W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 04 - The Witness

by The Witness(lit)

"Take the car. Just try to keep it under a hundred and ten."

  "Well, okay," Charley said, trying and failing to give the impression he would drive the Porsche only as a favor to Matt.

  Five minutes after Charley left, the intercom was first put to use.

  "Let me in, Hay-zus," Charley's voice announced mechan-ically from the speaker in the kitchen. "It's me."

  Jesus went down and unlocked the door and Charley fol-lowed him back up the stairs.

  "Wouldn't start?" Matt asked.

  "The front tires are slashed," McFadden announced. "And they got the hood and doors with a knife or something."

  "Jesus H. Christ!" Matt exploded.

  "Did you look at the car when we came here?" Charley asked.

  "No. Except to see that it was there. My mother's car was there. You couldn't see it clearly."

  "Shit!"

  The bell rang.

  Martinez went into the kitchen.

  "Who's there?"

  "Peter Wohl."

  "Just a minute, Inspector."

  Wohl appeared at the head of the stairs carrying a large paper bag.

  "I thought the patient might like a beer," he said, and then, when he saw the look on Matt's face, asked, "What's going on?"

  "Those fuckers slashed my tires and did a scratch job on my hood and doors," Matt said. "Charley just found it that way."

  Wohl walked into the kitchen and started putting the beer into the refrigerator.

  "You just found this out, McFadden?"

  "Yes, sir. I went down to get the car, and I saw it was down in front."

  "And you didn't see any damage to it when they brought Matt here?"

  "No, sir."

  "We didn't look," Matt said.

  "I just walked past it myself," Wohl said, "and didn't see anything out of the ordinary."

  Wohl came into the living room and picked up the telephone beside Matt. He dialed a number from memory.

  "This is Inspector Wohl," he announced. "Let me speak to the senior supervisor present."

  I wonder who he's calling? Matt thought.

  "Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant. We have a case of vehicular vandalism. The vehicle in question belongs to Officer Payne. I rather doubt we'll be able to find the vandals, but I want a complete investigation, especially photographs. Even dust the damned car for fingerprints. We may get lucky. It's in the park-ing lot under the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building on Rittenhouse Square. Payne lives in the top-floor apartment. I'll be here with him."

  He put the telephone down.

  "Inspector, I'm supposed to meet my girl," Charley said uncomfortably.

  "Well, I guess that will have to wait, won't it?" Wohl snapped. "Central Detectives are on their way. Obviously, they'll want to talk to you."

  "Yes, sir."

  "No. Wait a minute," Wohl said, exhaling audibly. "What exactly did you see, Charley, when you went down to the ga-rage?"

  "When I started to unlock the door, I saw the nose was down. So I looked at the tires. And then I saw what they did to the hood and doors with a knife or something."

  "You're coming on at midnight, right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll tell the detectives what you told me," Wohl said. "Go ahead, Charley. I didn't mean to snap at you like that."

  "That's okay, sir."

  He hurried down the stairwell as if he was afraid Wohl would change his mind.

  Wohl lost his temper, Matt thought. He was nearly as mad as I am about the car. No. That's impossible. Nobody can be nearly as fucking outraged as 1 am.

  "Inspector, I was about to send out for supper for Hay-zus and me," Matt said. "Will you have something with us?"

  "No pizza."

  "Actually, I was thinking of either a London broil or a mixed grill. My father fixed it with the Rittenhouse Club."

  "In that case, Officer Payne, I gratefully accept your kind invitation."

  TWENTY-TWO

  Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., was of two minds concerning Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr. On one hand, it was impossible to feel like anything but a proud father to see one's son and namesake drive up to the house in an unmarked car, wearing a very nice looking blazer, gray flannel slacks, a starched white shirt and a regimentally striped necktie and know that Tiny had a more responsible job after having been on the job less than a year than he had had in his first five years on the job.

  But there were two problems with that. The first being that he had hoped-and for a long time believed-that Tiny would spend his life as Foster H. Lewis, M.D. But that hadn't come to pass. Tiny had been placed on Academic Probation by the Temple University Medical School and reacted to that by join-ing the cops.

  And then the Honorable Jerry Carlucci had put his two cents in, in what Foster H. Lewis, Sr., believed to be an understand-able, but no less contemptible, ploy to pick up a few more Afro-American voters. The mayor had told a large gathering at the Second Abyssinian Baptist Church that, as one more proof that he was determined to see that the Police Department afforded Afro-Americans equal opportunities within the De-partment, that he had recommended to Commissioner Czernick that Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., son of that outstanding Afro-American police Lieutenant, Foster H. Lewis, Sr., be assigned to Special Operations.

  It was said that if The Mayor looked as if he might be about to fart, Commissioner Czernick instantly began to look for a dog to blame, and, in case he couldn't find one, pursed his lips to apologize for breaking wind.

  Lieutenant Lewis thought that Special Operations was a good idea, and he would have been proud and delighted to see Tiny assigned there after he'd done a couple of years in a district, working a van, walking a foot beat, riding around in an RPC, learning what being a cop was all about. Sending Tiny over there before he'd found all the little inspection stickers on his new uniform was really-unless, of course, you were interested in Afro-American votes-a lousy idea.

  And then Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, for whom Lieutenant Lewis had previously had a great deal of respect, had com-pounded the idiocy. Instead of sending Tiny out to work with experienced Special Operations uniformed officers, from whom he could have learned at least some of what he would have to know, he had put him in plain clothes and given him to Detec-tive Tony Harris for use as a go-fer.

  At the time, Harris had been working on two important jobs, the Northwest Philadelphia Serial Rapist, and the murder of Officer Magnella near Temple University. It could be argued that Harris needed someone to run errands, and to relieve him of time-consuming chores, thus freeing his time for investiga-tion. And certainly, working under a really first class homicide detective would give Tiny experience he could get nowhere else.

  But only as a temporary thing. It now looked as if it was becoming permanent. The serial rapist had been shot to death by another young, college-educated, Special Operations plainclothesman. Harris was now devoting his full time to the Of-ficer Magnella job.

  And in Lieutenant Lewis's judgment, that was becoming a dead end. In his opinion, if those responsible for Magnella's murder were ever apprehended, it would not be because of brilliant police work, or even dull and plodding police work, but either because of the reward offered, or simple dumb luck: Someone would come forward and point a finger.

  Tiny Lewis rang the door buzzer, as he had been doing to his father's undiminished annoyance since he was fourteeen, to the rhythm of Shave-And-A-Haircut-Two Bits, and Lieutenant Lewis walked from the window to the door to let him in.

  "Hi ya, Pop."

  "Come in."

  "Hi ya, Mom?" Tony said, considerably louder.

  The men shook hands.

  "I'm in the kitchen, honey."

  "Nice blazer," Lieutenant Lewis said. "New?"

  "Yeah. It is nice, isn't it?"

  Tiny walked past his father into the kitchen, put his arms around his mother, who weighed almost exactly one-half as much as he did, and lifted her off the floor.

  "Put me down!" she said, and turned to face him. "Don'
t you look nice!"

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "It's new."

  She fingered the material. "Very nice."

  "What are we eating?"

  "Roast pork."

  "Pork goes nicely, he said, apropos of nothing whatever, with beer."

  "Help yourself," she laughed. "You know where it is."

  "You're driving a department car," Lieutenant Lewis said.

  "Yes, I am."

  "You know what it would do to your record if you had an accident and had been drinking," Lieutenant Lewis said, and immediately regretted it.

  "Well, then, I guess I better not have an accident. You want a beer, Dad?"

  "Yes, please."

  "I saw your boss earlier this evening," Lieutenant Lewis said.

  "Sergeant Washington? "

  "I meant Inspector Wohl," Lieutenant Lewis said. "Do you consider Jason Washington your boss?"

  "They formed a Special Investigations Section. He's in charge. I'm in it."

  "Doing what?"

  "Baby-sitting honkies," Tiny said, with a smile.

  "And what does that mean?" Lieutenant Lewis snapped.

  "You know a Highway sergeant named Carter?"

  Lieutenant Lewis nodded.

  "That's what he said, that I was 'baby-sitting honkies.'"

  "Foster, I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You heard about these screwballs calling themselves the Islamic Liberation Army threatening to get Matt Payne for blowing away one of them?"

  Lewis nodded.

  "Well, Wohl's got some people sitting on him-"

  "You might well form the habit, Foster, of referring to In-spector Wohl as Inspector Wohl," Lewis said.

  He received a look of tolerance from his son, who went on, "-and I was supposed to be one of them. But then Sergeant Washington went to Inspector Wohl and said he'd rather I stick with Detective Harris, and Inspector Wohl said okay, he'd get somebody else, and Sergeant Carter-"

  "Your sarcasm is becoming offensive."

  "-heard about it, apparently. Anyway, he struck up a con-versation with me, said he'd heard I was going to be one of the guys-the other two are McFadden and Martinez, the ex-Narcs who ran down the junkie who shot Captain Moffitt?"

  He waited to see understanding on his father's face, and then went on:

  "-sitting on Payne, and then that I wasn't, and how come? And I said, mine not reason why, mine but to do what the Great Black Buddha orders-"

  "Is that what you call Jason Washington?" Mrs. Lewis in-terrupted. "That's terrible! You ought to be ashamed of your-self!"

  "Think about it, Mom," Tiny said, unrepentant.

  She did, and laughed, but repeated, "That's terrible."

  "And?" Lieutenant Lewis prompted.

  "And Carter said, 'I don't suppose it matters, in either case, what you're doing is baby-sitting a honky.' "

  "Which means what?"

  "How the hell do I know, Pop?"

  "Watch your tone of voice, please."

  "Sorry, Dad."

  "I don't ordinarily listen to gossip-"

  "Watch your father's nose grow, honey."

  "-but the word is that Harris is having a problem with liquor. Is that what Carter meant about baby-sitting?"

  "I guess so. He's been on a bender. Washington's taking care of him."

  "How, taking care of him?"

  "I keep him out of bars during the day, and at night he's staying with the Washingtons."

  "Martha must love that," Mrs. Lewis said.

  "Jason and Tony Harris have been close for years," Lieu-tenant Foster said, thoughtfully. "Is that how you feel about it, Foster? That you're baby-sitting a honky?"

  "Hey, Pop. Tony Harris has been good to me. And Matt Payne is sort of a friend of mine."

  "'Sort of a friend'?" Mrs. Lewis asked.

  "Well, I haven't been invited to the Rose Tree Hunt Club yet, but yeah. We're friends. We get along well. If Harris wasn't sick, I would have liked to be one of the guys sitting on him."

  "I don't like the idea of one police officer using the word 'honky' to describe another," Lieutenant Lewis said.

  "Pop, I didn't use it. Carter did."

  "You repeated it."

  "My mistake," Tiny said, a hint of anger in his voice. "Where did you see Wohl-Inspector Wohl?"

  "You know that your friend Payne is being protected in his apartment?"

  Tiny nodded.

  "I was supposed to have the midnight to eight tour before- my boss-got me out of it."

  "I was driving by and saw some activity in the garage. A lab van, specifically. So I stopped. Someone, presumably the low-lifes who are calling themselves a Liberation Army, did a job on his car."

  "What kind of a job?"

  "Slashed the tires. Scraped the paint."

  "That's going too far!" Tiny said. "That's absolutely sac-rilegious! That's not an automobile, it's a work of art!"

  "Now it's a work of art with flat tires and a scratched paint job," Lieutenant Lewis said.

  "And Wohl was there?"

  "Inspector Wohl was there. And nearly as offended by the desecration of the work of art as you are."

  "What kind of a car are you talking about?" Mrs. Lewis asked.

  "A Porsche 911."

  "Very expensive," Lieutenant Lewis said. "Only rich peo-ple can afford them-lawyers, doctors, people like that-"

  "Stop, Foster!" Mrs. Lewis said. "Not one more word!"

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "You know damned well what's the matter. You are not going to needle him the rest of his life about not being a doc-tor! He wants to be a cop. What's wrong with that? I'm married to a cop. You should be proud that he wants to do what you do!"

  Lieutenant Lewis looked at Officer Lewis.

  "The lady used profane language, Officer Lewis. Did you pick up on that?"

  "Yes, sir. I heard her."

  "I guess that means she's serious, huh?"

  "Yes, sir, I guess it does."

  "Then maybe you and I better get another beer and go in the living room until she calms down, what do you think?"

  "I think that's a fine idea, sir."

  "Don't try to make a joke of it, Foster. I meant every word I said!"

  "I somehow had the feeling you did," Lieutenant Foster said.

  ***

  When Chief Inspectors Dennis V. Coughlin and Matthew Lowenstein and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl filed into the Com-missioner's Conference room at eight-ten the next morning, The Honorable Jerry Carlucci, Mayor of the City of Brotherly Love, was already there, his back to them, looking out the window, supporting himself on both hands.

  Commissioner Taddeus Czernick, holding a cup of coffee in his hands, stood by the open door to his office. Coughlin, Low-enstein and Wohl stood behind chairs at the table, waiting for the Mayor to turn around.

  He took his time in doing so, prompting each of them, pri-vately, to conclude that the first psychological warfare salvo had been fired.

  Finally, he turned around.

  "Good morning," he said. "I'm aware that all of you have busy schedules, and that in theory, I should be able to get from Commissioner Czernick all the details of whatever I would like to know. But since there seems to be some breakdown in com-munications, I thought it best to ask you to spare me a few minutes of your valuable time."

  "Good morning, Mr. Mayor," Lowenstein said. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say I'm sorry you fell out of the wrong side of the bed this morning."

  Carlucci glared at him for a moment.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake, sit down, all of you," he said. "I know you're doing your best." He looked at Czernick. "Can we get some coffee in here, Tad?"

  "Yes, sir. There's a fresh pot."

  "I was reading the overnights," the Mayor said. "Did you notice that some wiseass painted 'Free The Goldblatt's Six' on a wall at the University?"

  "Those villains we have," Coughlin said.

  "No kidding?"

  "The r
ailroad cops caught three of them doing it again on the Pennsy Main Line right of way. You know those great big granite blocks where the tracks go behind the stadium? They had lowered themselves on ropes. Two they caught hanging there. They squealed on the third one."