SIX


“That was interesting,” Sergeant Edward McCarthy of the Homicide Unit said to Detective Wallace J. Milham as he walked up to a desk where Milham was trying to catch up with his paperwork. Milham looked at McCarthy with mingled curiosity and annoyance at having been disturbed.

“Radio just told me we have a double homicide at the Inferno Lounge,” McCarthy said. “No names on the victims yet, but the report came from Police by radio. A Ninth District van, relaying a message from none other than Sergeant Jason Washington of Special Operations, who is apparently on the scene.”

“I wonder what that’s all about.” Milham chuckled. “That neighborhood, and especially that joint, is not the Black Buddha’s style. Who’s got the job?”

“You’re the assigned detective, Detective Milham,” McCarthy said.

“Give me thirty seconds,” Milham said. “Let me finish this page.”

“Take your time. The victims aren’t going anywhere,” McCarthy said, and added, “I’m going to see if I can find the Captain.”

Captain Henry C. Quaire, Commanding Officer of the Homicide Unit, was located attending a social function-the annual dinner of the vestry of St. John’s Lutheran Church-in the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel with his wife when Sergeant McCarthy reached him.

“Where are you, Mac?”

“In the Roundhouse.”

“Pick me up outside. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Preoccupied with his concern about what his wife would say when he told her she would have to drive herself home-a dire prediction of tight lips and a back turned coldly toward him in their bed when he finally got home, a prediction that was to come true-Captain Quaire neglected to inquire of Sergeant McCarthy whether or not he had gotten in touch with Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein. The Chief liked to be notified of all interesting jobs, no matter what the hour, and a double willful killing would qualify by itself. With Washington somehow involved, he would be even more interested.

He would, he decided, try to get on a phone while waiting for McCarthy to pick him up. That idea went out the window when he stepped off the elevator and saw Mac’s car waiting for him outside on South Broad Street.

“I don’t suppose you got in touch with the Chief?” he asked as he got in the car.

McCarthy turned on the flashing lights and the siren and made a U-turn on Broad Street.

“I didn’t have to,” McCarthy replied. “I got a call from Radio, saying the Chief was going in on this, and would somebody call his wife and tell her he was delayed.”

“Who are the victims? Do we know yet?”

“I’m praying that it was a family dispute,” McCarthy said.

Quaire chuckled. Sergeant McCarthy was not referring to a disagreement between husband and wife, but to one between members of Philadelphia’s often violent Mafia.

“Who’s assigned?” Quaire asked.

“Wally Milham. You didn’t say anything…”

“Sure. He was up, he got the job. I don’t think he had anything to do with Kellog.”

“I wonder who did that.”

“Nothing’s turned up?”

“Not a thing.”

By the time Detective Milham pulled up in front of the Inferno Lounge, there were nine police vehicles, including three unmarked cars, parked on Market Street. Without consciously doing so, he picked out the anomaly. The three unmarked cars were battered and worn. Therefore, none of them belonged to Sergeant Jason Washington, whose brand-new unmarked car had been the subject of much conversation in the Homicide Unit.

Wally wondered if McCarthy had been pulling his chain about Washington being in on this; or if someone had been pulling McCarthy’s chain.

There was a uniformed cop standing at the door who recognized Milham and let him in. Inside the Inferno, Milham saw three detectives whom he knew: David Rocco of the Central Detective Division; John Hanson of the Major Theft Unit; and Wilfred “Wee Willy” Malone, a six-foot-four-inch giant of a man assigned to the Intelligence Unit. That explained the three unmarked cars.

Rocco and Hanson gave him a wave. Wee Willy looked at him strangely. Wally wondered if he had heard about Kellog; that he had been interviewed and that they were checking his guns at Ballistics.

“We’re glad you’re here,” Rocco said. “ Sergeant Washington is with the victims, protecting the scene until the arrival of the hotshots-one of which presumably is you, Wally-of Homicide.”

“If you less important people would learn not to walk all over our evidence, that wouldn’t be necessary,” Wally replied, and then, not seeing Washington: “Where’s the Black Buddha?”

“Oh, shit,” Hanson said, and laughed and then pointed. “There’s a stairway off the corridor in back. There’s an office downstairs.”

Wally found the stairs and went down them. Washington heard him coming, and turned with an impatient look on his face until he recognized him.

“Good morning, Detective Milham,” Washington said.

“Hello, Jason. What have we got?”

“Have you the acquaintance of Detective Payne?”

“Only by reputation,” Milham said, and offered the young detective his hand.

“Detective Payne and myself, by pure coincidence,” Washington went on, “were taking the air on Nineteenth Street when the first police vehicle to respond to the call-Officers Adolphus Hart and Thomas Daniels, in Wagon Nine Oh One, they are upstairs-arrived. In the absence of anyone more senior, I took charge of the scene, and being aware that the front door of the premises was steel and locked, ordered Detective Payne to attempt to enter the building from the rear, and sent Officer Daniels with him. Detective Payne was able to gain entrance. He left Officer Daniels to guard the rear door, proceeded through the building, and opened the front door, which was locked from the inside, and admitted me. With Detective Payne leading the way, we searched the building, and came upon the scene of the crime.

“We found Mr. Gerald Atchison, one of the proprietors of this establishment, sitting behind the desk. Mr. Atchison told us he was in the bar upstairs when he heard the sound, a popping noise, of what he now presumes was gunfire. When he went to investigate, he encountered in the corridor upstairs two white males, armed-a flash has gone out with their descriptions-who fired upon him, striking him in the leg. He drew his own pistol…”

Jason paused.

“Matthew, give Detective Milham the pistol, please.”

Matt turned to a filing cabinet. Carefully placing his fingers on the checkered wooden handles, he picked up a Colt Cobra revolver and extended it to Milham. Wally took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and held it open until Matt dropped the revolver into it.

“…which Mr. Atchison is licensed by the Sheriff of Delaware County to carry,” Washington went on, “and a gun battle during which Mr. Atchison suffered the wound to his leg ensued. Mr. Atchison fell to the floor. He lay there he doesn’t know how long.”

“It’s starting to hurt,” Atchison said.

“A police wagon is outside, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “In just a moment, you will be transported to a hospital. Have I reported the essence of your discussion with Detective Payne accurately?”

“A short fucker and big one did this,” Atchison replied.

“After he knows not how long he laid on the floor, Mr. Atchison reports that he recovered sufficiently to become aware that his assailants were no longer present. He then descended the stairs to the office, where he found the bodies of his wife and his business partner. He thereupon sat down at his desk, called Police Emergency to report what had happened, and then took a drink of whiskey against the pain of his wound. Am I still correct, Mr. Atchison?”

“I knew they were dead,” Mr. Atchison said.

“Yes, of course, you could see that,” Washington said, and then continued: “I then instructed a Highway officer to report to Police Radio that I had come upon evidence of a double homicide. I then secured the scene of the crime, pending the arrival of someone from the Homicide Unit. No one but Detective Payne and myself have entered the scene. And unless there is some other question you would like to ask of either of us, Detective Payne and myself will now be on our way. Barring stringent objections, we will prepare statements regarding our involvement in this incident, and have them at Homicide Unit before noon tomorrow. Do you have any questions, Wally?”

“No, Jason,” Milham said, smiling. “That covers everything neatly.”

The day Wally had reported for duty as a Homicide detective, during his “welcome aboard” interview with then Lieutenant Quaire, Quaire had pulled a Homicide Investigation binder from the file and handed it to him.

“Don’t let him know I showed you this, Milham, his ego is bad enough as it is, but this is what you should try for.”

“What is it, sir?”

“It’s a real Homicide report, Detective Jason Washington’s, of a homicide in the course of an armed robbery, but it’s also a textbook example of what a completed Homicide binder should be. Everything is in it, in the right sequence, there’s no ambivalence, there’s no duplication, there’s no procedural errors, no spelling or grammatical mistakes, and if there are any type-overs, I can’t find one.”

“That being the case, Wally, I leave this matter in your capable hands. Shall we be on our way, Matt?”

“I got to get medical attention,” Mr. Atchison said. “My goddamned leg is starting to hurt.”

“We regret the delay, Mr. Atchison,” Washington said. “But I am sure that you are even more interested than we are in apprehending the people who murdered your wife and business associate, and it was necessary for me to put what information I have regarding this tragic incident in the hands of the police officer who will be in charge of the investigation.”

“Yeah. I want those bastards caught. And fried.”

“Good night, sir,” Washington said. “Thank you for your patience.”

He turned, and met Wally Milham’s eyes. Then he wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something rotten.

“Good night, Detective Milham,” he said, and took Matt’s arm and propelled him out of the room.

There were well over a dozen police vehicles of all kinds, among them Chief Inspector Matthew Lowenstein’s Oldsmobile sedan, parked on the street and on the sidewalk in front of the Inferno Lounge, when Captain Quaire and Sergeant McCarthy arrived.

Captain Thomas Curran of the Central Detective Division was standing on the sidewalk with Staff Inspector Michael Weisbach and Captain Alexander Smith of the Ninth District, but neither Chief Lowenstein nor his driver was anywhere in sight.

“The Chief is inside,” Curran explained. “Enter at your own risk. He told us to wait out here, and Weisbach was with him when he drove up. He is not in a good mood.”

“Washington’s in there?” Quaire asked.

“Which may explain his mood.” Curran nodded. “Washington, and that kid, Payne, who shot the rapist. And Milham. Milham just got here.”

“You better wait, too, Mac,” Quaire said, and walked to the entrance of the Inferno Lounge, where a uniform pulled the door open for him.

Quaire found Chief Lowenstein not where he expected to find him, wherever the bodies were, but in the restaurant area of the Inferno, sitting at a table with Sergeant Jason Washington and Detective Matthew M. Payne.

“Good evening, sir,” Quaire said.

“Sergeant Washington’s sole function in this has been to keep Highway from walking all over the evidence,” Lowenstein said. “The bodies are downstairs. Milham’s down there.”

“Who are the victims?” Quaire asked.

“One white female, Alicia Atchison,” Washington answered. “The wife of the proprietor, one Gerry Atchison. And Mr. Atchison’s business partner, one Anthony J. Marcuzzi. Mr. Atchison contends that two white males shot them in the course of a robbery, during which he was himself shot, as he bravely attempted to defend his wife, his property, and his friend and business associate.”

He pinched his nose with his thumb and his index finger, which might have been a simple, innocent gesture, or might have been an indication that he believed Mr. Atchison’s version of what had transpired smelled like rotten fish.

“I’ll go have a look,” Quaire said.

“Take Detective Payne with you,” Lowenstein said. “He might be useful-he was first on the scene-and he might learn something.”

Matt Payne, looking a little surprised, stood up.

Chief Lowenstein waited until Quaire and Payne were out of earshot, then turned to Washington.

“Jason, we’ve been friends for a long time.”

“‘Uh-oh,’ the Apache warrior said, aware that he was about to be schmoozed by the Big Chief,’” Washington said.

Lowenstein smiled, and then the smile vanished.

“I know what you’re doing, Jason.”

“Excuse me?”

“And for what it’s worth, if I had to pick somebody to do it, it would be you. Or Peter Wohl. Or the both of you, which is the way I hear it is.”

“Chief, we have been friends a long time, and what you’re doing is putting me on a hell of a spot.”

“Yeah, and I know it. But goddamn it…”

Washington looked at him, met his eyes, but said nothing.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. If you feel you can answer them, answer them. If you feel you can’t, don’t.”

Washington didn’t reply, but after a moment, nodded his head.

“How bad is it?”

Washington, after ten seconds, which seemed like much longer, said, “Bad.”

“How high does it go?”

“There’s a captain involved.”

“Suspicion, or something that can be proved?”

Washington thought that question over before replying.

“There will be indictments.”

Lowenstein met his eyes and exhaled audibly.

“Anybody I know?”

“Chief, you know a lot of people.”

“If I ran some names by you, would you nod your head?”

“No.”

“Mike Weisbach heard some talk abut Vito Cazerra.”

Washington didn’t reply.

“He’s working on it. Weisbach’s a damned good investigator.”

Washington remained silent, his face fixed.

“The name of Seymour Meyer also came up.”

“Chief, we’re not having this conversation,” Washington said. “If we were, I’d have to report it.”

Lowenstein met Washington’s eyes.

“How much time do I have?”

Washington shrugged, then said, “Very little.”

“Are you going to tell the Mayor I cornered you and we had this little chat?”

“What little chat?”

“OK, Jason,” Lowenstein said. “Thanks.”

Washington made a deprecating gesture.

Lowenstein stood up and looked down at Washington.

“Does Denny Coughlin know what’s going on?” he asked.

It was a moment before Washington, just perceptibly, shook his head no.

Lowenstein considered that, nodded his head, and turned and walked out of the Inferno Lounge.

Wally Milham was not surprised to see Captain Henry Quaire come into the basement office of the Inferno Lounge. Quaire routinely showed up at the scene of an interesting murder, and this double murder qualified. Wally was surprised and annoyed, however, to see Detective Payne with him.

“What have we got, Wally?” Quaire asked.

Wally told him, ending his synopsis with the announcement that he was about to have Mr. Atchison transported to Hahnemann Hospital for treatment of his leg wound.

“You’re ready for the technicians?” Quaire asked. “They’re here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll go get them,” Quaire said. “We want to do this by the book. Chief Lowenstein’s here, too. Keep me posted on this one, Wally.”

“Yes, sir.”

Since Detective Payne had arrived with Captain Quaire, Detective Milham reasonably presumed that he would leave with him. He didn’t.

What the hell is he hanging around for?

“I’ve been thinking that maybe I better talk to my lawyer,” Mr. Atchison said. “With something like this happening, I’m not thinking too clear.”

“Certainly,” Wally said. “I understand.”

“How long do you think it will take at the hospital?” Mr. Atchison asked.

“No telling,” Wally replied. “An hour, anyway. There’d be time for him to meet you there, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“And I’m going to need a ride home,” Mr. Atchison said. “I can’t drive with my leg like this.”

“Have you got his number? Would you like me to call him for you?” Wally asked solicitously.

“I’ll call him,” Atchison said, and, grunting, sat up and moved toward the desk.

“It would be better if you didn’t use that phone, sir,” Matt said, and when Atchison looked at him, continued: “We’d like our technicians to see if there are any fingerprints on it. That would be helpful, when we find the men who did this to you, to prove that they were here in this room.”

What’s this “we” shit? This is my job, pal, not yours. Butt the hell out.

“Yeah, sure.”

“There will be a telephone in the hospital, I’m sure,” Matt went on. “Or, if you would like us to, we can get word to him to meet you at Hahnemann Hospital.”

More of this “we” shit! Just who the hell do you think you are, Payne?

“That’s very nice of you,” Atchison said. “His name is Sidney Margolis. I got his number here in the card file.”

He started to reach for it, and Matt stopped him.

“It would be better, Mr. Atchison, if you didn’t touch that, either, until the technicians have done their thing. Is he in the phone book? Or is his number unlisted?”

“I remember it,” Atchison said, triumphantly calling it forth from his memory.

“If you give that to me again,” Matt said, “I’d be happy to call him for you.”

“Would you, please? Tell him what happened here, and ask him to meet me at Hahnemann.”

Matt took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote the number down.

“Can I see you a minute, Payne?” Wally said, and took Matt’s arm and led him out of the office. “Be right with you, Mr. Atchison.”

He led Matt a dozen steps down the corridor, then stopped.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Payne,” he snapped. “But shut your fucking mouth. This is my job. When I want some help, I’ll ask for it.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I was just trying to help.”

“Do me a favor. Don’t.”

“OK. Sorry.”

Wally’s anger had not subsided.

“I’ll tell you what I do want you to do,” he said. “First, give me that lawyer’s phone number, and then get your ass down to the Roundhouse and wait for me there. I want your statement. I may have to put up with that ‘I’ll get my statement to you in the morning’ shit from Washington, but I don’t have to put up with it from you.”

Matt, his face red, tore the page with the phone number from his notebook and handed it to Wally. Wally took it and went back down the corridor.

Matt watched him a moment, then went up the stairs, as two uniformed officers, one carrying a stretcher, came down them.

Chief Lowenstein was gone. Jason Washington, alone at the table where they had been sitting, stood up when he saw Matt.

“Well, did you learn anything?”

“A,” Matt replied, “Detective Milham has all the charm of a constipated alligator, and B, he wants my statement tonight, not tomorrow.”

Washington’s right eyebrow rose in surprise.

“Shall I have a word with him?”

“No. No, thanks. Now that I think of it, I’d just as soon get it over with now. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“All right. Walk me back to your place, and I’ll drop you off at the Roundhouse on my way home. Or you can get your car.”

“I’ll take the ride, thanks. And catch a cab home later.”

Jason Washington was surprised and just a little alarmed when he quietly let himself into his apartment to see that there were lights on in the living room.

Not only is the love of my life angry, but angry to the point where she has decided that marital justice demands that she wait up for me to express her displeasure personally, immediately, and in some detail.

As he walked down the corridor, he heard Martha say, somewhat formally, “I think that’s him.”

Someone’s with her. Someone she doesn’t know well. Who? And who else would it be at this hour of the morning?

He walked into the living room. Martha, in a dressing gown, was sitting on the couch. There was a coffee service on the coffee table. And a somewhat distraught-looking woman sitting in one of the armchairs, holding a coffee cup in her hands.

“Martha, I’m sorry to be so late. I was tied up.”

“That happens, doesn’t it?” Martha replied, the tone of her voice making it clear she thought he had been tied up by a slow-moving bartender.

“Good evening,” Jason said to the distraught-looking woman.

“More accurately, ‘good morning,’” Martha said. “Jason, this is Mrs. Kellog.”

“How do you do?” Jason said.

Kellog? As in Officer Kellog?

“I’m sorry to have come here like this,” Mrs. Kellog said. “But I just had to.”

“How may I help you, Mrs. Kellog?”

“Jerry Kellog was my husband,” she said.

That’s precisely what I feared. And what are you doing here, in my home?

“May I offer my condolences on your loss, Mrs. Kellog?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with him being killed,” she said. “And neither did Wally.”

Washington nodded sympathetically.

“Martha, I’m sure you’re tired,” he said.

“No. Not at all,” Martha said, smiling sweetly, letting Jason know that even if this was business he wasn’t going to dismiss her so lightly in her own home.

“Wally told me, not only Wally, but Lieutenant Sackerman, too, especially him, that you’re not only the best Homicide detective…”

“That was very gracious of Jack Sackerman,” Washington said, “we were friends for a long time.”

“…but the only cop you know is honest.”

“That’s very kind, but I cannot accept the blanket indictment of the rest of the Police Department,” Washington said. “I like to think we’re something like Ivory Soap: ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths pure.”

Helene Kellog ignored him.

“That’s why I came to you,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She looked at him, took a deep breath, and went on: “Jerry was dirty. I know that. And-what happened to him-had something to do with that. They’re all dirty, the whole Five Squad is dirty.”

“Mrs. Kellog, when you were interviewed by detectives investigating the death of your husband, did you tell any of them what you just told me?”

She snorted.

“Of course not. They all acted like they think that I had something to do with it. Or that Wally did. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they were in on it.”

“In on what?”

“Covering up. Maybe trying to pin it on Wally or me. Wally and me.”

“Does Detective Milham know that you’ve come to see me?”

“Of course not!”

“Why do you think anyone would want to ‘pin’ what happened to your husband on you? Or Detective Milham?”

“I just told you! To cover up. To protect themselves. They’re all dirty. The whole damned Five Squad is dirty! That’s probably why Jerry was killed. He never really wanted to get involved with that. They made him! And maybe he was going to tell somebody or do something.”

“By dirty, you mean you believe your husband was taking money from someone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he tell you he was?”

“No. He wouldn’t talk about it at all.”

“Then how do you know?”

“He was getting the money from someplace.”

“What money?”

“All of the money. All of a sudden we’ve got lots of money. You’re a cop. You know how much a cop, even with overtime, makes.”

“And Jerry had large sums of money?”

“We- he — bought a condo at the shore, and there’s a boat. And he paid cash. He didn’t get that kind of money from the Police Department.”

“Did you ask him where the money came from?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. That’s when we started to have trouble, when he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Have you told anything about this to Detective Milham?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because if I did, he would have done something about it. He’s an honest cop.”

“Then wouldn’t he logically be the person to tell?”

“I didn’t want Jerry to go to jail,” she said. “And besides, what would it look like, coming from me? Me living with Wally. I’d look like a bitch of a wife trying to make trouble.”

“Did you come to me for advice, Mrs. Kellog?” Washington asked.

“For help. For advice.”

“If what you told me is true…”

“Of course it’s true!” she interrupted.

“…then the information you have should be placed in the hands of the people who can do something about it. I’m sure you know that we have an Internal Affairs Division…”

“If I thought I could trust Internal Affairs, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “They’re all in on it.”

“Mrs. Kellog, I can understand why you’re upset, but believe me, you can trust Internal Affairs.”

At this moment, unfortunately, I’m not absolutely sure that’s true. And neither am I sure that what I so glibly said before, that the Department is ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths percent pure is true, either.

She snorted.

“If I gave you the name of a staff inspector in Internal Affairs whom I can personally vouch for…”

Helene Kellog stood up.

“I guess I should have known better than to come here,” she said, on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She turned to Martha Washington. “Thank you.”

“Mrs. Kellog, there’s really nothing I can do to help you. I have nothing to do with either Homicide or Narcotics or Internal Affairs.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry I wasted your time,” she said. “That’s the way out, right?”

“I’ll see you to the door,” Washington said, and went with her.

At the door, she turned to him.

“Do me one favor, all right? Don’t tell Wally that I came to see you.”

“If you wish, Mrs. Kellog.”

She turned her back on him and walked down the corridor to the elevator.

Martha was waiting for him in the living room.

“I’m sorry about that, honey,” he said.

“I think she was telling the truth.”

“She believed what she was saying,” Jason said after a moment. “That is not always the same thing as the whole truth.”

“I felt sorry for her.”

“So did I.”

“But you’re not going to do anything about what she said?”

“I’ll do something about it,” he said.

“What?”

“I haven’t decided that yet. I don’t happen to think that Wally Milham had anything to do with her husband’s murder; he’s not the type. I saw him tonight, by the way. That’s where I was.”

“Excuse me?”

“I went to see Matt. We tried to go to the Rittenhouse Club for a drink, but it was closed, so we took a walk, and walked up on a double homicide. On Market Street. And we got involved in that. Wally Milham had the job.”

“You mean, you were involved in a shooting?”

“No. We got there after the fact.”

“What was so important that you had to see Matt at midnight?” Martha asked. “And be warned that ‘police business’ will not be an acceptable reply.”

He met her eyes, smiled, and shook his head.

“We’re conducting a surveillance. Earlier tonight, the microphone we had in place on a hotel window was dislodged. I learned from Tony Harris that Matt climbed out on a ledge thirteen floors up to replace the damned thing.”

“My God! At the Bellvue? When he was here, he was wearing a Bellvue maintenance uniform.”

Jason ignored the question.

“I wanted to bawl him out for that. And alone.”

“So you went to the bar at the Rittenhouse Club?”

“That was after I bawled him out.”

“After you bawled him out, you felt sorry for him?”

“I felt sorry for myself. I wanted a drink, and he didn’t have anything.”

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Martha said, “and accept that story.”

“Thank you.”

“Do want something to eat? Coffee? Another drink?”

“If I told you what I really want, you’d accuse me of…”

“Oddly enough, I was thinking along those lines myself,” Martha said. “Why don’t you get one of those champagne splits from the fridge, while I turn off the lights.”

When Detective Wallace J. Milham walked into the Homicide Division, he saw Detective Matthew M. Payne sitting at an unoccupied desk reading the Daily News. When Payne saw him, he closed the newspaper and stood up.

Wally beckoned to him with his finger and led him into one of the interview rooms, remembering as he passed through the door that he had the previous morning given a statement of his own in the same goddamn room.

Milham sat down in the interviewee’s chair, a steel version of a captain’s chair, firmly bolted to the floor, with a pair of handcuffs locked to it through a hole in the seat.

He motioned for Payne to close the door.

Payne handed him two sheets of typewriter paper.

“I didn’t know how you wanted to handle this,” Payne said. “But I went ahead and typed out this.”

Milham read Matt’s synopsis of what had happened at the Inferno Lounge. It wasn’t up to Washington’s standards, but he was impressed with the clarity, organization, and completeness. And with the typing. There were no strike-overs.

Why the hell am I surprised? He works for Washington.

“What do you do for Washington?” he wondered aloud.

Payne looked uncomfortable.

“Whatever he tells me to do,” he said. “That wasn’t intended to be a flip answer.”

He doesn’t want to talk about what he does for Washington. That shouldn’t surprise me either. I don’t know what they’ve got Jason doing, but whatever it is, somebody thinks it’s more valuable to the Department than his working Homicide. And this guy works for him.

“Payne, I’m sorry I jumped on your ass at the Inferno. I had a really bad day yesterday, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No. I was out of line. You were right.”

There was a knock at the door. Wally pushed himself out of the steel captain’s chair and went to it and opened it.

A portly detective Matt recognized stood there.

“Mr. Atchison and his attorney, Mr. Sidney Margolis, are here,” he said formally, and then he recognized Matt. “Whaddayasay, Payne?”

Summers shrugged, a gesture Milham interpreted to mean Fuck you, too, and went out of the interview room.

“You know Summers?”

“The sonofabitch and another one named Kramer had me in here when I shot Stevens. The way they acted, I thought they were his big brothers.”

“When you did what? ‘Shot Stevens’?”

“Charles D. Stevens, a.k.a. Abu Ben Mohammed. He was one of the, quote, Arabs, unquote, on the Goldblatt Furniture job.”

“I remember that,” Wally said. “He tried to shoot his way out of an alley in North Philly when they went to pick him up?”

“Right.”

“And shot a cop, who then put three rounds in him? That was you?”

Matt nodded. “I took a ricochet off a wall.”

“I didn’t make the connection with you,” Wally said. And then, surprising himself, he added, “You hear about the plainclothes Narcotics guy getting shot?”

“Washington said something about it.”

“Summers had me in here earlier today. ‘What did you know about the death of Officer Jerome H. Kellog?’”

“I heard.”

“Kellog’s wife-they were separated-and I are pretty close. They had me in here. Sitting in that chair is a real bitch.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed.

“And you took out the North Philly Serial Rapist, too, didn’t you?” Wally said, remembering.

Matt nodded.

Jesus, Wally thought, as long as I’ve been on the job, I’ve never once had to use my gun. And this kid has twice saved the City the price of a trial.

“If I give you Boy Scout’s Honor to keep my runaway mouth shut, could I hang around here?” Matt asked.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Washington said you’re a damned good investigator. I’d like to see you work.”

Washington said that about me? I’ll be damned!

“Sure. Be my guest.”

“Where has, quote, the victim, unquote, been up to now?”

“Probably in the Hahnemann Hospital parking lot being told what not to say by his lawyer. Or deciding if it would be smarter to take the Fifth.”

“Wouldn’t he be? I had the feeling Jason Washington didn’t believe what he had to say.”

“Oh, this guy did it,” Milham responded matter-of-factly. “Or had it done. There’s not much question about that. Proving it is not going to be easy. He’s smart, and tough, and he’s got a good lawyer. But I think I’ll nail the sonofabitch.”

“Is that intuition on your part? Or Jason’s? Or did I miss something?”

“I don’t know about Washington. He sees things, senses things, that the rest of us miss. But what I saw was first of all a guy who didn’t seem all that upset to be sitting around across a desk from his wife, who had just had her brains blown out. And there’s his business partner on the floor, with bullet holes in him, too. I didn’t hear one word about ‘poor whatsisname.’ Did you?”

“Marcuzzi, Anthony J.” Matt furnished, shaking his head, no.

“‘Poor Tony, he was more than a business partner. We were very close friends. I loved him,’” Milham said mockingly.

Matt chuckled.

“On the way to Hahnemann Hospital,” Milham went on, “I guess he thought about that: ‘Jesus, I should remember that I’m supposed to be sorry as hell about this!’ He started crying in the wagon. He wasn’t all that bad, either. I almost felt sorry for him.”

“Do you think he knows that you suspect him?”

“I don’t know,” Milham replied thoughtfully. “Probably about now, yeah, I think he’s realized we haven’t swallowed his bullshit. There’s always something you forget when you set up something like this. I don’t know what the hell he forgot, not yet, but he knows. I’d say right about now, he’s getting worried.”

“What I wondered about…” Matt said. “When I got hit, it hurt like hell. He didn’t seem to be hurting much.”

“I was not surprised when the bullet they took out of him at Hahnemann,” Wally said, and dug in his pocket and came out with a plastic bag, handed it to Matt, then continued, “turned out to be a. 32. Or that he had been shot only once. Whoever shot the wife and the partner made damned sure they were dead.”

Matt examined the bullet and handed the plastic envelope back.

“And I won’t be surprised, judging by the damage they caused, when we get the bullets in the bodies from the Medical Examiner, if they are not. 32s. At least. 38s, maybe even. 45s, which do more damage. If I were a suspicious person, which is what the City pays me to be, I would wonder about that. How come the survivor has one small wound in the leg, and…”

“Yeah,” Matt said thoughtfully.

“I think it’s about time we ask them to come in,” Wally said. “You want to stick around, stick around.”

Milham got out of the captain’s chair and went to the door and opened it.

“Would you please come in, Mr. Atchison?” he asked politely.

A moment later, Atchison, his arm around the shoulder of a short, portly, balding man, appeared in the interview-room door.

“Feeling a little better, Mr. Atchison?” Wally asked.

“How the fuck do you think I feel?” Atchison said.

Margolis looked coldly, but without much curiosity, at Matt.

“Howareya?” he said.

Matt noticed that despite the hour-it was reasonable to presume that when Milham called him, he had been in bed-Margolis was freshly shaven and his hair carefully arranged in a manner he apparently thought best concealed his deeply receded hairline. His trousers were mussed, however, and did not match his jacket, and his white shirt was not fresh. He was not wearing a tie.

Margolis led Atchison to the captain’s chair and eased him down into it.

Matt saw that Atchison was wearing a fresh shirt and other-if not fresh-trousers. There were no bloodstains on the ones he was wearing.

“I object to having my client have to sit in that goddamned chair like you think he’s guilty of something. He just suffered a gunshot wound, for Christ’s sake!” Margolis said.

“We really don’t have anything more comfortable, Mr. Atchison,” Wally said. “But I’ll ask Detective Payne to get another chair in here so you can rest your leg on it. Would that be satisfactory?”

“It wouldn’t hurt. Let’s get this over, for God’s sake,” Atchison said. “My leg is starting to throb.”

“We’ll get through this as quickly as we can,” Matt heard Wally say as he went in search of another chair. “We appreciate your coming in here, Mr. Atchison.”

Matt found a straight-back chair and carried it into the interview room. He arranged it in front of the captain’s chair, and with a groan, Atchison lifted his leg up and rested it on it.

Matt glanced at Atchison. Atchison was examining him carefully, and Matt remembered what Wally had just said about “I think he’s realized we haven’t swallowed his bullshit.”

When Matt looked at Milham, Milham, with a nod of his head, told him to stand against the wall, behind Atchison in the captain’s chair.

A slight, gray-haired woman, carrying a stenographer’s notebook in one hand and a metal folding chair in the other, came into the room.

“This is Mrs. Carnelli,” Milham said. “A police stenographer. She’ll record this interview. Unless, of course, Mr. Atchison, you have an objection to that?”

Atchison looked at Margolis.

“Let’s get on with it,” Margolis said.

“Thank you,” Milham said. He waited to see that Mrs. Carnelli was ready for him, and then spoke, slightly raising his voice. “This is an interview conducted in the Homicide Unit May 20, at 2:30 A.M. of Mr. Gerald N. Atchison, by Detective Wallace J. Milham, badge 626, concerning the willfully caused deaths of Mrs. Alicia Atchison and Mr. Anthony Marcuzzi. Present are Mr. Sidney Margolis, Mr. Atchison’s attorney, and Detective Payne…first name and badge number, Payne?”

“Matthew M. Payne, badge number 701,” Matt furnished.

“Mr. Atchison, I am Detective Milham of the Homicide Unit,” Milham began. “We are questioning you concerning the willful deaths of Mrs. Alicia Atchison and Mr. Anthony Marcuzzi.”

Загрузка...