The Assassin

BUREAU OF NARCOTICS

Investigator's Manual

Martinez looked at the cover, then opened the manual and flipped through it, and then looked at Wohl for an explanation.

"They sent that over, they thought it would be helpful."

Martinez nodded.

"I took a look at it," Wohl said. "They refer to what you just described as a common means of smuggling."

"I guess it is," Martinez said. "I didn't exactly feel like Sherlock Holmes."

"Maybe not Sherlock Holmes," Wohl said. "But maybe Dick Tracy. It didn't take you long to figure that out."

That was intended, too, to put Martinez at ease. This time, Wohl saw in Martinez's face, it worked.

"When you leave, take this with you. I don't think I have to tell you not to let anybody see it."

"Yeah," Martinez said. "Thank you."

"Okay. So tell me what you've figured out about how someone, a baggage handler, or anyone else, would get a small package out of the airport."

"Well, there's all sorts of people keeping an eye on the baggage handlers. The airline has their security people. Customs is there, and the drug guys, and, of course, our guys. When the baggage handlers come to work, they change into uniforms, coveralls, or whatever, in their locker room. They change back into their regular clothes when they leave work. They have spot checks, they actually search them. What they're looking for is stuff they might have stolen, tools, stuff like that, but if the airlines security people should find a small package, they would damned sure know what it was."

"Unless they were part of the system," Wohl said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but they're subject to the same sort of spot checks whenthey leave, and also, I think, when they're working. I thought about that. What theycould do, once one of the baggage handlers had this stuff, is take it from them, and then move into the terminal and pass it to somebody, a passenger, for example. Once they got it into the terminal, that wouldn't be hard."

"You think that's the way it's being done?"

Martinez did not reply directly.

"Another way it could be done, which would not involve the airlines security people, I mean, them being in on it, would be to put the package in another piece of luggage, one being either unloaded off, or being put on, a domestic flight. They don't search domestic luggage."

"But they do have drug-sniffing dogs working domestic luggage."

"Not every place," Martinez argued. "Like for example, AllentownBethlehem-Easton. Or Harrisburg."

"Yeah," Wohl agreed.

"The risk the baggage handlers would run would be getting caught with this stuff before they could get rid of it. Which means they would have to know when the plane with the drugs was arriving, and when the plane for, say, Allentown was leaving. And then they would have to arrange it so they worked that plane too."

"How do you think it's being done? Or do you think it's being done?"

"It's being done, all right," Martinez said. "And I think we have a dirty cop involved in it."

"How?" Wohl asked.

"Nobody searches the cops. And nobody, except maybe the sergeant, or one of the lieutenants, asks a cop what he's doing. He's got keys to get onto the ramp, and keys to open the doors leading off the ramp onto the conveyors and into the terminal. I went onto the ramp and watched them unload arriving international airplanes, and nobody said beans to me. I could have been handed, say, three, four, even five kilo bags of coke or heroin, and just walked away with it."

"Five kilos is ten, eleven pounds," Wohl said thoughtfully.

"Worth twenty, twenty-five thousand a K," Martinez said.

"How would you have gotten it out of the airport?"

"Passed it to somebody in the terminal. Put it in a locker, and passed the key to somebody. Or just put it in my car."

"Let me throw this at you," Wohl said. "Add this to the equation. I had a long talk with a BNDD agent. I got him to tell me something his boss didn't happen to mention. There have been two incidents of unclaimed luggage. Both about five weeks ago. Each piece had four Ks of heroin. That's why they're so sure it's coming into Philadelphia."

"The luggage is marked in some way, a name tag, probably with a phony name. If the baggage handler gets to take the stuff out of the bag, he also removes the tag. When the mule gets to the carousel, and sees his baggage, and the tag is still on it, he just doesn't pick it up."

He didn't think about that before replying, Wohl thought. He'd already figured that out as a possibility. He's as smart as a whip.

"That means giving up four Ks, a hundred thousand dollars worth of drugs."

"The cost of doing business," Martinez replied.

"I don't suppose you have any idea which cop is dirty?" Wohl asked.

"No," Martinez said.

That was too quick, Wohl thought.

"I'm not asking for an accusation," Wohl said. "Just a suspicion, a gut feeling. And nothing leaves this room."

"Nothing yet," Martinez said.

That was not the truth. The moment Jesus Martinez had laid eyes on Corporal Vito Lanza, he had had the feeling that something was not right about him. But you don't accuse a brother officer, or even admit you have suspicions about him, unless you have more to go on than the fact that he gambles big money in Las Vegas, and dresses and behaves like a Guinea gangster.

Wohl suspected that Martinez was concealing something from him, but realized he could not press him any more than he had.

One of the telephones in his bedroom rang. Wohl could tell by the sound of the ring that it was his personal, rather than his official, telephone.

That makes it fairly certain, he thought as he turned toward the bedroom, that I am not to be informed that one of my stalwart Highway Patrolmen has just run though a red light into a station wagon full of nuns.

He had used that for instance as the criteria for telephoning him at his home on weekends. Any catastrophe of less monumental proportions, he had ordered, should be referred to either Captain Michael Sabara, his deputy, or to Captain David Pekach, commanding officer of the Highway Patrol, for appropriate action.

"Excuse me," Wohl said, and went into his bedroom.

The fact that this is on my personal line, he thought as he sat down on his bed and reached for the telephone, does not mean that I am not about to hear something I do not wish to hear, such as Mother reminding me that I have not been to Sunday dinner in a month, so how about tomorrow?

"Hello?"

"From that tone of voice," his caller said, "what I think I should do is just hang up, but I hate it when people do that to me."

"Hello, Matt," Wohl said, smiling. "What's up?"

"I was wondering how welcome I would be if I drove over there."

Not at all welcome, with Martinez here. And from the tone of your voice, Detective Payne, I think the smartest thing I could do is tell you, "Sorry, I was just walking out the door. "

"You would be very welcome. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of calling you. I am about to polish the Jaguar and I hate to do that alone. A weak mind and a strong back is just what I need."

"I'll be there in half an hour. Thank you," Detective Payne said, and hung up.

It is possible, Wohl thought, that Matt is coming over here simply as a friend. The reason he sounds so insecure is that he's not sure of the tribal rites. Can a lowly detective and an exalted staff inspector be friends? The answer is sure, but he doesn't know that. And the truth of the matter is, I was glad to hear his voice and I miss him around the office.

But clever detective that I am, I don't think that a social visit is all he has in mind. His tone of voice and the "thank you" is not consistent with that.

Is he in trouble? Nothing serious, or I would have heard about it. And if he was in a jam, wouldn't he go first to Denny Coughlin?

There is a distinct possibility, now that I think about it, that Detective Payne has, now that he's been leading the exciting, romantic life of a real-life detective in the famous East Detective Division for two months, decided that law enforcement is not how he really wants to spend the rest of his life. Unless things have changed a hell of a lot, he has spent his time on recovered stolen vehicles, with maybe a few good burglary of autos thrown in for good measure.

If he did decide to quit, he would feel some sort of an obligation to tell me. That would be consistent with his polite asking if he could come over, and then saying "thank you."

So what will I do? Tell him to hang in there, things will get better? Or jump on the wise elders bandwagon with his father and Denny Coughlin, and tell him to go to law school?

The telephone rang again.

"A Highway car ran the light at Broad and Olney, broadsided a station wagon full of nuns, and knocked it into a bus carrying the Philadelphia Rabbinical Council," his caller announced without any opening salutation.

Wohl chuckled. "Good morning, Captain Pekach," he said. "You better be kidding."

"Am I interrupting anything, boss?"

"No. What's up, Dave?"

"It's a beautiful day. Martha's got some shrimp and steaks and we' re going to barbecue lunch. Mike and his wife are coming, and I thought maybe you'd be free?"

Is he inviting me because he likes me, or because I am the boss? Why the hell are you so cynical? Dave is a good guy, and you like Martha. And they are friends. He is not sucking up to the boss.

Your cynicism just might have something to do with last night. When are you going to learn, Peter Wohl, that blond hair and splendid boobs do not a nice lady make?

"I've got somebody coming over, Dave."

"Bring her, the more the merrier."

"It's a him. Specifically, Matt Payne."

"I thought maybe he'd be in touch…"

What the hell does that mean?

"…so bring him too. Martha likes him, and we've got plenty."

"I don't know what his plans are, but I'll be there. Thank you, Dave. When?"

"Noon. Anytime around there."

"Can I bring anything?"

"Nothing but an appetite."

Wohl walked back to his living room, where Martinez was reading the BNDD Investigator's Manual.

"That was Matt Payne," Wohl said. "The first call."

"How's he doing?"

"I understand he's become the East Detectives' specialist on recovered stolen cars," Wohl said, and then added: "He's coming over here."

Martinez closed the BNDD notebook and stood up.

"Then I better get going, huh?"

"I don't think it would be a good idea if he saw you here."

Martinez held up the notebook.

"How soon do you want this back?"

"Whenever you're finished with it. Take your time."

Martinez nodded.

"You're doing a good job, Hay-zus," Wohl said. "I think it's just a question of hanging in there with your eyes open."

"Yes, sir."

"Anytime you want to talk, Hay-zus, about anything at all, you have my personal number."

"Yes, sir."

Martinez stood up, looked at Wohl for a moment, long enough for Wohl to suspect that he was about to say something else, but then, as if he had changed his mind, nodded at Wohl.

"Good morning, sir."

Wohl walked to the door with him and touched his shoulder in a gesture of friendliness as Martinez opened it and stepped outside.

Wohl had just about finished carefully washing his Jaguar when Detective Payne drove onto the cobblestone driveway in his silver Porsche. It showed signs of just having gone through a car wash. The way Payne was dressed, Wohl thought, he looked like he was about to pose for an advertisement inEsquire -for either Porsche automobiles, twenty-five-year-old Ambassador Scotch, or Hart, Schaffner amp; Marx clothing.

Payne handed Wohl a paper bag.

"Present," he said.

"What is it?"

"The latest miracle automobile polish. It's supposed to go on and off with no perceptible effort, and last for a thousand years."

I am not going to ask him what's on his mind. In his own time, he will tell me.

"And you believe this?"

"Also in the tooth fairy. But hope springs eternal. I didn't think you would be willing to try it on the Jag, but I thought we could run a comparison test. I'll do mine with this stuff, and you do the Jag with your old-fashioned junk…"

"Which comes all the way from England and costs me five ninetyfive a can…"

"…and we'll see which lasts longer. You'll notice mine is also freshly washed."

"In a car wash," Wohl said. "I'm surprised you do that. Those brushes are supposed to be hell on a finish. They grind somebody else' s dirt into your paint."

He's looking at me as if I just told him I don't know how to read.

"You don't believe that?" Wohl asked.

"You know the car wash on Germantown Avenue, right off Easton Road?"

Wohl nodded.

"For four ninety-five, they'll wash your car by hand."

"I didn't know that," Wohl confessed.

"They don't do a bad job, either," Matt said, gesturing toward the Porsche.

Wisdom from the mouth of babes, Wohl thought. One is supposed to never be too old to learn.

"So I see," Wohl said.

Payne took off his linen jacket, and then rolled up the sleeves of his light blue button-down collar shirt. Then he extended his can of car polish toward Wohl.

"You want to do a fender, or the hood, with this? Then you could really tell."

"Thebonnet," Wohl said. "On a Jaguar the hood is thebonnet. And thank you, no."

Matt opened the hood of his rear-engined Porsche, which was of course the trunk, and took out a package of cheese cloth.

Why don't I spend the two bucks? Instead of using old T-shirts? Except when I can't find an old T-shirt and have to use a towel that costs more than two bucks?

"So how is life treating you, Matt?" Wohl asked.

"I thought you would never ask," Matt said. "The good news is that I won six thousand bucks, actually sixty-seven hundred, in Las Vegas, and the bad news is that the IRS gets their share."

He is not pulling my leg. Jesus Christ, six thousand dollars! Nearer seven!

"What were you doing in Las Vegas?"

"I was sent out there to bring Penny Detweiler home from the funny farm."

That was a surprising announcement, and Wohl wondered aloud: "How did you get time off?"

"Ostensibly, I was helping with the paperwork in Chief Lowenstein' s office. That is the official version."

"Start from the beginning," Wohl said.

Payne examined a layer of polish he had just applied to the front of the Porsche before replying. Then he looked at Wohl.

"My father asked me to meet him for drinks. When I got there, Denny Coughlin was there. They asked me how I would like to go to Nevada and bring Penny home, and I said I would love that, but unfortunately, I couldn't get the time off. Then Uncle Denny said, ' That's been taken care of,' and Dad said, 'Here's your tickets.'"

I wonder what Matt Lowenstein thought about that? Not to mention Matt's sergeant, lieutenant, and captain in EDD.

"They won't hassle you in East Detectives, Matt, if that's what you're worrying about. That couldn't have happened without Chief Lowenstein knowing about it, ordering it. Your response should be the classic 'mine not to reason why, mine but to do what I'm told.'"

"I'm not worried about East Detectives. What I'm wondering about is how you feel about me coming back to Special Operations."

Shit! That's disappointing. I didn't think he'd ask to get transferred back. I thought he was smart enough to know that would be a lousy idea, and I didn't think he would impose on our friendship for a favor. Helping him out of a jam is one thing, doing something for him that would be blatant special treatment is something entirely different. But, on the other hand, the only thing he's known since he' s joined the Department is special treatment.

"Matt," Wohl said carefully. "I think your coming back to Special Operations would be, at the very least, ill-advised. And let me clear the air between us. I'm a little disappointed that you can't see that, and even more disappointed that you would ask."

Wohl saw on Matt's face that what he had said had stung. He hated that. But he had said what had to be said.

Matt bent over the front of the Porsche and applied wax to another two square feet. Then he straightened and looked at Wohl again.

"Well, I suspected that I might not be welcomed like the prodigal returning to the fold, but just to clear the air between us, Inspector, I didn't ask to come back. You or anybody else. I was told to report to Chief Lowenstein's office at half past one yesterday, and when I got there, a sergeant told me to clean out my locker in East and report to Special Operations Monday morning."

"Goddammit!"Wohl exploded.

"I could resign, I suppose. Suicide seems a bit more than the situation calls for," Matt said.

"You can knock off the 'Inspector' crap. I apologize for thinking what I was thinking. I should have known better."

"Yeah, you should have known better," Matt said. It was not the sort of thing a very junior detective should say, and it wasn't expressed in the tone of voice a junior detective should use to a staff inspector who was also his division commander. But Wohl was not offended.

For one thing, I deserve it. For another, in a strange perverted way, that was a remark by one friend to another.

"I wouldn't have said what I said, obviously, if I had known you were coming back," Wohl said. "This is the first I've heard of it."

"It was on the teletype," Matt said, and reached into the Porsche and handed Wohl a sheet of teletype paper. "Charley McFadden took that home from Northwest Detectives."

General: 1365 04/23/74 17:20 From Commissioner