W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

She went to the ceiling-to-floor windows overlooking the Art Museum, the Schuylkill River, and the Parkway and threw a switch. With a muted hum, electric motors opened the curtains.

“How many times have I asked you not to put things on the coffee table? Heavy things?”

“How many times have I told you that I called and asked how much weight this will safely support?” her husband replied, completely unabashed.

He was nearly dressed to go to work. All he would have to do to be prepared to face the world would be to put on his shoulder holster (on the coffee table beside the IBM Selectric) and his jacket (on the couch).

“Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing?”

“Ask? Yes. Am I going to tell you? No.”

“You can make your own coffee.”

“I already have, and if you are a good girl, you may have a cup.”

“You wouldn’t like me if I was a good girl.”

“That would depend on what you were good at,” he said. “And there are some things, my dear, at which you are very good indeed.”

The typewriter continued to clatter during the exchange. She was fascinated with his ability to do two things, several things, at once. He was, she realized, listening to whatever was on the tapes, selecting what he wanted to type out, and talking to her, all at the same time.

“I really hate to see you put the typewriter there,” Martha said.

“Then don’t look,” he said, and leaving one hand to tap steadily at the keyboard, removed the earplug, took the telephone receiver from its cradle, and dialed a number from memory with the other. “Stay in bed.”

She went into the kitchen and poured coffee.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she heard him say. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

The Inspector, Martha felt, was probably Peter Wohl. Whatever Wohl replied, it caused her husband to chuckle, which came out a deep rumble.

“I have something I think you ought to see and hear, and as soon as possible,” she heard her husband say. “What would be most convenient for you?”

I wonder what that’s all about? What wouldn’t wait until he saw Wohl in his office?

“This won’t take long, Peter,” Washington said.

And then Martha intuited what this was all about. She walked to the kitchen door and looked at him.

“I’ll be outside waiting for you,” Jason said. Then he dropped the telephone in its cradle.

He looked up at her.

“Did you tape-record that pathetic woman last night?”

Jason didn’t reply.

“You did,” Martha said, shock and disgust in her voice. “Jason, she came to you in confidence.”

“She came to me looking for help. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“That’s not only illegal-and you’re an officer of the law-it’s disgusting! She wouldn’t have told you what she did if she knew you were recording it!”

He looked at her a long moment.

“I wanted to make sure I really understood what she said,” he said. “Watch!”

He pushed the Erase button on the machine.

“No tape, Martha,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure I had it all.”

He stood up and started to put on his shoulder holster.

She turned angrily and went back to the stove.

He appeared in the kitchen door, now fully dressed. She recognized his jacket as a new one, a woolen tweed from Uruguay, of all places.

“You ever hear about the ancient custom of killing the messenger who bears the bad news?” Jason replied. “Be kind to me, Martha.”

“Don’t try to be clever. Whatever it is, Peter Wohl won’t blame you.”

“I’m talking about the Mayor.”

She met his eyes for a moment, turned away from him, and then back again, this time offering a mug of coffee.

“Do you have time for this?” she asked. “Or is the drawing and quartering scheduled in the next five minutes?”

“It’s not a hearty meal, but the condemned man is grateful nonetheless.”

He took the coffee, took a sip, and then set it down.

“What’s all this about?” Martha asked. “What that woman said last night? Dirty cops in Narcotics?”

“We’re working on dirty cops elsewhere in the Department.”

“I thought Internal Affairs was supposed to police the Police Department.”

“They are.”

She considered that a moment.

“Oh, which explains why you and Peter are involved.”

He nodded.

“And now this. I think Mrs. Kellog was telling the truth. It will not make the Mayor’s day.”

Martha shook her head.

“Am I going to be honored with your company later today?” Martha asked. “At any time later today? Or maybe sometime this week?”

“I know what you should do. You should go back to bed and try this again. This time, get up with a smile, and with nothing in your heart but compassion for your overworked and underappreciated husband.”

“We haven’t had any time together for weeks. And even when you’re here, you’re not. You’re working.”

“I know. This will be over soon, Martha. And we’ll go to the shore for a couple of days.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she said, but she went to him and kissed his cheek. “Get that stuff off my table. Put the damned typewriter back where you found it.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jason said. He put the typewriter back where he had found it, in a small closet in the kitchen, and then, carrying the tape recorder, left the apartment, pausing only long enough to pat his wife on her rump.

“Good morning, Jason,” Wohl said as Washington got into the front seat of Wohl’s car.

“I’m sorry about this, but I really thought I should get this to you as soon as I could.”

“What’s up?”

“About midnight last night, Matt and I walked up on a double homicide on Market Street.”

“Really? What in the world were you two doing walking on Market Street at midnight?”

“For a quick answer, the bar at the Rittenhouse Club was closed.”

“Tell me about the homicide.”

“Two victims. What looks like large-caliber-bullet wounds to the cranium. One victim was the wife of one of the owners of the Inferno Lounge…”

“I know where it is.”

“And the other the partner. It was called in by the other partner, who suffered a small-caliber-bullet wound in what he says was an encounter with the doers, two vaguely described white males.”

He didn’t call me here to tell me this. Why? Because he thinks that it wasn’t an armed robbery, that the husband was the doer? And the Homicide detective is accepting the husband’s story?

“We got there right after a Ninth District wagon responded to the call. Chief Lowenstein also came to the scene, and then got me alone. He knows what’s going on.”

I knew that he wouldn’t have bothered me if it wasn’t important!

“His finding out was inevitable. How much did you have to tell him?”

“Not much. He knows the names. Most of them. I told him I couldn’t talk about it. The only time he really leaned on me was to ask how much time he had.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Quote, not much, unquote.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. Peter, I told him that we didn’t have the conversation, that if we had it, I would have to report it.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“That’s up to you, Peter. I’ll play it any way you want me to.”

“I like Matt Lowenstein. There has been absolutely nothing to suggest he’s done anything wrong. What purpose would it serve to go to Carlucci with this?”

“You heard what the Mayor said, Peter. If anyone came to you or me asking-asking anything -about the investigation, he wanted to know about it.”

“The call is yours, Jason. Was Chief Lowenstein-what word am I looking for?- pissed that you wouldn’t tell him anything?”