The Murderers

THIRTEEN

Peter Wohl pushed open the heavy door of the Rittenhouse Club and motioned for Mike Weisbach to go in ahead of him. They climbed a wide, shallow flight of carpeted marble stairs to the lobby, where they were intercepted by the club porter, a dignified black man in his sixties.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Mr. Weisbach and myself as the guests of Mr. Giacomo,” Peter said.

“It’s nice to see you, Mr. Wohl,” the porter said, and glanced at what Peter thought of as the Who’s Here Board behind his polished mahogany stand. “I believe Mr. Giacomo is in the club. Would you please have a seat?”

He gestured toward a row of chairs against the wall, then walked into the club.

The Who’s Here Board behind the porter’s stand listed, alphabetically, the names of the three-hundred-odd members of the Rittenhouse Club. Beside each name was an inch-long piece of brass, which could be slid back and forth in a track. When the marker was next to the member’s name, this indicated he was on the premises; when away from it that he was not.

Peter saw Weisbach looking at the board with interest. The list of names represented the power structure, social and business, of Philadelphia. Philadelphia’s upper crust belonged to either the Rittenhouse Club or the Union League, or both.

Peter saw that Carlucci, J., an ex officio member, was not in the club. Giacomo, A., was. So was Mawson, J., of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo amp; Lester, who competed with Giacomo, A., for being the best (which translated to mean most expensive) criminal lawyer in the city. Payne, B., Mawson, J.’s, law partner, was not.

And neither, Wohl noticed with interest, was Payne, M.

I didn’t know Matt was a member. That’s new.

Possibly, he thought, Detweiler, H., had suggested to Payne, B., that they have a word with the Membership Committee. Since their offspring were about to be married, it was time that Payne, M., should be put up for membership. Young Nesbitt, C. IV, had become a member shortly before his marriage to the daughter of Browne, S.

Wohl had heard that the Rittenhouse Club initiation fee was something like the old saw about how much a yacht cost: If you had to ask what it cost, you couldn’t afford it.

The porter returned.

“Mr. Giacomo is in the bar, Mr. Wohl. You know the way?”

“Yes, thank you,” Peter said, and led Weisbach into the club bar, a quiet, deeply carpeted, wood-paneled room, furnished with twenty or so small tables, at each of which were rather small leather-upholstered armchairs. The tables were spaced so that a soft conversation could not be heard at the tables adjacent to it.

Armando C. Giacomo rose, smiling, from one of the chairs when he saw Wohl and Weisbach, and waved them over.

Wohl thought Giacomo was an interesting man. His family had been in Philadelphia from the time of the Revolution. He was a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania and the Yale School of Law. He had flown Corsairs as a Naval Aviator in the Korean War. He could have had a law practice much like Brewster Cortland Payne’s, with clientele drawn from banks and insurance companies and familial connections.

He had elected, instead, to become a criminal lawyer, and was known (somewhat unfairly, Wohl thought) as the Mob’s Lawyer, which suggested that he himself was involved in criminal activity. So far as Wohl knew, Giacomo’s personal ethics were impeccable. He represented those criminals who could afford his services when they were hauled before the bar of justice, and more often than not defended them successfully.

Wohl had come to believe that Giacomo held the mob in just about as much contempt as he did, and that he represented them both because they had the financial resources to pay him, and also because he really believed that an accused was entitled to good legal representation, not so much for himself personally, but as a reinforcement of the Constitution.

Giacomo was also held in high regard by most police officers, primarily because he represented, pro bono publico, police officers charged with police brutality and other infractions of the law. He would not, in other words, represent Captain Vito Cazerra, because Cazerra could not afford him. But he would represent an ordinary police officer charged with the use of excessive force or otherwise violating the civil rights of a citizen, and do so without charge.

“Peter,” Giacomo said. “I’m delighted that you could join us.”

“I didn’t want Mike to walk out of here barefoot, Armando, but thank you for your hospitality.”

“I only talk other people out of their shoes, Peter, not my friends.”

“And the check is in the mail, right?” Weisbach said, laughing as they shook hands.

A waiter appeared.

“I’m drinking a very nice California cabernet sauvignon,” Giacomo said. “But don’t let that influence you.”

“A little wine would be very nice,” Wohl said.

“Me, too, thank you,” Weisbach said.

“The word has reached these hallowed precincts of the tragic event in Chestnut Hill this morning,” Giacomo said. “What a pity.”

“Yes, it was,” Wohl agreed.

“If I don’t have the opportunity before you see him, Peter, would you extend my sympathies to young Payne?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He must be devastated.”

“He is,” Wohl said.

“And her mother and father…” Giacomo said, shaking his head sadly.

A waiter in a gray cotton jacket served the wine.

“I think we’ll need another bottle of that over lunch, please,” Giacomo said. He waited for the waiter to leave, and then said, “I hope you like that. What shall we drink to?”

Wohl shrugged.

“How about good friends?” Giacomo suggested.

“All right,” Peter said, raising his glass. “Good friends.”

“Better yet, Mike’s new job.”

“Better yet, Mike’s new job,” Wohl parroted. He sipped the wine. “Very nice.”

“I’d send you a case, if I didn’t know you would think I was trying to bribe you,” Giacomo said.

“All gifts between friends are not bribes,” Wohl said. “Send me a case, and I’ll give Mike half. You can’t bribe him, either.”

“I’ll send the both of you a case,” Giacomo said, and then added: “Would you prefer to hear what I’d like to say now, or over lunch?”

“Now, please, Armando,” Wohl said. “I would really hate to have my lunch in these hallowed precincts ruined.”

“I suspected you’d feel that way. They do a very nice mixed grill here, did you know that?”

“Yes, I do. And also a very nice rack of lamb.”

“I represent a gentleman named Paulo Cassandro.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Weisbach asked.

“Because you are both astute and perceptive, Michael. May I go on?”

“By all means.”

“Mr. Cassandro was arrested this morning. I have assured Mr. Cassandro that once I bring the circumstances surrounding his arrest…Constitutionally illegal wiretaps head a long list of irregularities…”

“Come on, Armando,” Weisbach said, laughing.

“…to the attention of the proper judicial authorities,” Giacomo went on, undaunted, “it is highly unlikely that he will ever be brought to trial. And I have further assured him that, in the highly unlikely event he is brought to trial, I have little doubt in my mind that no fair-minded jury would ever convict him.”

“He’s going away, Armando,” Wohl said. “You know that and I know that.”

“You tend to underestimate me, Peter. I don’t hold it against you; most people do.”

“I never underestimate you, Counselor. But that clanging noise you hear in the background is the sound of a jail door slamming,” Peter said. “The choir you hear is singing, ‘Bye, Bye, Paulo.’”

“If I may continue?”

“Certainly.”

“However, this unfortunate business, this travesty of justice, comes at a very awkward time for Mr. Cassandro. It will force him to devote a certain amount of time to it, time he feels he must devote to his business interests.”

“Freely translated, Peter,” Weisbach said, “what Armando is telling us is that Paulo doesn’t want to go to jail.”

“I wondered what he was trying to say,” Wohl said.

“What he wants to do is get this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible.”

“Tell him probably ten to fifteen years, depending on the judge. If he gets Hanging Harriet, probably fifteen to twenty,” Weisbach said.

The Hon. Harriet M. McCandless, a black jurist who passionately believed that civilized society was based on a civil service whose honesty was above question, was famous for her severe sentences.

“You’re not listening to me, Michael,” Giacomo said. “I am quite confident that, upon hearing how the police department has so outrageously violated the rights of Mr. Cassandro, Judge McCandless, or any other judge, will throw this case out of court.”

“God, you’re wonderful,” Peter said.

“As I was saying, with an eye to putting this unfortunate business behind him as soon as possible, my client would be…”

“Armando,” Weisbach said, “even if I wanted to, we couldn’t deal on this. You want to deal, try the District Attorney. But I’ll bet you he’ll tell you Cassandro has nothing to deal with. We have him cold and he’s going to jail.”

“I will, of course, discuss this matter with Mr. Callis. But frankly, it will be a good deal easier for me, when I do speak with him, if I could tell him that I had spoken to you and Peter, and that you share my belief that what I propose would serve the ends of justice.”

“Armando,” Wohl said, laughing, “not only do I like you, but you are about to not only send me a case of wine, but also buy me a very expensive lunch. What that entitles you to is this: If you will tell me what you want, and how Paulo Cassandro wishes to pay for it, I will give you my honest opinion of how hard Mr. Callis is going to laugh at you before he throws you out of his office.”

“Mr. Cassandro, as a public-spirited citizen, is willing to testify against Captain Cazerra, Lieutenant Meyer, and the two police officers. All he asks in exchange is immunity from prosecution.”

“Loudly,” Weisbach said. “Mr. Callis is going to laugh very loudly when you go to him with that.”

“He may even become hysterical,” Wohl said.

“ And against the lady,” Giacomo went on. “The madam, what the hell is her name?”

I will be damned, Wohl thought. He’s flustered. Have we really gotten through to Armando C. Giacomo, shattered his famous rocklike confidence?

“Her name is Osadchy, Armando,” Wohl said. “If you have trouble remembering her last name, why don’t you associate it with Hanging Harriet? Same Christian name.”

“Very funny, Peter.”

“By now, Armando, with the egg they have on their face about Mrs. Osadchy,” Weisbach said, “I’ll bet Vice is paying her a lot of attention. They’ll find something, I’m sure, that they can take to the DA.”

“Let’s talk about that,” Giacomo said. “The egg on the face.”

“OK,” Peter said. “The egg on whose face?”

“The Police Department’s.”

“Because we had a couple of dirty cops? There might be some egg on our face because of that, but I think we wiped off most of it this morning,” Weisbach said.

“Not in a public relations sense, maybe. Let me put that another way. The egg you wiped off this morning is going to reappear when you try Captain Cazerra. The trial will last at least two weeks, and there will be a story in every newspaper in Philadelphia every day of the trial. People will forget that he was arrested by good cops; what they’ll remember is that the Department had a dirty captain. And when his trial is over, we will have the trial of Lieutenant Meyer.”

“I reluctantly grant the point,” Peter said.

“On the other hand, for the sake of friendly argument, if Captain Cazerra were to plead guilty and throw himself upon the mercy of the court because he became aware that Mr. Cassandro’s public-spirited testimony was going to see him convicted…”

Or if the mob struck a deal with him, Peter thought. “ Take the fall and we’ll take care of your family.” Which is not such an unlikely idea. I wonder why it’s so important that they keep Paulo out of jail. Has he moved up in the mob hierarchy? I’ll pass this on to Intelligence and Organized Crime, anyway.

“…there would only be, on one day only,” Giacomo went on, “a short story, buried in the back pages, that a dishonest policeman had admitted his guilt and had been sentenced. There are people who are wise in public relations, and I would include our beloved mayor among them, who would think that alternative would be preferable to a long and sordid public trial.”

I’m agreeing with him again, which means that I am getting in over my head. I am now going to swim for shore before I drown.

“Before we go in for lunch, Armando, and apropos of nothing whatever, I would suggest that if Mr. Cassandro wants any kind of consideration at all from anybody you know, he’s going to have to come up with more than a possible solution to a public relations problem.”

“I understand, Peter,” Armando said smoothly. “Such as what?”

“You’ve heard about the murder of Officer Jerry Kellog?” Wohl asked.

Giacomo nodded. “Tragic. Shot down in cold blood in his own house, according to the Ledger.”

“The Ledger also implied that a Homicide detective was involved,” Wohl said. “My bet is that it’s related to Narcotics. I would be grateful for any information that would lead the Department down that path.”

“And then there’s the double murder at the Inferno Lounge,” Weisbach said. “Some people think that looks like a contract hit. I think the Department might be grateful for information that would help them there.”

From the look on his face, Peter Wohl thought, he thinks there is a mob connection.

Confirmation came immediately.

“Those people, and you two know this as well as I do, have a code of honor…”

“Call it a code, if you like, but the word ‘honor’ is inappropriate,” Peter said.

“Whatever you want to call it, turning in one of their own violates it,” Giacomo said.

“They also don’t fool around with each other’s wives, either, do they?” Weisbach said. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they give a percentage of their earnings from prostitution and drugs to worthy causes and the church. Despite what you may have heard, they’re really not bad people, are they, Armando?”

Giacomo looked very uncomfortable.

“A top-level decision would have to be made,” Peter interrupted. “Who goes to jail? Who is more valuable? Paulo Cassandro or a hit man? Who goes directly to jail without passing ‘go’?”

What the hell am I doing? Bargaining with the mob? Making a deal to have the mob do something the Police Department should be doing itself? Cassandro bribed some dirty cops. We caught them. They should all go to jail, not just the cops. Paulo Cassandro should not walk because it will increase Jerry Carlucci’s chances of getting re-elected.

Wohl stood up.

“Is something wrong?” Giacomo asked.

“I’m not sure I want to eat lunch,” he said. “And I know I have enough of this conversation.”

Weisbach stood up. Giacomo looked up at them, and then stood up himself.

“I thank you for your indulgence,” he said. “I would be deeply pained if this conversation affected our friendship.”

Oddly enough, I believe him. Which probably proves I was right about getting in over my head.

“Please, let’s not let this ruin a lunch with friends. Come and break bread with me, please,” Giacomo said.

Wohl didn’t reply for a moment.

“I was about to say, only if I can pay. But I can’t pay in here, can I?”

“No. And it is an expulsable offense for a member to let a guest reimburse him. If that’s important to you, Peter, would you like to go somewhere else?”

Wohl met his eyes for a moment.

“No,” he said finally. “I think we understand each other, Armando. We can eat here.”

South Rittenhouse Square-on the south side of Rittenhouse Square in Center City Philadelphia-is no wider than it was when it was laid out at the time of the American Revolution. There are a half-dozen NO PARKING AT ANY TIME-TOW AWAY ZONE signs, warning citizens that if they park there at any time, it is virtually certain that to reclaim their car, it will be necessary for them to somehow make their way halfway across Philadelphia to the Parking Authority impoundment lot at Delaware Avenue and Spring Garden Street and there both pay a hefty fine for illegal parking and generously compensate the City of Brotherly Love for the services of the Parking Authority tow truck that hauled their car away.

Despite this, when Amelia Payne, M.D., drove past the building housing the Delaware Valley Cancer Society, there were seven automobiles parked in front of it, all of them with their right-side wheels on the sidewalk. There was a new Oldsmobile sedan, a battered Volkswagen, a ten-year-old, gleaming Jaguar XK 120, a new Mercedes convertible, a new Buick sedan, and two new sedans, a Ford and a Chevrolet.

There’s not even room enough for me, Dr. Payne thought somewhat indignantly. Like most of her fellow practitioners of the healing arts, she was in the habit of interpreting rather loosely the privilege granted to physicians of ignoring NO PARKING AT ANY TIME signs when making emergency calls.

And she had intended to do so now, by placing her official PHYSICIAN MAKING CALL card on the dashboard of the Buick station wagon, because the basement garage of the Cancer Society Building, to which she had access, had a very narrow entrance passage that she had difficulty negotiating.

She continued past the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, noticing with annoyance the beat cop on the corner, his arms folded on his chest, calmly surveying his domain and oblivious to the multiple violations of parking laws.

Professional courtesy, she thought. Damn the cops!

She had recognized four of the cars-the Oldsmobile, the Volkswagen, the Jaguar, and the Mercedes-as belonging respectively to Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, Detective Charles McFadden, Inspector Peter Wohl, and Captain David Pekach, and had drawn, as the cop obviously had, the natural and correct conclusion that the rest of the cars were also the official or personal automobiles of other policemen (or in the case of Pekach, belonged to his fiancee, Miss Martha Peebles, which was just about the same thing) who regarded parking regulations as applying only to civilians.

She drove to South Nineteenth Street, where she turned right, and then made the next right, and ultimately reached the entrance of the underground garage, which, surprising her not at all, she failed to maneuver through unscathed. This time she scraped the right fender against a wall.

This served to further lower her morale. In addition to the early-morning horror at the Detweilers’, she had just come from University Hospital, where a patient of hers, an attractive young woman whom she had originally diagnosed as suffering from routine postpartum depression, was manifesting symptoms of more serious mental illness that Amy simply could not fathom, nor could anyone else she had consulted.

She was not surprised, either, to find both of the reserved parking places she intended to use already occupied. One of them held a silver Porsche 911, and the other a Buick wagon identical to hers, save it was two years younger and unscratched and undented.

The Buick belonged to her father, who could be expected to offer some clever witticism about the dents in her Buick, and the Porsche to her brother. The Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building was owned by her father, and her brother occupied a tiny apartment in what had been the garret before the 1850s building had been gutted and converted into offices behind the original facade.

She parked the Buick-neatly straddling a marking line between spaces-and got out of the car. The elevator did not respond to her summons, and only after a while did she remember that it was late-she consulted her watch and saw that it was well after midnight-and remembered that at this hour, the elevator was locked. It would be necessary to call Matt’s apartment by telephone, whereupon he could push a button activating the elevator.

And he took his damned sweet time answering the telephone, and when he did, it wasn’t him, but a clipped, metallic voice she did not at first recognize.

“Yes?”

“This is Dr. Payne. Would you please push the elevator button?”

There was the sound of male laughter in the background.

“Just a moment, darlin’,” the voice said. “I’ll ask Matty how to work it.”

She now recognized the voice to be that of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin. Normally, she did not mind his addressing her as “darlin’,” but now it annoyed her.

The line went dead, and she stood there for a full minute, waiting for the sound of a buzzer, or whatever, which would bring the elevator to life. It gave her time to consider that what was going on upstairs was really an Irish wake, the males of the clan gathering to console one of their number who had suffered a loss.

She reached for the telephone again, then changed her mind and pushed the elevator button again. This time she was rewarded with the sound of the elevator moving.

It took her to the third floor. A closed door led to the narrow flight of stairs to Matt’s apartment. She pushed the button, and in a moment, a solenoid buzzed and she was able to push the door open.

She was greeted again with the sound of male laughter, which for some reason annoyed her, although another part of her mind said that it was probably therapeutic.

She walked up the stairs.

The tiny apartment was jammed. In the living room, she saw Martha Peebles sitting on a small couch with Mary-Margaret McCarthy-Detective Charley McFadden’s girlfriend-and a tall young man she recognized as Matt’s friend Jack Matthews, an FBI agent. The small table in front of the couch was covered with jackets. It was hot in the apartment, and most of the men had taken off their jackets and pulled down their ties and rolled up their sleeves.

Which also served to reveal that most of them were armed. There were shoulder holsters and waist holsters, most of them carrying snub-nosed. 38-caliber revolvers.

The tribal insignia, Amy thought, like that little purse or whatever Scots wear hanging down over their kilts.

Matt’s two small armchairs held Captain David Pekach and Lieutenant Jack Malone, having what seemed to be a serious conversation; they didn’t look at her.

Martha Peebles smiled and stood up when she saw her, and stepped over Mary-Margaret McCarthy and the FBI agent to come to her. Mary-Margaret and the FBI agent smiled at her.

“How’s Grace?” Martha Peebles asked softly as she put her cheek next to Amy’s.

“I stopped off earlier and gave her something to help her sleep,” Amy said.

“How terrible for her!”

Amy nodded.

A large arm gently draped itself around Amy’s shoulders. She looked up into the face of Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin.

“I checked with the Medical Examiner,” he said softly. “He released the body at noon. Kirk and Nice picked it up at half past twelve.”

“I know, Uncle Denny,” she said. “Thank you.”

She looked around for Matt. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the refrigerator, holding a can of beer. He didn’t seem drunk, which could or could not be a good thing. There was no sign that he was armed, but Amy knew better. Matt carried his. 38 snub-nose in an ankle holster.

“It was the right way to go, darlin’,” Coughlin said. “Thank you for trusting me.”

“I always trust you, Uncle Denny,” she said sincerely, and with a smile.

He squeezed her shoulder.

“Uncle Denny, I think it might be a good idea to get all these people out of here.”

“I was thinking the same thing, darlin’.”

“Getting him to take it might be a problem, but I’ll try to give him something to help him sleep.”

“I’ll see to it,” Coughlin said, and raised his voice. “David? See you a minute?”

Amy walked into the kitchen. Sitting at the small table, which was covered with whiskey bottles, empty cans, and the remnants of a take-out Chinese buffet were Inspector Peter Wohl, his father, Chief Inspector August Wohl (Retired), Captain Mike Sabara, Detective Charley McFadden, and her father.

“I agree with McFadden,” Amy heard Chief Wohl say. “If he’d been hit in the head with a two-by-four, or something, I’d say he walked in on a burglar, but two bullets in the back of the head? That makes it a hit.”

Detective McFadden beamed to have the Chief agree with him.

Amy walked up to her brother, and resisted the temptation to kiss him. He looked desolate.

“How’re you doing, Sherlock?”

He nodded and raised his beer can.

“OK. You want a beer?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think I would. Thank you.”

“The beer’s been gone for an hour,” Peter Wohl said. “We can call and get some. Or would you like something stronger?”

“Hello, Peter,” Amy said. “How are you?”

“Long time no see,” he said evenly.

“There’s scotch, bourbon, and gin, honey,” Brewster C. Payne said. “And Irish.”

“Yes, of course, Irish,” Amy said. “An Irish, please. A short one, over the rocks. And then I think we should call off the wake.”

Her father nodded and stood up to make the drink.

“Have you been out to Chestnut Hill?” he asked.

“Not since I saw you there. I gave Grace something to help her sleep, and I called a while ago and Violet said she’d gone to bed. I was tied up at the hospital.”

“I left when Dick went to sleep,” her father said.

In other words, passed out, Amy thought. He was three-quarters drunk when I left there.

“I’ll go out there first thing in the morning,” Amy said, and then turned to her brother. “I asked you how you’re doing?”

He shrugged.

“What a goddamned waste,” he said.

“I want a minute with you alone when everybody’s gone,” she said.

“None of your goddamned pills, Amy.”

“I’m trying to help,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Your beer must be warm.”

“Is that a prescription? Booze in lieu of happy pills?”

“It might help you sleep.”

He met her eyes for a moment.

“Dad, could you make two of those, please?” he called.

Their father turned to look over his shoulder at her. She nodded, just perceptibly, and he reached for another glass.

“Charley,” Mary-Margaret McCarthy called, “we’re going.”

There was a tone of command in her voice. She was a nurse, an R.N. who had gone back to school to get a degree, and was, she had once confided in Amy, thinking about going for an M.D.

McFadden immediately stood up.

Matt needs somebody like that, Amy thought. A strong-willed young woman as smart as he is. He didn’t need Penny.

God, what a terrible thing to even think!

“We’re going too,” Martha Peebles announced. She already had her David-whom she usually called, to his intense embarrassment, “Precious”-in tow.

One by one, the men filed into the kitchen and shook Matt’s hand.

“Circumstances aside, it was good to see you, Amy,” Peter Wohl said, and offered her his hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

He was almost at the top of the stairs when she went quickly after him.

“Peter, wait a moment,” she called, and he stopped. “I’d like to talk to you,” Amy said.

“Sure. When? Will it wait until morning?”

“I won’t be with Matt more than a minute,” she said.

“OK,” he said with what she interpreted as reluctance, and then went down the stairs.

Her father touched her shoulder.

“You’re the doctor. Is there anything I should be doing for Matt?”

“Just what you are doing,” she said.

“Should I go out to Chestnut Hill in the morning, or is it better…”

“He’s your friend, Dad,” Amy said. “You’ll have to decide.”

“Yes, of course.”

Finally, after a final hug from Denny Coughlin, Amy was alone with Matt.

He met her eyes, waiting for whatever she had to say.

“This was not your fault, Matt. She had a chemical addiction-”

“She was a junkie.”

“-which she was unable to manage.”

“And I wasn’t a hell of a lot of help, was I?”

“What happened is not your fault, Matt.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“The best thing you can do-an emotional trauma like this is exhausting-is to get a good night’s sleep.”

“And things will seem better in the morning, right?”

“I’ve got something to give you…”

“No, thank you.”

“…a mild sedative.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not climbing the walls, or hysterical, or…”

“It’s inside, Matt, it’s a pain. It will have to come out. The better shape you’re in when it does, the better. That’s why you need to sleep.”

“You are your father’s daughter, aren’t you? You never know when to take no for an answer.”

“OK. But people, even tough guys like you, have been known to change their minds. I’ll leave the pills.”

“Take two and call me in the morning?” Matt asked, now smiling.

“If you take two, you won’t be able to use a telephone in the morning. One, Matt, with water, preferably not on an empty stomach.”

“My stomach is full of Chinese.”

“I’ll be at home until half past seven or so,” Amy said. “If you want to talk.”

“Amy, believe it or not, I’m touched by your concern,” Matt said. “But all I need is to finish this”-he held up his whiskey glass-“and get in bed.”

And then he surprised her by putting his arms around her.

“Who holds your hand when you need it, Doc?” he asked softly. “Don’t you ever get it up to here with other people’s problems?”

“Yeah,” she said, surprised at her emotional reaction. “Just between thee, me, and the lamp pole, I do. But not with your problems, Matt. You’re my little brother.”

“Chronologically speaking only, of course.”

She hugged him, and then broke away.

“Go to bed,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She went down the narrow flight of stairs and turned at the bottom and looked up.

“Try to stay on the black stuff between parked cars, Amy,” Matt called down to her with a wave.

“Wiseass,” she called back, and closed the door to the stairs. She had just enough time to be surprised to find the landing empty when she heard the whine of the elevator.

That has to be Peter, she thought. If he said he would wait for me, he will.

And then she just had time to recognize the depth of her original disappointment when the elevator door opened. It was not Peter, it was Jason Washington.

Where the hell is Peter? Did he decide, “Screw her, I’m going home”?

“Good evening, Doctor,” Washington said in his sonorous voice. “Or, more accurately, good morning.”

“Mr. Washington.”

“Do I correctly surmise from the look of disapproval on your face that now is not a good time to call on Matt?”

“No. As a matter of fact,” Amy said with a nervous laugh-Jason Washington was a formidable male-“I think you’d be good for him. He said he was going to bed, but I don’t believe him.”

“I couldn’t get here earlier,” he said. “Inspector Wohl-he’s with the security officer in the lobby-thought perhaps you…”

Peter did wait. Why are you so damned pleased?

“I think you’re very kind to come at this hour, and that Matt will be delighted to see you.”

“Thank you,” Washington said, and waved her onto the elevator.

Peter did not smile when he saw her.

“Thank you for waiting,” she said. “I really wanted to talk to you.”

“So you said.”

“Could we go somewhere for coffee? Or a drink?”

They locked eyes for a moment.

“Most of the places I’d take you to around here are closed.”

“Would you have time to stop by my apartment?”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s an invitation to breakfast.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” she snapped. “I want to talk about Matt. Nothing else.”

“We tried the other, right, and it didn’t work?”

“It didn’t seem to, did it?”

“I’ll meet you in your lobby,” Peter said. “I hate to follow people.”

“Thank you,” she said, and got back on the elevator. By the time she turned around, he was already out the door.

“How are you holding up, Matthew?” Jason Washington asked as he reached the top of the steep flight of stairs.

“Most often by leaning against the wall,” Matt replied.

“He said, masking his pain with humor. I am your friend, Matthew. Answer the question.”

“You know the old joke: ‘How is your wife?’ and the reply, ‘Compared to what?’ I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”

“Try a one-word reply.”

“Empty,” Matt said after a moment.

Washington grunted.

“I would suggest that is a normal reaction,” he said. “I would have been here earlier, Matthew, but I was about the King’s business, protecting our fair city from assorted mountebanks, scoundrels, and scalawags.”

Matt chuckled. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m very sorry about Penny, Matt,” Washington said.

“Thank you.”

“It was originally my intention, and that of my fair lady, to come to add our voices to the chorus of those telling you that you are in no way responsible for what happened.”

“Thank you.”

“I mean that. I am not just saying it.”

“I know,” Matt said.

“My lesser half-who is a bitch on wheels when awakened from her slumber in the wee hours-is going to be mightily piqued when I finally show up at home and tell her I have been here alone.”

Matt chuckled.

“Considering that sacrifice I have made-you have seen the lady in a state of pique and should be sympathetic-do you think you could find it in your heart to offer me one of whatever it is you’re drinking?”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “This is Irish. Is that all right?”

“Gaelic chauvinist’s scotch will do nicely. Thank you,” Washington said.

“You’ve been on the job?” Matt asked as he walked toward the kitchen.

“Indeed.”

“I thought you’d be taking some time off, going to the Shore or something.”

“There have been several interesting developments,” Washington said. “What opinion did you form of Staff Inspector Weisbach?”

“I liked him. He’s smart as hell.”

“That’s good, because he’s our new boss.”

“Really?”

“Would you be interested in his opinion of you?”

“Yeah.”

“He said you need to be held on a tight leash.”

“Is that what he said?”

“That’s what he said.”

“You said ‘our new boss.’ Are we going to be involved in this Ethical Affairs business?”

“I think we are the Ethical Affairs Unit.”

“That sounds like Internal Affairs by another name.”

Matt walked back into his living room and handed Washington the drink.

“Not precisely. Wohl and Weisbach have elected to lend a broad interpretation to their mandate.”

“Wohl was here.”

“I saw him in the lobby.”

“He didn’t say anything to me about…anything.”

“Under the circumstances…”

“He did mention half a dozen times that what I have to do is put…what happened to Penny…behind me, and get on with my life.”

“And so you should. Anyway, Armando C. Giacomo had Wohl and Weisbach as his guests for lunch at the Rittenhouse Club.”

“He’s representing Cassandro?”

“Uh-huh. And Mr. Cassandro really does not wish to go to jail. Mr. Giacomo proposed a deal: Cassandro testifies against Cazerra, Meyer, and company, in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”

“They’re not going to deal, are they? They don’t need his testimony. We have the bastard cold.”

“What Peter and Weisbach find interesting is why the deal was proposed. Giacomo can, if he can’t get him off completely, delay his trial for forever and a day, and then keep him from actually going to jail, with one appeal or another, for another couple of years. So, what, in other words, is going on?”

“What is?”

“Weisbach and Wohl, taking a shot in the dark, told Giacomo that the only thing we’re interested in, vis-a-vis Cassandro, that might accrue to his advantage would be help with the murder of Officer Kellog and what happened at the Inferno Lounge. According to Weisbach, Giacomo acted as if something might be worked out.”

“The mob would give us one, or both, doers in exchange for Cassandro?”

Washington nodded. “Which, since that would constitute a gross violation of the Sicilian Code of Honor, again raises the question, Why is Cassandro not going to trial so important? And that is what Weisbach and I have been trying to find out.”

“And?”

“Nothing so far.”

“Anything turn up on the Inferno Lounge job?”

“No. But I suspect there may be a connection there. Rather obviously, it was a hit, not a robbery. If it was a contract hit, it was expensive. If they give us that doer, that means Cassandro not going to jail is really important, and we’re back to why.”

Matt grunted.

“Anyway, you’ll be close to that one. You’re still going to Homicide. Whenever you feel up to coming back on the job.”

“If I had my druthers, I’d come back tomorrow morning. I really dread tomorrow.”

“At something of a tangent,” Washington said, “I have something to say which may sound cruel. But I think I should say it. My first reaction when I heard what happened was relief.”

Matt didn’t reply at first.

“I’ve also felt that,” he said finally. “It makes me feel like a real sonofabitch.”

“I’ve seen a good many murders, Matt. And more than my fair share of narcotics addicts. I hold the private opinion that a pusher commits a far more heinous crime than-for example-whoever shot Officer Kellog. Or Mrs. Alicia Atchison and Mr. Anthony J. Marcuzzi at the Inferno. For them, it was over instantaneously. It was brutal, but not as brutal as taking the life of a young woman, in painful stages, over a long period of time.”

Matt did not reply.

“The point of this little philosophical observation, Matt, is that Penny was murdered the first time she put a needle in her arm. When you…became romantically involved…with one another, she was already dead. The man who killed her was the man who gave her her first hard drugs.”

“I loved her.”

“Yes, I know.”

“We had a fight the last time I saw her. About me being a cop.”

“If you had agreed to become the Nesfoods International Vice President in Charge of Keeping the Boss’s Daughter Happy as of tomorrow morning, Matt,” Washington said seriously, “she would have found some other excuse to seek narcotic euphoria. The addiction was out of her control. It had nothing to do with you. You’ve got to believe that, for the simple reason that it’s true.”

“I’ll never know now, will I?”

Washington met his eyes, then set his drink down.

“Let’s go bar-crawling.”

“What?” Matt asked, surprised at the suggestion.

“How long have you been up here in the garret?”

Matt thought about that before replying.

“I got here about one-thirty.”

“Twelve hours in a smoke-filled room. That’s enough. Get your coat.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Mall Tavern. At Tenth and Cherry. When I was an honest Homicide detective, I used to go there for a post-duty libation. Let’s go listen to the gossip. Maybe we’ll hear something interesting.”