W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

The young man sort of stooped, and when he stood erect again, there was a snub-nose revolver in his hand.

Officer Daniels looked dubiously at the black man.

“I told you to go with him,” the black man said to Officer Daniels, a tone of command in his voice. Then he started to trot toward Market Street.

Officer Daniels ran after the young white man and caught up with him.

“Who is that guy?” he asked.

“That is Sergeant Jason Washington. He just told me he used to walk this beat.”

“He doesn’t have any authority here.”

“You tell him that,” Matt said, chuckling as he continued down the alley.

The sound of dying sirens and the squeal of tires announced the arrival of other police vehicles.

The alley between the buildings was pitch dark, and twice Matt stumbled over something he hadn’t seen. There was more light when he reached the end of the alley, coming down what had been in Colonial times a cobblestone street but was now not much more than a garbage-littered alley.

He found the Inferno Lounge’s garbage cans. As Jason had said they would be, they were filled to overflowing with kitchen scraps and beer bottles.

He went to a metal door and tried it. It opened.

If there was somebody in here, they’re probably gone. The door would ordinarily be locked.

He stepped to one side, hiding, so to speak, behind the bricks of the building, and then pulled the door fully open.

“Police officers!” he called.

There was no response.

He looked very carefully around the bricks. There was no one in sight, but he could see a corridor dimly illuminated by the lights burning in the kitchen, and beyond that, in the public areas of the bar, or restaurant, or whatever the hell this place was.

“Stay here,” he ordered Officer Daniels, and then entered the building and started down the corridor. Halfway down it, he saw a flight of stairs leading to the basement, and saw lights down there. It was possible that someone was down in the basement; he was pleased with himself for having told the wagon uniform to stay at the back door.

He went carefully through the kitchen, and then into the public area of the restaurant. There was banging on the closed front door of the place, and someone-not Jason, but to judge by the depth of his voice, not the young guy in the wagon, either-was calling, not quite shouting, “Police, open up.”

The door was closed with a keyed dead bolt. There were keys in it. It was hard to unlock. Matt had shoved his pistol in his hip pocket and used both hands to get it open.

There was a uniformed sergeant standing there, and two Highway Patrolmen. Behind them Matt could see Jason Washington looking for all the world like a curious civilian.

“What have you got, Payne?” one of the Highway Patrolmen said. Matt recalled having met him somewhere. He couldn’t recall his name.

“Nothing yet. I figured I’d better let you guys in.”

“How’d you get in?”

“Back door was unlocked. The wagon guy’s covering it.”

“Who are you?” the uniformed sergeant asked.

“He’s Detective Payne of Special Operations,” Jason answered for him. “And I am Sergeant Washington. Nothing, Matt?”

“Nothing on the floor. There’s a basement, I didn’t get down there.”

“I think we should have a look,” Washington said, and moving with a quick grace, suddenly appeared in front of the two Highway Patrolmen and the uniformed sergeant. “Lead on, Matthew!”

Matt turned and walked quickly back through the bar, the restaurant, and the kitchen to the corridor, then started down the stairs. Washington stopped him with a massive hand on his shoulder.

“Announce your arrival,” he said softly. “You don’t know what you’re going to find down there, and if the proprietor, for example, is down there, you want to be sure he knows the man coming down the stairs is a police officer.”

“Police!” Matt called.

“Down here!” a male voice called.

The stairs led to a narrow corridor, and the corridor to a small office.

The first thing Matt saw was a somewhat stocky man in his forties sitting behind a battered desk, in the act of taking a pull from the neck of a bottle of Seagram’s VO. There was a Colt Cobra revolver lying on the desk.

The next thing Matt saw, as he entered the office, was a young female, white, sitting in a chair. Her head was hanging limply back. Her eyes were open and her head, neck, and chest were covered with blood. She was obviously dead. On the floor, lying on his side in a thick pool of blood, was the body of a heavy man. His arm was stretched out, nearly touching the desk.

Matt looked at the man behind the desk.

“What happened here?”

“I was held up,” the man said.

“By who?”

Matt looked at the office door and saw that Jason Washington and one of the Highway Patrolmen had stepped inside the office.

“Two white guys.”

“Are you all right?”

“I was shot in the leg,” the man said.

Matt crossed to him and saw that he had his right leg extended, and that the trouser leg between the knee and the groin was soaked in blood.

“Can you describe the men?” Matt asked.

“There was two of them,” the man said. “One was a short, stocky sonofabitch, and the other was about as big as I am.”

“How were they dressed?”

“The little fucker was in a suit; the other one was wearing a zipper jacket.”

“Mustaches, beards, anything like that?”

The man shook his head.

Jason Washington turned to the Highway Patrolman standing beside him.

“Get out a flash on that,” he said softly. “And tell Police Radio that Sergeant Washington and Detective Payne of Special Operations are at the scene of what appears to be an armed robbery and double homicide.”

“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.