The Murderers

NINETEEN

“Frankie’s in love with Matt,” Wally Milham said. “He wants to buy him a drink and tell him about guns.”

“Jesus Christ!” Matt said.

Jason Washington raised his hand somewhat imperiously and made a circling motion with his extended index finger, as a signal to the waitress that he wanted another cup of espresso.

They were in Cafe Elana, a new (and rather pretentious, Matt thought) Italian coffeehouse in Society Hill.

“That sometimes happens,” Washington said, returning his attention to the table. “I think it has more to do with Matt representing authority than his charming personality. You might find it interesting, Matthew, to discuss the phenomenon with your sister.”

“In this case, it’s because Matt shoots people,” Milham said. “Frankie found that fascinating.”

“Frankie found a kindred soul, in other words?” Washington asked, nodding. “Let’s think about that.”

“There’s something wrong with that guy,” Matt said.

“There’s something wrong, as you put it, with most people who commit homicide,” Washington said. “Or did you have something special in mind?”

“He seems detached from reality,” Matt said. “The only time he seemed at all concerned with having been picked up and taken to a Homicide interview room was when I went through the Miranda business; that made him worry that he had been arrested. But even that didn’t seem to bother him very much. As soon as Wally told him he wasn’t under arrest…”

“Matthew, you realize, I hope, that the moment he was told that he wasn’t under arrest, all the ramifications of his being informed of his Miranda rights became moot.”

“I thought going through the routine might unnerve him,” Matt said. “And I didn’t get anywhere close to asking him about his involvement in either the robberies or the murders. I just asked him if he was in the Inferno, what he was doing there, and if he saw anything out of the ordinary.”

“No harm done in this case,” Washington said, “but you were close to the edge of the precipice.”

“Matt asked me before he gave him the Miranda.” Wally came to Matt’s defense. “It made sense to me. He’s right, there is something wrong with this guy. I agreed that it might shake him up, and I told him not to get into the murder itself. Either the Inferno murders, or Kellog’s.”

“Then, Wallace,” Washington pronounced, “the two of you were teetering on the precipice, in grave risk of providing a defense counsel six weeks out of law school with an issue that would cloud the minds of the jurors.”

Washington let the criticism sink in for a moment, then went on: “Having said that, it was not a bad idea. Professor Washington just wanted to make the point in his Homicide 101 Tutorial for Detective Payne that there are enormous risks in dancing around Miranda. In my experience, the more heinous the crime alleged, the greater the concern from the bench about the rights of the accused.”

“I didn’t turn Matt loose, Jason,” Milham said, his annoyance at the lecture visible and growing as he spoke. “And he wasn’t a loose cannon. I was prepared to shut him off if he was getting into something he shouldn’t have. I didn’t have to.”

“I intended no offense, Wallace,” Washington said. “Nevertheless, my observations were in order. It would offend me if, because of some procedural error, Mr. Foley and Mr. Atchison got away with what they did.”

“OK,” Milham said.

“I have the feeling that neither of you feel Foley was involved with Officer Kellog’s murder. Is that-”

“He’s tied to the Inferno,” Milham said. “Atchison says he doesn’t know Frankie, and Frankie tells us he’s going to work there as a bouncer.”

“Unless, of course, he is in fact a contract killer,” Washington said. “While I was waiting for you two to show up, I considered the anomaly of a nice Irish boy being so employed by the mob. Unusual, of course, but not impossible. I read the 75-49s on the Kellog job. There was nothing of great value stolen from the house. The only thing Mrs. Kellog reported as missing were her wedding and engagement rings. She left them there when she left Officer Kellog. Some other minor items are missing: a silver frame, holding their wedding picture; a portable television; and a silver coffee service. The street value of everything would not exceed two or three hundred dollars. And, of course, the tapes from the telephone recording device. Not enough for a burglar to kill over. The manner, the professional manner, so to speak, in which Officer Kellog was shot suggests assassination, rather than anything else. Perhaps the tapes were what his murderer was after.”

“Narcotics Five Squad?” Milham said doubtfully. “Jason, I have trouble thinking…”

“As do I. Unless what was on those tapes was so incriminating that desperate measures were required. Or…”

“Or what?”

“What was on those tapes was incriminating vis-a-vis the mob. The decision was made to eliminate Officer Kellog and get the tapes. And to put distance between the mob and any Narcotics involvement, or involvement between the mob and the Narcotics Five Squad, an outside contract killer was employed. Perhaps Matt’s admirer. I don’t think we should conclude that Mr. Foley was not involved with Officer Kellog’s murder.”

“If this character is a hit man, and I have trouble with that-he’s not that smart-why the hell is he working at Wanamaker’s?” Milham said.

“Interesting question,” Washington said. “There are all sorts of possible explanations. For example, let us suppose that Mr. Foley has been engaged, by the mob, as a loan shark among the Wanamaker’s warehouse labor force. He secured the repayment of a loan under such violent conditions that it came to the attention of the mob that here was a young man of reliability and ambition, perhaps suited for more important things.”

“Hell, why not?” Milham said.

“Letting my imagination run free,” Washington said, “I tried to come up with a credible scenario as to why Mr. Atchison lied to us about Mr. Foley. He is no fool, and he must have known that we would learn from the bartender that Mr. Foley was in there that night. Let us suppose that Mr. Atchison knows, or suspects, that Mr. Foley has a mob connection. Let us suppose further that Mr. Atchison has been having difficulty of some sort with the mob. Or Mr. Marcuzzi was in some sort of difficulty with them. Mr. Marcuzzi was hit, with Mrs. Atchison as an innocent bystander, so to speak. Mr. Atchison was spared, with a warning, explicit or implied, to keep his mouth shut. Knowing or suspecting that Mr. Foley has a mob connection, he was reluctant to point a finger at him. I was taken with his lack of concern for Mr. Marcuzzi. It is possible that he knew what Marcuzzi had been up to and decided that he had gotten his just deserts.”

“You mean, you don’t think Frankie did the Inferno job?” Matt asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Washington said. “What I’m saying is that we have yet to come up with a motive for Mr. Atchison being involved in the deaths of his wife and partner. No large amount of recently acquired insurance, et cetera, et cetera.”

“And if we confront Atchison with lying about Foley, he confesses to running a loan-shark operation with Foley as the enforcer,” Matt said.

“Precisely,” Washington said. “And we have little physical evidence, except for the bullets removed from the bodies of Mrs. Atchison and Mr. Marcuzzi. That’s useless unless we have the guns and can tie them to Foley or somebody else. Maybe there were two robbers.”

“Well, we could send Matt to have a drink with Frankie and talk about guns,” Milham said jokingly.

“He might not be too sharp, but he’s shrewd,” Matt said. “I don’t think I’d get anything from him.”

“Neither do I, but let’s think that through,” Washington said.

“Jesus!” Matt said. “Can I let my imagination run free?”

“Certainly.”

“Foley likes to talk. Boast. I have the feeling that working in Wanamaker’s embarrasses him.”

“So?”

“So maybe he would boast to somebody else.”

“I don’t follow you, Matthew,” Washington said. There was a tone of impatience in his voice.

“A guy comes up to him in a bar. Tells him he’s heard that Frankie has connections. Maybe tells him he wants to buy a gun.”

“That’s stretching, Payne,” Milham said. “You don’t think he’s going to sell the guns he used at the Inferno, do you? They’re probably at the bottom of the river.”

Matt met Washington’s eyes.

“Hay-zuz,” he said. “Wearing all his gold chains.”

It was a full thirty seconds before Washington spoke.

“I think Matthew may have something.”

“Hay-zus?” Milham asked.

“Detective Jesus Martinez,” Washington said. “Let me run this past Lieutenant Natali, maybe Captain Quaire, too. It would help if I could say the assigned detective had no objections.”

“Anything that works,” Milham said.

“I would suggest to you, Matthew, that while Mr. Foley presented a picture of complete composure in the Roundhouse, he may start to worry when he has had time to think things over. It is also possible that he may communicate with Mr. Atchison, or vice versa, which may make Mr. Atchison less confident than he was when we left him. In any event, there is nothing else that I can see that any of us can do today. I suggest we hang it up for the night.”

“I’ll see if I can get anything out of Helene,” Milham said. “And I’ll check with Homicide and see if anything new has come up.”

Every evening except Sunday, between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M. an automobile, most often a new Buick, stopped near the middle of the 1200 block of Ritner Street in South Philadelphia. A man carrying a small zipper bag would get out of the passenger seat, walk to the door of the residence occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Francis “Sonny” Boyle, and ring the bell.

The door would be opened, the man would enter, and the door would be closed. Usually less than a minute later, the door would reopen, and the man, still carrying what appeared to be the same small zipper bag, would appear, descend the stairs, and get back in the car, which would then drive off.

There were, in fact, two bags. The bag the man carried into the house would more often than not be empty. The bag the man carried from the house would contain the records of Mr. Boyle’s business transactions of that day, and the cash proceeds therefrom, less Mr. Boyle’s commission.

Mr. Boyle was in the numbers business. His clientele would “buy a number,” that is select a number between 000 and 999. The standard purchase price was one dollar. If the number selected “came up,” that is, corresponded to the second comma-separated trio of numbers of activity on the New York Stock Exchange for that day, the lucky number holder received $500. For example, if 340,676,000 shares were traded on the stock exchange on one particular day, the winning number would be 676, and anyone who had purchased number 676 could exchange his receipt for his purchase for $500.

The operation of Mr. Boyle’s business was quite simple. Most of the sales were conducted through small retail businesses, candy stores, grocery stores, newspaper stands, and the like. Individual customers would buy a number and be given a receipt. The storekeeper would turn over his carbon copy of the number selected, and his cash receipts (less a ten percent commission for his trouble), to one of Mr. Boyle’s runners. The numbers runner would in turn pass the carbons and the receipts to Mr. Boyle, for which service he was paid five percent of total receipts. Mr. Boyle would prepare a list of numbers purchased from the carbons, and put the carbons and the cash, less ten percent for his commission, into the zipper bag for collection by the gentleman who called at his home each evening.

Sale of numbers was closed off at half past two in the afternoon. The New York Stock Exchange closed at three. By three-fifteen, the day’s transactions had been reported on radio and television, and Mr. Boyle was made aware which number had hit, if any. Or, far more commonly, that no number had been hit. Or, far less commonly, that two or three individuals had purchased numbers that had hit. Only once in Mr. Boyle’s experience (and he had been a runner before becoming a “numbers man” himself) had five individuals bought a number that had hit. He considered it far more probable that he would be struck by lightning than for it to happen that six individuals would select the same winning number.

But in any event, the laws of probability were not Mr. Boyle’s concern. All winning numbers were paid by his employers and did not come out of his pocket. When a number did hit, Mr. Boyle almost always had sufficient funds from that day’s receipts to pay it. If winnings exceeded receipts, a rare happenstance, he would make a telephone call and there would be enough cash in the zipper bag brought to his door to make payment, which was religiously made the next business day.

At 7:15 P.M. Mr. Boyle was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his kitchen table concluding the administration of the day’s business when he heard the doorbell ring.

He was idly curious, but did not allow it to disturb his concentration. His work was important, and he took pride in both his accuracy, his absolute honesty, both to his clients and to his employers, and his timeliness. He had failed only twice to be ready when the man with the bag appeared at his door. His wife, Helen, moreover, had strict orders that he was not to be disturbed when he was working unless the house was on fire.

The kitchen table was covered with carbons of numbers selected that day, which would be forwarded, and with stacks of money, folded in half, and kept together with rubber bands. The folded stacks of money-the day’s receipts-were predominantly dollar bills, but with the odd five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills assembled in their own stack. There were also three stacks of tens, crisp new bills, bound by paper strips bearing the logotype of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, and marked “$500.”

These crisp new ten-dollar bills would be used to pay yesterday’s winners, those whose number had come up. This, Mr. Boyle believed, had a certain public relations aspect.

He could have, of course, paid the winners from the day’s receipts. There were a lot of people who would say money is money, it doesn’t matter where it comes from, so long as it can be spent. But Sonny believed that winners were happier to receive a stack of crisp new bills than they would be had he paid them with battered old currency, no telling where the hell it’s been. It made them feel better, and if they felt better, they would not only keep picking numbers, but would flash the wad of new bills around, very likely encouraging their friends and neighbors to put a buck, or a couple of bucks, on the numbers.

The swinging door from the dining room opened.

“Honey,” Helen said, to get his attention.

Sonny looked up at her with annoyance. She knew the rules.

“What?” he asked, less than politely.

“Mr. D’Angelo is here,” Helen said.

Marco D’Angelo was Mr. Boyle’s immediate supervisor. He normally drove the Buick which appeared ritualistically between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M., looking up and down the street as his assistant went into the Boyles’ residence.

As Sonny understood the hierarchy, Mr. D’Angelo worked directly for Mr. Pietro Cassandro. Mr. Pietro Cassandro was the younger brother of Mr. Paulo Cassandro, who was, as Sonny understood it, a made man, and who reported directly to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, who was, so to speak, the Chairman of the Board.

Sonny didn’t know this. But it was what was said. And he had not considered it polite to ask specific questions.

Sonny glanced at his watch. Marco D’Angelo was not due for another forty-five minutes.

“He’s here? Now? What time is it?”

Mr. D’Angelo appeared in the kitchen.

“Whaddaya say, Sonny?” he said. “Sorry to barge in here like this.”

“Anytime, Marco,” Sonny replied. “Can I get you something?”

“Thank you, no,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Sonny, Mr. Cassandro would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”

“I’m doing the day’s business,” Sonny said, gesturing at the table.

“This won’t take long,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Just leave that. So we’ll be a little late, so what, it’s not the end of the world. Finish up when you come back.”

“Whatever you say, Marco,” Sonny said. “Let me get my coat.”

Mr. Boyle was not uncomfortable. He had seen Mr. Pietro Cassandro on several occasions but did not know him. He searched his memory desperately for something, anything, that he had done that might possibly have been misunderstood. He could think of nothing. If there was something, it had been a mistake, an honest mistake.

The problem, obviously, was to convince Pietro Cassandro of that, to assure him that he had consciously done nothing that would in any way endanger the reputation he had built over the years for reliability and honesty.

Sonny did not recognize the man standing by Marco D’Angelo’s black Buick four-door. He was a large man, with a massive neck showing in an open-collared sports shirt spread over his sports-jacket collar. He did not smile at Sonny.

“You wanna get in the back, Sonny?” Mr. D’Angelo ordered. “Big as I am, there ain’t room for all of me back there.”

“No problem at all,” Sonny said.

He got in the backseat. Mr. D’Angelo slammed the door on him and got in the passenger seat.

They drove to La Portabella’s Restaurant, at 1200 South Front Street, which Sonny had heard was one of Mr. Paulo Cassandro’s business interests. The parking lot looked full, but a man in a business suit, looking like a brother to the man driving Marco D’Angelo’s Buick, appeared and waved them to a parking space near the kitchen.

They entered the building through the kitchen. Marco D’Angelo led Sonny past the stoves and food-preparation tables, and the man with the thick neck followed them.

Marco D’Angelo knocked at a closed door.

“Marco, Mr. Cassandro.”

“Yeah,” a voice replied.

D’Angelo pushed the door open and waved Sonny in ahead of him.

It was an office. But a place had been set on the desk, at which sat another large Italian gentleman, a napkin tucked in his collar. He stood up as Sonny entered the room.

The large Italian gentleman was, Sonny realized with a sinking heart, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Pietro’s brother. He had just had his picture in the newspaper when he had been arrested for something. The Inquirer had referred to him as a “reputed mobster.”

“Sonny Boyle, right?” Mr. Cassandro asked, smiling and offering his hand.

“That’s me,” Sonny said.

“Pleased to meet you. Marco’s been telling me good things about you.”

“He has?”

“I appreciate your coming here like this.”

“My pleasure.”

“Get him a glass,” Paulo Cassandro ordered. “You hungry, Sonny? I get you up from your dinner?”

“No. A glass of wine would be fine. Thank you.”

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, maybe after we talk. I figure I owe you for getting you here like this. After we talk, you’ll have something. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Marco tells me you’re pretty well connected in your neighborhood. Know a lot of people. That true?”

“Well, I live in the house my mother was born in, Mr. Cassandro.”

“The name Frank Foley mean anything to you, Sonny?”

Sonofabitch! I didn’t even think of that!

“I know who he is,” Sonny said.

“Me asking looks like it made you nervous,” Paulo said. “Did it make you nervous?”

“No. No. Why should it?”

“You tell me. You looked nervous.”

Sonny shrugged and waved his hands helplessly.

“Tell me about this guy,” Paulo said.

“I don’t know much about him,” Sonny said.

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Well, he’s from the neighborhood. I see him around.”

“I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about him.”

“Mr. Cassandro, can I say something?”

“That’s what I’m waiting for, Sonny.”

“I sort of thought you knew all about him, is what I mean.”

“I don’t know nothing about him; that’s why I’m asking. Why would you think I know all about him?”

“I got the idea somehow that you knew each other, that he was a business associate, is what I meant.”

“Where would you get an idea like that?”

“That’s what people say,” Sonny said. “I got that idea from him. I thought I did. I probably misunderstood him. Got the wrong idea.”

“Sonny, I never laid eyes on this guy. I wouldn’t know him if he walked in that door right this minute,” Paulo said.

“Well, I’m sorry I had the wrong idea.”

“Why should you be sorry? We all make mistakes. Tell me, what sort of business associate of mine did you think he was?”

“Nothing specific. I just thought he worked for you.”

“You don’t know where he works?”

“He works at Wanamaker’s.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. In the warehouse, I think.”

“Just between you and me, did you really think I would have somebody working for me who works in the Wanamaker’s warehouse?”

“No disrespect intended, Mr. Cassandro.”

“I know that, Sonny. Like I told you, Marco’s been saying good things about you. Look, I know you were mistaken, and I understand. But when you were mistaken, what did you think this guy did for me?”

Sonny did not immediately reply.

“Hey, you’re among friends. What’s said in this room stays in this room, OK?”

“I feel like a goddamned fool for not knowing it was bullshit when I heard it,” Sonny said. “I should have known better.”

“Known better than what, Sonny?” Paulo Cassandro said, and now there was an unmistakable tone of impatience in his voice.

“He sort of hinted that he was a hit man for you,” Sonny said, very reluctantly.

“You’re right, Sonny,” Paulo said. “You should have known it was bullshit when you heard it. You know why?”

Inspiration came, miraculously, to Sonny Boyle. He suddenly knew the right answer to give.

“Because you’re a legitimate businessman,” he said.

“Right. All that bullshit in the movies about a mob, and hit men, all that bullshit is nothing but bullshit. And you should have known that, Sonny. I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“I’m embarrassed. I just didn’t think this through.”

“Right. You didn’t think. That can get a fella in trouble, Sonny.”

“I know.”

“Ah, well, what the hell. You’re among friends. Marco says good things about you. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean about forgetting the whole thing?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“You know what you did tonight, Sonny?”

“No.”

“You wanted to be nice to the wife. You wanted to surprise her. You know a guy who works in the kitchen out there. You come to the back door and told him to make you two dinners to go. He did.”

“Right, Mr. Cassandro.”

“That it was on the house is nobody’s business but yours and mine, right? And you didn’t see nobody but your friend, right?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Cassandro.”

“Marco,” Paulo Cassandro said. “Get them to make up a takeout. Antipasto, some veal, some pasta, some fish, spumoni, the works, a couple bottles of wine. And then take Sonny here home.”

“Yes, Mr. Cassandro.”

Paulo Cassandro extended his hand.

“I would say that it was nice to see you, Sonny, but we didn’t, right? Keep up the good work. It’s appreciated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cassandro.”

“You see anybody here by that name, Marco?”

“I don’t,” Marco D’Angelo said.

“Sorry,” Sonny said.

“Ah, get out of here. Enjoy your dinner,” Paulo Cassandro said.

Impulsively, when he reached the Media Inn, at the intersection of the Baltimore Pike and Providence Road, Matt continued straight on into Media, instead of turning left onto Providence Road toward the home in Wallingford in which he had grown up.

Except for a lantern-style fixture by the front door, there were no lights on in the brick Colonial house at 320 Wilson Avenue; Mr. Gerald North Atchison, restaurateur and almost certain conspirator in a double murder, was apparently out for the evening.

There was time for Matt to consider, as he slowly approached and rolled past the house, that driving by wasn’t the smartest thing he had done lately.

What if he had been home? So what? What did I expect to find?

He pressed harder on the Porsche’s accelerator and dropped his hand to the gearshift.

To hell with it. I’ll go home, and hope I can look-what did Wohl say Amy said? A condition of “grief shock”?-sufficiently grief-shocked to convince my mother that I am not the sonofabitch I have proven myself to be.

Jesus! What if Amanda calls the apartment and Milham’s girlfriend answers the phone? Amanda will decide that I am letting some other kind female soul console me in my grief shock! And be justifiably pissed. Worse than pissed, hurt. I’ll have to call her.

And that’s not so bad. She said not to call her. But this gives me an excuse. Jesus, I’m glad I thought about that!

There was a sudden light in the rear of the house at 320 Wilson, growing in intensity. Matt looked over his shoulder-it was difficult in the small interior of the Porsche-and saw that the left door of the double garage was going up.

He pulled quickly to the curb, stopped, and turned his lights off. A moment later, a Cadillac Coupe de Ville backed out of the driveway onto the street, turned its tail toward Matt, and drove off in the other direction.

With his lights still off, Matt made a U-turn, swore when his front wheel bounced over the curb he could not see, then set off in pursuit.

Why the hell am I doing this?

Because I think I’m Sherlock Holmes? Or because I really don’t want to go home and have Mother comfort me in my grief shock?

Or maybe, just maybe, because I’m a cop, and I’m after that bastard?

Not without difficulty-the traffic on the Baltimore Pike through Clifton Heights and Lansdowne toward Philadelphia was heavy, and there were a number of stoplights, two of which left him stopped as the Cadillac went ahead-he kept Atchison in sight.

Atchison drove to the Yock’s Diner at Fifty-seventh and Chestnut, just inside the city limits. Matt drove past the parking lot, saw Atchison get out of his car and walk toward the diner, and then circled the block and entered the parking lot.

Atchison knew him, of course, so he couldn’t go in the diner. He walked toward the diner, deciding he would try to look in the windows. He passed a car and idly looked inside. There was a radio mounted below the dash, and when he looked closer, he could see the after-market light mounted on the headliner. An unmarked car.

The occupants of which will see me stalking around out here, rush out, blow whistles, shine flashlights, and accuse me of auto burglary.

There was a three-foot-wide area between the parked unmarked car and the diner itself, planted with some sort of hardy perennial bushes which were thick and had thorns. He scratched both legs painfully, and a grandfather of a thorn ripped a three-inch slash in his jacket.

He found a footing and hoisted himself up to look in the window.

There will be a maiden lady at this table, two maiden ladies, who will see the face in the window, scream, and cause whoever’s in the unmarked car to rush to protect society.

The table was unoccupied. Matt twisted his head-clinging to the stainless-steel panels of the diner wall made this difficult-and looked right and then left.

Mr. Gerald North Atchison was sitting at a banquette, alone, studying the menu.

Jesus, why not? What did I expect? People have to eat. Going to a diner is what hungry people do.

He dropped off the wall and turned to fight his way back through the jungle.

You are a goddamn fool, Matthew Payne. The price of your Sherlock Holmes foolishness is your ripped jacket. Be grateful that the guys in the unmarked car didn’t see you.

But, Jesus, why did he come all the way here? He could have eaten a hell of a lot closer to his house than this-the Media Inn, for example.

He stood motionless for a second, then turned back to the diner and climbed up again.

Mr. Gerald North Atchison, smiling, was giving his order to a waitress whose hair was piled on top of her head.

What are you doing here, you sonofabitch?

He looked around the diner again.

Frankie Foley was sitting at the diner’s counter, the remnants of his meal pushed aside, drinking a cup of coffee, holding the cup in both hands.

“You want to climb down from there, sir, and tell us what you’re doing?”

Matt quickly looked over his shoulder. Too quickly. His right foot slipped and he fell backward onto one of the larger perennial thornbushes.

“Shit!” Matt said.

“Jesus!” one of the detectives said, his tone indicating that the strange behavior of civilians still amazed him.

“I’m a Three Six Nine,” Matt said.

Both detectives, if that’s what they were, entered the thornbush jungle far enough to put their hands on Matt’s arm and shoulders and push him up out of the thornbush.

“I’m Detective Payne, of Special Operations,” Matt said. “Let me get out of here, and I’ll show you my identification.”

The two eyed him warily as he reached into his jacket for his identification.

The larger of the two took the leather folder, examined it and Matt critically, and finally handed it back.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Right now, I need some help,” Matt said.

“It sure looks like you do,” the second of them said.

“There’s a man in there named Gerald North Atchison,” Matt said. “You hear about the double homicide at the Inferno?”

“I heard about it,” the larger one said.

“It was his wife and partner who were killed,” Matt said. “And there is another man in there, Frankie Foley, who we think is involved.”

“I thought you said you was Special Operations,” the larger detective said. “Isn’t that Homicide’s business?”

“I’m working the job,” Matt said. “I followed Atchison here from his house. I think he’s here to meet Foley. That would put a lot of things together.”

“What kind of help?” the larger one asked.

“I can’t go in there. They both know my face.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Matt said, aware of how stupid that made him sound. “See if they talk together. Anything. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they’re both here together.”

“If they’ve got enough brains to pour piss out of a boot,” the larger one said, “they’d transact their business out here in the parking lot, where nobody would see them.”

It was a valid comment, and Matt could think of no reply to make.

“Harry,” the smaller one said, “I could drink another cup of coffee.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Matt said.

“If you need some help, why don’t you get on the radio?” the larger one said.

“I’m driving my own car.”

“Where are these guys?”

“Atchison, five eight or nine, a hundred ninety pounds, forty-something, in a suit, is in the second banquette from the kitchen door. Foley, twenty-five, six one, maybe two hundred pounds, is in a two-tone sports coat, third or fourth seat from the far end of the counter.”

“We’ll have a look,” the larger one said. “I’m Harry Cronin, Payne, South Detectives. This is Bob Chesley.”

Chesley waved a hand in greeting; Cronin offered his hand.

“You tore the shit out of your jacket, I guess you know,” he said, then signaled for Chesley to go into the diner ahead of him.

A minute after that, Cronin followed Chesley into the diner. Matt walked away from the diner, stationing himself behind the second line of cars in the parking lot.

Five minutes later, he saw Foley come out of the diner. Matt ducked behind a car and watched Foley through the windows. Foley went to a battered, somewhat gaudily repainted Oldsmobile two-door and got in. The door closed, and a moment later the interior lights went on.

Matt couldn’t see what he was doing at first, but then Foley tapped a stack of money on the dashboard. The door opened wider, and he could see an envelope flutter to the ground. The door closed, the engine cranked, the lights came on, and Foley drove out of the parking lot.

“That one,” Detective Cronin reported as he approached Matt, “went into the crapper carrying a package. A heavy package. He came out a minute or two later without it. Then the fat guy went in the crapper, and when he came out, he had the package.”

Matt ran over and retrieved the envelope. It was blank, but Matt remembered a lecture at the Police Academy-and it had been a question on the detective’s exam-where the technique of lifting fingerprints from paper using nihydrous oxide had been discussed. An envelope with Foley’s and Atchison’s prints on it would be valuable.

“I’d love to know what’s in that package,” Matt said when he went back to where Cronin waited.

“It was heavy and tied with string,” Cronin said. “It could be a gun. Guns. More than one.”

“Shit,” Matt said.

“Guns don’t help?”

“In the last couple of days, I’ve had several lectures about not giving defense attorneys an edge,” Matt said. “I’m afraid we’d get into an unlawful search-and-seizure, and lose the guns as evidence.”

“If they are guns,” Cronin said. “That’s just a maybe.”

“Shit,” Matt said.

“I could bump into the fat guy, and maybe the package would fall to the ground and rip open…”

“And maybe it wouldn’t.”

“You call it, Payne.”

“I think I had better be very careful,” Matt said.

“Whatever. Anything else?”

“I’m going to follow him. I don’t suppose you could tag along?”

“I don’t know. I’d have to check in.”

“Fuck it,” Matt thought aloud. “I started this myself, I’ll do it myself. Anyway, he might catch on if two cars followed him.”

“You know that he hasn’t caught on to you already?”

“No, I don’t.”

They waited in silence for another ten minutes.

“If you saw a gun barrel or something sticking out of a ripped package, that would be sufficient cause for you to ask for a permit, right?” asked Matt.

“Absolutely. A wrapped-up gun is a concealed weapon.”

“He’s got a permit to carry concealed, but you could get the serial numbers.”

“I’ll go bump the sonofabitch,” Cronin said.

Five minutes after that, Gerald North Atchison came out the Yock’s Diner. Detective Cronin stepped from between two parked cars and bumped into him, hard enough to make Atchison stagger. But he didn’t drop the package, and he held on to it firmly while Cronin profusely apologized for not watching where he was going, and tried to straighten Atchison’s clothing.

Detective Cronin, still apologizing, went into the diner. Atchison watched him, then turned and walked quickly to his car. Matt trotted to his Porsche and followed him out of the parking lot.

Atchison drove back toward Media. Just making the light, he turned left on Providence Road. The line of traffic was such that Matt could not run the stoplight. He fumed impatiently until it finally gave him a green left-turn signal, and then took out after Atchison’s Cadillac.

It was nowhere in sight. There weren’t even any red taillights glowing in the distance.

Matt put his foot to the floor. When he passed the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Brewster Cortland Payne II, he was going seventy-five miles an hour. There were lights on in the kitchen, and he had a mental picture of his mother and father at the kitchen table.

Just beyond the bridge over the railroad tracks near the Wallingford Station, he was able to pick out the peculiar taillight assembly of a Cadillac. He gradually closed the distance between them.

Atchison drove into and through Chester, to the river, then through a run-down area of former shipyards and no-longer-functioning oil refineries, weaving slowly between enormous potholes and junk strewn on the roadway.

Matt turned off his headlights, which kept, he felt, Atchison from noticing that he was being followed but which also denied him a clear view of the road. He struck several potholes hard enough to worry about blowing a tire, and making a trip to enrich the alignment technicians at the Porsche dealership a certainty.

And then he ran over something metallic, which lodged itself somewhere under the Porsche, set up a terrifying howl of torn metal, and gave off a shower of sparks.

He slammed on the brakes, wondering if he had done so because he was afraid Atchison would hear the screeching or see the sparks, or because it hurt to consider what damage was being done to the Porsche.

He jumped out, looking in frustration at Atchison’s disappearing Cadillac. And then the brake lights came on and the Cadillac stopped.

Christ, he saw me!

What do I do now?

There was a sudden light as the Cadillac’s door opened. Atchison got out, looked around, seemed fascinated with the Porsche, and then slammed the car door shut.

It took Matt’s eyes some time to adjust to the now pitch darkness, but when they did he saw Atchison-nothing more than a silhouette-walking away from the car.

He ran after him. When he got close he saw that they were next to the river, and that Atchison was on a pier extending into it.

He saw Atchison make a move like a basketball player. A shadow of something arced up into the sky, fell, and in a moment, Matt could faintly hear a splash.

Atchison now walked quickly back to the Cadillac, fired it up, and started to turn around. As the headlights swept the area, Matt dropped to the ground. His hands touched something wet and sticky. He put his fingers to his nose. It smelled as foul as it felt.

Atchison’s Cadillac rolled past him. It stopped at the Porsche. Atchison got half out of the car, looked around, then got all the way out. It looked for a moment as if he was going to try the door, but then he stumbled over something.

Then he got back in the car and drove rapidly away.

Matt got to his feet, rubbed his hands against his jacket to cleanse them of whatever the hell it was on his hands-the jacket was ruined anyway-and walked back to his car.

He saw what Atchison had stumbled over. A curved automobile bumper.

That which caused that unholy screech and the shower of sparks. With a little bit of luck, Atchison will think that’s why the Porsche is here, and not that I ran over the goddamn thing when I was tailing him.

The Cadillac’s taillights were no longer visible.

What the hell, he’s probably going home anyway.

Matt opened the car door with two fingers, got the keys from the ignition, then opened the hood and took out the jack. It took him fifteen minutes to dislodge the bumper from the car’s underpinnings.