W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

“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?”