The Witness

TWENTY-FOUR

Miss Martha Peebles had decided that it would be better to receive her and Captain Pekach's guests in the family (as opposed to the formal) dining room of her home. For one thing, it had been her father's favorite room. She had good memories of her father and his friends getting up from the dinner table and moving to the overstuffed chairs and couches at the far end of the room for cognac and cigars and coffee.

Tonight, she would more or less reverse that. She had had Evans and his nephew Nathaniel set up a little bar near the overstuffed furniture. Nathaniel would serve drinks first, before they moved to the dining table for the meal.. Then, after they had eaten, they could move back.

Besides, she reasoned, the formal dining room was just too large for the few people who would be coming. When she was a little girl, for her eleventh birthday party, it had been converted into a rollerskating rink.

But her father had preferred the family dining room, and it seemed appropriate for tonight. And she thought that her father would appreciate the arrangements she had made. She was convinced that her father would have liked David, and vice versa. They were men. And if he liked David, her father would also like David's friends, Inspector Wohl and Captain Sabara.

Daddy probably wouldn't like Farnsworth Stillwell any more than I do, she thought, but she could clearly hear his voice telling her, "Like it or not, kitten, you are who you are, and from time to time, you have to go through the motions and put up with people of your own background. "

And, besides, now that Stillwell had entered politics, he might turn out to be useful to David.

Captain and Mrs. Michael J. Sabara were the first to arrive. As Evans led them into the family dining room, Martha had the thought-which she instantly recognized as unkind and regretted-that Mrs. Sabara was a trifle overdressed. Captain Sabara was dressed almost exactly as David was, that is to say in a blazer and gray slacks, and that pleased her.

"I'm Martha Peebles," she said, offering her hand to Mrs. Sabara. "I' m so glad you could come on such short notice."

"Your home is beautiful!" Mrs. Sabara said.

"David calls it the fortress," Martha said. "But I grew up here, and I guess I'm used to it."

Sabara and Pekach shook hands, although they had seen each other only two hours before.

"Why don't you have Nathaniel make Captain and Mrs. Sabara something to chase the chill, David?"

As they approached the bar, Captain Sabara said, "I told you I didn't need a tie. Dave's not wearing one."

"When you come to a house like this," Mrs. Sabara said firmly. "You wear a necktie." Then she turned to Pekach. "She's beautiful, David."

"Yeah," Pekach said. "Look, Lois, don't say anything about us being engaged. I think she wants to make an announcement."

Lois Sabara put her index finger before her lips.

"You name it, we got it," Dave said as they reached the bar.

"What are you drinking?" Mike Sabara asked.

"Scotch. Some kind her father liked. He bought it by the truckload."

"I'll have what Captain Pekach is drinking," Sabara said. "Lois?"

"Wine, I think. Have you any red wine?"

"There's a California Cabernet Sauvignon, madam, and a very nice Moroccan burgundy that Miss Martha likes," Nathaniel said.

"I'll have the burgundy, please."

Staff Inspector Peter Word and Lieutenant John J. Malone entered the family dining room next.

"Who's he?" Lois asked softly, as they walked toward the bar.

"Jack Malone. New lieutenant," her husband told her.

"He's the one with the wife trouble, right?"

"Jesus Christ, Lois!"

"Where's the lady of the house?" Wohl asked.

"I guess she's checking on the food," Pekach said. "Thank you for coming, Inspector. And welcome, Jack."

"The inspector said it would be all right," Malone said.

"Absolutely.

"You don't know Mike's wife, do you, Jack?" Wohl said. "Lois, this is Jack Malone."

"How do you do?" Lois Sabara said.

Madam Sabara, Wohl thought, has obviously heard the gossip vis-a-vis Mrs. Malone. Her tone of voice would freeze a penguin.

"We just ran past Monahan's house," Wohl offered. "Things seem well in hand."

"And Payne?" Sabara asked.

"Officer Payne is dining at the FOP," Wohl said.

"Can he get around well enough for that?" Lois asked. "I thought he was shot in the leg?"

"He will not be the first young police officer to crawl into the FOP," Wohl said. "For that matter, I've seen some pretty old ones crawl in there."

"May I get you gentlemen a cocktail?" Nathaniel asked.

"I'll have Scotch, light on the ice and water, please," Wohl said.

He saw the hesitancy in Malone's eyes, and made the quick decision that when Lois, as she certainly would, recounted her encounter with Lieutenant-Jack-Malone-the-Wife-Beater to her peers, it would be better if she could not crow, "Well, at least he wasn't drinking," from a position of moral superiority.

"Try the Scotch, Jack," he said. "David's been bragging about it."

"Same for me, then," Malone said.

Martha came through a door Wohl hadn't noticed. He approved of what he saw, both sartorially-Martha was wearing a simple black dress with a double string of pearls-and on her face: She was a happy woman.

A wholesome one too, he thought. Dave's going to have a hard time adjusting to life in the palace, and she's going to have a hard time being a cop's wife, but Dave is a decent human being, and I think he's just what this poor little rich girl really needs.

"Good evening, Inspector," she said. "I'm so glad you could come."

"Thank you for asking me," Wohl said. "And David said, when I told him I didn't have a lady to bring, to bring somebody. This is somebody, Lieutenant Jack Malone."

"David's told me about you, Lieutenant," Martha said, shaking his hand.

I wonder how much? Wohl thought.

Farnsworth and Helene Stillwell appeared in the room.

"I don't know him well," Martha said, quickly and softly to Wohl, " but my father knew her father. And I thought that since you're working together, having them would be appropriate."

"Absolutely," Wohl said.

What she's doing-good for her-is trying to foster Dave's career. If she's as smart as I think she is, I will be working for Dave in a couple of years.

He next had a somewhat less upbeat thought when he took a good look at Helene Stillwell.

That one has had a couple of little nips to give her courage to face the party.

"Small world, Peter, eh?" Stillwell greeted him.

"It looks that way, doesn't it?"

"You remember my wife, of course?"

"Yes, of course. Nice to see you, Mrs. Stillwell."

"Oh, please call me Helene."

Helene Stillwell was wearing a black dress, almost an exact duplicate of Martha's, and a similar string of pearls.

The necessary introductions were made and drinks offered and comments about the foul weather exchanged.

I wonder why Martha Peebles doesn't talk that way, using the teethclenched diction Stillwell's wife does? Peter Wohl wondered.

According to Matt Payne, Martha has more money than God, and this house makes it rather obvious that she didn't make it last week. Ergo, she too should talk through her nose and as if she has lockjaw.

But she doesn't. Martha sounds, if not like Lois Sabara, at least like my mother, and Stillwell's wife sounds exactly like the horny married lady from Bala Cynwyd on Matt's answering machine.

"And how, Inspector Wohl, is Officer Payne?" Helene asked.

Jesus H. Christ! Don't let your dirty imagination run away with you!

"It's quarter to eight, Helene. By now I'd say he's on the third pitcher of beer and convinced, given the chance, he could solve all the problems of the Police Department."

"I don't quite follow you?"

"He's on the town, more or less."

"I thought he was-that you had him under protection in some mysterious place. And he's on the town?"

"No mysterious place. He's in his apartment. And tonight he's at the FOP-the Fraternal Order of Police building, on Spring Garden Street. Jack Malone, who is in charge of his security, decided that if there was any place more secure than Matt's apartment, it would be downstairs in the FOP, where there are generally at least a hundred armed cops.

"Yes, of course," Helene said through clenched teeth and sounding exactly like the horny lady from Bala Cynwyd on Matt's answering machine.

Except, of course, we don't know that she's from Bala Cynwyd. Warren Lomax said she sounded like she was from Bala Cynwyd.

"I'm going to drop in on him tomorrow morning," Wohl said. "I'll tell him you were asking about him."

"Yes, please. He's such a nice young man."

And such a comfort to a bored teeth clencher to boot? And that is a martini you're drinking, Helene, isn't it?

"Peter," Farnsworth Stillwell said, walking up. "I really do have to have a word with you."

"Certainly."

"Martha, I need a few minutes alone with Inspector Wohl. Is there somewhere?"

"David, darling, would you take them into the library?"

"Sure," Pekach said.

"Thank you, David darling," Wohl said softly as he followed Pekach out of the room.

Pekach glared at him, and then smiled and shook his head.

"Do I detect a certain element of jealousy, Inspector?"

"Absolutely, David."

Do I really think that Matt is fucking Stillwell's wife? And presuming for the sake of argument that I do, am I annoyed because that's a pretty fucking dumb thing for him to be doing? Or because he' s getting in where Peter Wohl ain't?

"I hope, Farnsworth," Wohl said as he followed Pekach into the library, "that this won't take long. My glass seems to have a hole in it."

"No problem," Pekach said. "Martha's father never liked to get far from the sauce."

He heaved on what looked like a chest. It unfolded upward into a bar.

"There's even a refrigerator and running water in this thing," Pekach said, demonstrating.

"How nice," Stillwell said.

And thank you, Farnsworth Stillwell. I was just about to say, "It must be nice to be rich, and that would have been a dumb thing to say.

"I think Martha's about to serve dinner," Pekach said.

"This won't take long," Stillwell said.

Wohl went to the bar, poured more Scotch into his glass, and added a little water. By then Pekach had left the library and closed the door after himself.

"Now there's a man who knows what to do with an opportunity," Stillwell said, nodding toward the door through which Pekach had left.

"How do you mean?"

"Unless she is smart enough to get an airtight premarital agreement, and floating on the wings of love as she is at the moment, I rather doubt if she will be, your man Pekach is shortly going to be co-owner of half the anthracite coal in Northeast Pennsylvania."

I will be on my good behavior. I will not get into it with this cynical wiseass sonofabitch.

"It couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

"Don't misunderstand me, Peter," Stillwell said. "I like Dave Pekach, and I admire people who take advantage of opportunities that come their way."

Wohl smiled and nodded.

What is this sonofabitch up to?

"Tomorrow morning, Peter, the governor will hold a press conference at which he will appoint a new deputy attorney general for corporate crime. Nice ring to that, isn't there?'Corporate crime.' Everybody knows that the men in corporate boardrooms are robbing the poor people blind. I thought it was one of the governor's brighter moves recently, figuring out for himself that there are more poor people voting than people in corporate boardrooms. I told him so."

"I'm missing something here?"

"A brilliant gumshoe like you? I just can't believe that, Peter."

"I'm not much good at games, either, Farnsworth."

"Okay. The facts and nothing but the facts, right, Sergeant Friday? I am going to be the deputy attorney general for corporate crime."

"Well, in that case, congratulations," Peter said, and put out his hand.

"And you are going to be the new chief investigator for the deputy attorney general for corporate crime," Stillwell went on.

"I am?"

"Starting at a salary that's ten, maybe twelve thousand more than you're making now."

He means this! He's absolutely goddamn serious! And he's looking at me as if he expects me to get down on one knee and kiss his ring.

"Farnsworth, why would you want me to work for you?"

"Very simple answer. I don't know the first goddamn thing about corporate crime. And you do. There doesn't seem to be much question that you are the best white-collar crime investigator in Philadelphia. Your record proves that. If you can do that in Philadelphia, you certainly can do it elsewhere in Pennsylvania. I want the best, and you're it."

There is a certain element of truth in that, he understands, with overwhelming immodesty.

"When did all this come up?"

"Yesterday and today. What absolutely perfect timing, wouldn't you say?"

"Perfect timing for what?"

"This Islamic Liberation Army thing is just about to blow up in our faces."

"Is it? I'm a little dense. The doers are in jail. We have a witness. And you're going to prosecute."

"I would hate to think you were being sarcastic, Peter."

"Like I said, sometimes I'm dense. You tell me. Why is it going to blow up in our faces?

"Armando C. Giacomo, for one thing. More important, whatever shadowy faces in the background have come up with the money to engage Mr. Giacomo's professional services."

"I don't think you're saying that anytime a sleaze-ball, or a group of sleaze-balls, comes up with the money to hire Giacomo, the DA's office should roll over and apologize for having them arrested in the first place."

He saw in Stillwell's eyes that he was becoming annoyed, at what he perceived to be his naivete.

Fuck you, Farnsworth!

"I heard-I have some contacts in the FBI, the Justice Department-that the Coalition for Equitable Law Enforcement has filed a petition demanding an investigation of Officer Payne, alleging that he violated the civil rights of Charles David Stevens."

"The what?"

"The Coalition for Equitable Law Enforcement. It's one of those lunatic bleeding heart groups. One of the more articulate ones, unfortunately."

"That shooting was not only justifiable use of force, it was selfdefense."

"The allegation will be investigated. It will get in the papers. Arthur Nelson-in both theLedger and over WGHA-TV-will be overjoyed with the opportunity to paint Officer Payne as a trigger-happy killer murdering the innocent. He will gleefully point out that Mr. Stevens's unfortunate demise was the second notch on Payne's gun."

"The bottom line will be-if it gets as far as a Grand Jury-"

"It will," Stillwell interrupted.

"-that the shooting was justified."

"I am surprised that I have to remind you, of all people, Peter, that all it will take isone juror-during the ILA trial I mean-to come to the conclusion that since the police were so willing to murder in cold blood one of the alleged robbers, they are entirely capable of coming up with manufactured evidence and a perjuring witness, that they have not, in the immortal words of Perry Mason, proved their case beyond a reasonable doubt."

Wohl took a long pull on his drink, but didn't reply.

"I would rate the chances of a conviction in the ILA case as no better than fifty percent," Stillworth said. "And that is if we can get Monahan into court. I don't like those odds, Peter. I don't want to be thought of as the assistant district attorney who was unable to get a conviction of the niggers who robbed Goldblatt's and killed the watchman or whatever he was."

"You want to be governor, right?"

"Is there something wrong with that? Wouldn't you like to be police commissioner?" Wohl met his eyes. "The police commissioner is an appointive post. I don't think it's impossible, some years down the pike, that the mayor of Philadelphia would want to appoint to that position someone who both had earned a reputation state-wide as a highly successful investigator of corporate crime, and who also had been a respected police officer in Philadelphia for many years."

The odds are that no matter what you say now, you will later regret it.

"Such a hypothetical person might even have a high recommendation from a hypothetical governor, right?"

Stillwell laughed.

"Farnsworth, frankly, you've taken me be surprise."

"I've noticed."

"I'll need some time to think this over."

"There isn't much time, Peter. I've scheduled a press conference for ten tomorrow morning, at which I will announce my acceptance of the governor's appointment. I'd like to be able to say, at that time, who my chief investigator will be."

"Let me sleep on this," Wohl said. "I'll get back to you first thing in the morning."

"Deal," Stillwell said, offering his hand. "I admire, within reason of course, people who look before they leap. Now let us go back in there and share the joy of Romeo and Juliet."

Officer Charles McFadden, who, on his fifth cup of black coffee, was watching an Edward G. Robinson/Jimmy Cagney gangster movie on theLate, Late Show, was startled when the telephone rang. It was, according to the clock on the mantelpiece, a few minutes before three A.M.

He got quickly out of the chair and went to the telephone.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"Who's this?"

"This is Inspector Wohl. Who's that, McFadden?"

"Yes, sir."

"Everything under control, McFadden?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is Officer Payne there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Put him on, please."

"He's asleep, Inspector."

"Then I suppose it will be necessary to wake him up, won't it?"

"Yes, sir. Sir, is anything wrong?"

"No. Not at all. The world, Officer McFadden, is getting, day by day, in every way, better and better. You might keep that in mind."

"Yes, sir. Hold on, Inspector. I'll go wake Payne up."

Officer McFadden had some difficulty in waking Officer Payne. Officer Payne had consumed pitchers of FOP beer like a sponge earlier on. He now smelled like a brewery.

"Jesus Christ, Matt, wake up! Wohl's on the phone!"

Officer Payne managed to get into a semireclining position in his bed.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. He looked up at the time projected on the ceiling by the clock Amy had given him. "It's three o'clock in the morning, for Christ's sake!" he protested.

"Wohl's on the phone."

"What the hell does he want?"

"I don't know. He sounds crocked."

"Jesus!"

Officer Payne, with some difficulty, finally managed to make it from a semireclining to a fully sitting-up position. Officer McFadden then removed the handset of the newly installed telephone and handed it to him.

"Yes, sir?" Matt said.

"Sorry to trouble you at this late hour, Officer Payne," Inspector Wohl said, his syllables sufficiently slurred to remind Officer Payne that Officer McFadden had said, "He sounds crocked."

"No problem, sir."

"But I have to have an answer to a certain question that has come up."

"Yes, sir."

"Allegations have reached me, Officer Payne, that you have had, on one or more occasions, carnal knowledge of a female to whom you are not joined in lawful marriage."

What the hell is this all about?

"Sir?"

"And that, on the other hand, the lady in question is married. Not to you, of course."

Christ, he knows about Helene! And he's crocked! And pissed, otherwise he would not be calling at three o'clock in the morning.

"Sir?"

"I am about to ask you a question. I want you to carefully consider your answer before giving it."

"Yes, sir."

"Officer Payne, have you been conducting an illicit affair with Mrs. Helene Stillwell?"

Matt did not reply, because he was absolutely sure that whatever answer he gave was going to get him up to his ears in the deep shit.

"You do know the lady? Helene? The beloved wife of our beloved assistant district attorney?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, yes or no, Officer Payne? Have you been fucking Farnsworth Stillwell's wife or not?"

"Yes, sir," Matt confessed.

"Good boy!" Inspector Wohl said, and hung up.

At 5:51 A.M., it was visually pleasant on the 5600 block of Sylvester Street, east of Roosevelt Boulevard not far from Oxford Circle. It had snowed, on and off, during the night, and the streets and sidewalks were blanketed in white. Here and there, light came from windows in the row houses as people began their day. Those windows, and the streetlights, seemed to glow as there came the first hint of daylight.

Physically, it was not quite so pleasant. The reason it had stopped snowing was because the temperature had dropped; it was now twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit, six degrees below freezing. There was a steady northerly wind, powerful enough to move the recently fallen powder snow around.

Officer Richard Kallanan, of the three-man Special Operations team charged with protecting the residence and person of Mr. Albert J. Monahan, had found the wind and the blowing snow particularly uncomfortable during his turn on foot patrol around the Monahan residence. His ears and nose were perhaps unusually sensitive to cold. He had tried walking his route both ways, passing through the alley from Bridge Street to Sanger Street in a northeast direction, and then down Sylvester in a southwestern path, and the reverse. He could detect no difference in perceived cold.

It was a cold sonofabitch in the alley, no matter which way he walked, and he was, therefore, understandably pleased when he turned onto Sylvester Street one more time and saw that there were now two substantially identical dark blue Plymouth RPCs at the curb, one house up from Monahan's house.

Their relief had arrived.

A couple of minutes early, instead of a couple of minutes late. Thank God!

Kallanan picked up his pace a little, slapping his gloved hands together as he moved. As he passed the replacement RPC, he waved and glanced in the window. The side windows were covered with ice, and he could not make out any of the faces inside.

Not that it would have mattered. Kallanan was a relative newcomer to Special Operations, transferred in from the 11^th District, where he had spent six of his seven years on the job, and he had not yet had time to make that many new friends.

He could see enough, however, to notice that two of the guys in the relief car were wearing winter hats, Renfrew of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police hats.

They 're going to need them.

When Kallanan reached his RPC, he knocked on the window, and Officer Richard O. Totts, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, turned and reached into the back and opened the door for him. Kallanan glanced at the relief car, and gave its occupants a cheerful farewell wave. The driver, a black guy whose window was clear, waved back. Kallanan got in the backseat and pulled the door closed.

"Jesus, it's cold out there," he said.

"I think there's a little coffee left," Officer Duane Jones, who was behind the wheel, said. Totts handed a thermos bottle into the backseat. Kallanan unscrewed the top, which was also the cup, and as Duane Jones got the car moving, he emptied the thermos into it. There was not much coffee left in the thermos.

"Hungry, Kallanan?" Jones asked.

"What I would like is a cup of hot coffee. With a stiff shot in it. There's nothing in here."

"I know a place," Totts offered.

"I'm going to turn in the car first," Jones said. "I hear Pekach is a real sonofabitch if you get caught drinking."

"Hey, we've been relieved," Kallanan said.

"We're still in the goddamn car," Jones said. "You can wait."

At 6:06 A.M., Special Operations Radio Patrol Car W-22 (Radio Call, William Twenty-Two) carrying Officers Rudolph McPhail, Paul Hennis, and John Wilhite turned right off Castor Avenue onto Bridge Street, and then right again on Sylvester Street.

"I don't see the car," Officer Wilhite, who was driving, said. "You don't suppose they took off without waiting for us?"

"Shit, we're only a couple of minutes late," Officer Hennis said.

"Hey, Monahan's house is all lit up," Officer McPhail said, from the backseat.

The radio went off:

"BEEP BEEP BEEP. 5600 block Sylvester Street. Report of shooting and hospital case. Civilian by phone.

"BEEP BEEP BEEP. 5600 block Sylvester Street. Report of shooting and hospital case. Civilian by phone. "

"Holy shit!" Officer Hennis said.

Officer Wilhite picked up the microphone.

"William Twenty-Two, in on that. On the scene. There is no other car in sight at this location."

The three of them literally leaped out of the car and ran as fast as they could toward the residence of Albert J. Monahan.

"Wohl," Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, his mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert, said into the phone at his bedside.

"Inspector, this is Lieutenant Farr. We have a report of a shooting and hospital case at Monahan's."

"What?"

"We have a report of a shooting and hospital case at Monahan's house."

"Did they get Monahan?"

"I think so."

"On my way. Notify Captains Sabara and Pekach, Lieutenant Malone, and Sergeant Washington. Have them meet me there."

"Yes, sir."

"And check with the people sitting on Payne. Send a Highway car there, in any event."

"Yes, sir."

Wohl hung up without saying anything else, kicked the blankets off himself, and got out of bed.