Savarese replied.
“Of who?”
“There’s two of them, Mr. S.,” Mr. Rosselli said. “I adjusted the rearview mirror. I can see good.”
“Two of who?”
“Two cop cars. The other’s got a lieutenant or something in it. Another nigger.”
“Get me out of here,” Mr. Savarese said.
“You got it, Mr. S.,” Mr. Cassandro said.
Officer Tiny Lewis watched until the Lincoln was out of sight, then drove to a diner on South 16th Street. Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., drove his car into the parking lot immediately afterward.
A very large police officer, obviously Irish, about forty years of age, came out of the diner.
“Thank you,” Lieutenant Lewis said to him.
“Don’t talk to me, I haven’t seen you once on this shift,” the officer said, and got in the car Officer Lewis had been driving and drove away.
Officer Lewis got in the car with his father.
“You going to tell me what that was all about?”
“What what was all about?”
“Thanks a lot, Pop.”
“You did that rather well for a rookie who’s never spent sixty seconds on the street,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Runs in the family.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re really not going to tell me what that was all about?”
“What what was all about?”
The next day, Friday, Officer Matthew W. Payne was stopped twice by law-enforcement authorities while operating a motor vehicle.
The first instance took place on the Hutchinson River Parkway, north of the Borough of Manhattan, some twelve miles south of Scarsdale.
An enormous New York State trooper, wearing a Smoky the Bear hat sat in his car and waited until he had received acknowledgment of his radio call that he had stopped a 1973 Porsche 911, Pennsylvania tag GHC-4048, for exceeding the posted limit of fifty miles an hour by twenty miles per hour. Then he got out of the car and cautiously approached the driver’s window.
Nice-looking kid, he thought. But twenty miles over the limit is just too much.
And then he saw something on the floorboard. His entire demeanor changed. He flicked the top of his holster off and put his hand on the butt of his revolver.
“Put your hands out the window where I can see both of them,” he ordered in a no-nonsense voice.
“What?”
“Do what I say, pal!”
Both hands came out the window.
“There’s a pistol on your floorboard. You got a permit for it?”
“I’m a cop,” Matt said. “I wondered what the hell you were up to. You scared the hell out of me.”
“You got a badge?”
“I’ve got photo ID in my jacket pocket.”
“Let’s see it. Move slowly. You know the routine.”
Matt produced his identification.
“You normally drive around with your pistol on the floorboard?”
“It’s in an ankle holster. It rubs your leg if it’s on a long time.”
“I never tried one,” the state trooper said. “I always thought I would kick my leg or something, and the gun would go flying across a room.”
“No. They work. They just rub your leg, is all.”
“You working?”
“I cannot tell a lie, I’m on my way to see my girl.”
“This is yours?” the state trooper asked incredulously, gesturing at the Porsche.
“We take them away from drug dealers,” Matt said.
“You work Narcotics?”
“Until Monday I work in something called Special Operations.”
“Nice work.”
“Yeah. It was. Monday I go back in uniform.”
“Into each life some rain must fall,” the state trooper said. “Take it easy.”
“I will.”
“I mean that. Take it easy. I clocked you at seventy-one.”
“Sorry,” Matt said. “I wasn’t thinking. I’ll watch it.”
“My sergeant is a prick. He would ticket Mother Teresa.”
“I have a lieutenant like that,” Matt said.
The state trooper returned to his car, tooted the horn, and resumed his patrol.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t thinking. I was thinking. And what I was thinking was the closer I get to Scarsdale, to Amanda, the worse of an idea it seems. This is not the time to see her. She would not understand anything I have to say to her. And the reason for that is that I have nothing to say to her. Nothing that makes any sense, even to me.
Shit!
He put the Porsche in gear, reentered the flow of traffic, and at the next intersection turned around and headed for Philadelphia.
The second time Matt Payne attracted the attention of police officers charged with enforcement of the Motor Vehicle Code on the public highways took place several hours later, on Interstate 95, just inside the city limits of the City of Philadelphia.
“Jesus Christ!” he said aloud as he pulled to the side of the road, “this is really my day.”
He glanced at the floorboard. His revolver and holster were safely out of sight.
Two Highway Patrol officers approached the car.
“You’re a cop?” one asked.
“You’re Payne, right?”
“Guilty,” Matt said.
“You better come back to the car with us,” one of them said. “They’re looking for you.”
“Really?”
We have changed our minds about you, Payne. You are really an all-around splendid fellow, and we have decided that instead of sending you to the 12th, we are going to make you a chief inspector.
What the hell could it be?
If they’ve really been looking for me, then it’s serious. Christ! Mother? Dad? One of the kids?
He leaned on the Highway car so he could listen.
“Highway 19. We have located Officer Payne. We’re on I-95, near the Cottman Avenue exit.”
“Wait one, Highway 19,” radio replied.
“I really like your wheels, Payne,” one of the Highway guys said.
“Thanks,” Matt said.
“Highway 19, escort Officer Payne to City Hall. They are waiting for him in the mayor’s office.”
“This is 19, ’kay,” the Highway guy on the ra
dio said, and then turned to Matt. “What the hell is that all about?”
“I wish to hell I knew.”
“Christ, if we had the lights and siren on that,” the other one said, pointing at Matt’s Porsche, “we could set a record between here and City Hall.”
“We’ll go ahead,” the other one said, chuckling. “You can catch up, right?”
“I’ll try,” Matt said.
The Highway car was moving with its flashing lights on and the siren howling by the time Matt got back behind the wheel of the Porsche, but he had no trouble catching up with it.
Peter Wohl was waiting for him in the courtyard of City Hall.
“Well, you don’t look hung over. Pull your necktie up.”
“What’s going on?”
“You ever hear that God takes care of fools and drunks? Just smile and keep your mouth shut. For once.”
“Before we get this press conference started here,” the Honorable Jerry Carlucci, mayor of the City of Philadelphia, said, “let’s make sure everybody knows who everybody is. You all know Chief Lowenstein and Chief Coughlin, I know. Chief Coughlin’s standing in for Commissioner Czernich, who’s tied up and couldn’t be with us, although he would have liked to. I’m sure most of you know the two who just came in: Inspector Peter Wohl, who commands Special Operations; and Officer Matt Payne, who is the Inspector’s special assistant and who most of you will remember as the splendid young officer who…removed the threat to Philadelphia posed by the Northwest serial rapist. And standing beside me is a gentleman I’m sure most of you know and who is the reason I asked you to come here this afternoon. I would be very surprised if anyone here doesn’t recognize Mr. H. Richard Detweiler, president of Nesfoods International, but in case…ladies and gentlemen, Mr. H. Richard Detweiler.”
Detweiler and Carlucci shook hands, which seemed to sort of surprise Mr. Detweiler, who then moved to a lectern.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for coming here this afternoon,” he said, reading it from a typewritten statement. “I am sure that most of you are aware of the tragedy that struck my family recently, with my daughter very nearly killed not six blocks from here.
“I am not here to talk about my daughter but about the Police Department. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that before my daughter was shot and nearly killed, I never paid much attention to the police. They were simply there. But my experience with them since my daughter was injured, an innocent bystander in what seems to be an incident of gangland warfare, has taught me how devoted to the safety and welfare of us all they are.
“Something even more shocking than the senseless shooting of my daughter has occurred in our city. I refer to the cold-blooded murder of Officer Joseph Magnella. That brutal, vicious act, the slaying of a police officer, poses a real, present, and absolutely intolerable danger to the entire fabric of our society, a threat we simply cannot tolerate.
“It came to my attention that one citizen, who wishes to remain anonymous, was thinking along the same lines. More important, she was prepared to do something about it. She was prepared to offer a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those responsible for the brutal murder of Officer Magnella. The reward she offered was in the amount of ten thousand dollars. My wife and I have decided to offer an equal amount for the same purpose. I have a check here with me.
“I call upon—”
He stopped and fished in his pocket and came up with a check, which he handed to Mayor Carlucci, who shook his hand while flashbulbs popped.
That forgotten little detail out of the way, Detweiler continued. “I call upon my fellow citizens of Philadelphia to assist with the investigation of the murder of Officer Magnella. The police would prefer information, but if you have no information, certainly you can afford a dollar or two, whatever amount, to add to the reward fund and to demonstrate to the police that the people are behind them. Thank you very much.”
Matt felt a tug at his arm. Wohl pulled him off the stage and out of the room.
“You are only partially forgiven,” he said. “That whole ambience would be ruined if Detweiler tried to choke you. I know he’d love to.”
“What does ‘partially’ mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know.”
“Put your uniform back in the mothball bag,” Wohl said. “And forget the 12th.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. That came from the mayor.”
“In other words, you’d rather not have me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Wohl said. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
Matt looked at him.
“My father thinks you’ll make a pretty good cop,” Wohl said. “Okay? Who am I to question his judgment?”
“Thank you,” Matt said.
Two weeks and two days later, Staff Inspector Peter Wohl received a call from Walter J. Davis, Special Agent in Charge, of the Philadelphia office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Mr. Davis told him that he had received word from the assistant special agent in charge (Criminal Affairs) of the Chicago, Illinois, office of the FBI that one Charles Francis Gregory, who was almost certainly the man in the photographs Wohl had shown him, had been found in the trunk of his automobile in Cicero, Illinois, having suffered seven large-caliber pistol wounds to the head and chest, probably from a Colt government model .45 ACP pistol.
Special Agent in Charge Davis said, unofficially, that the Chicago FBI believed Mr. Gregory to be a hit man and that the word was that Mr. Gregory had been shot because he had botched a job he had been hired to do.
“We’ve got to get together for lunch, Peter,” Special Agent in Charge Davis said.
“We really should,” Inspector Wohl replied. “Call me.”
• • •
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The Victim Page 37
