W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

“Inspector Wohl.”

“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” Jason Washington’s deep, mellifluous voice said.

Washington’s the soul of discretion. When he got this number from the tour lieutenant-and with that memory of his, he probably knows whose number it is-unless it was important, he would have waited until I went to work.

“No trouble. I’m just sitting here quietly bleeding to death. Good morning, Jason. What’s up?”

“I just had an interesting call. An informant who has been reliable with what he’s given me-which hasn’t been much-in the past. He said the Inferno murders were a mob contract.”

“Interesting. Did he give you a name?”

“Frankie Foley.”

“Never heard of him.”

Amy sat on the bed beside him and put her hand on his cheek. It was a gesture of affection, but only by implication. She had a cotton swab dipped in some kind of antiseptic.

She pulled the toilet paper bandage off and professionally swabbed his gouge.

“Neither have I. And neither has Organized Crime or Intelligence.”

“Even more interesting.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

It was a moment before Wohl replied.

“Give it to Homicide. And then see if you can make a connection to Cassandro.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wohl had an unpleasant thought. There was a strong possibility that he would have to remind Washington that a new chain of command was in effect. Washington was used to reporting directly to him. He might not like having to go through Weisbach.

“What did Weisbach say when you told him?”

“He said he thought we better give it to Homicide, but to ask you first.”

Thank God! Personnel conflict avoided.

“Write this down, Jason. The true sign of another man’s intelligence is the degree to which he agrees with you.”

Washington laughed.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hung up.

“Who was that?” Amy asked.

“Jason Washington.”

“I thought so. How did he know you were here? What did you do, put an ad in the Bulletin? Who else knows where you spent the night?”

“There is a very short list of people who have to know where I am all the time. The tour lieutenant knows where to find me. Since only Matt and Jason called, to answer your question two people have reason to suspect I spent the night here.”

“God!”

“There is a solution to the problem,” Peter said. “I could make an honest woman of you.”

“Surely you jest,” she said after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t know if I am or not,” Peter said. “You better not consider that a firm offer.”

She stood up. “Now I’m sorry I fixed your face,” she said, and walked toward the bathroom.

“Nice ass,” he called after her.

She gave him the finger without turning and went into the bathroom, closing the door.

Jesus, where did that “make an honest woman of you” crack come from?

He stood up and started looking for his clothing.

Lieutenant Foster H. Lewis, Sr., of the Ninth District, a very tall, well-muscled man, was sitting in a wicker armchair on the enclosed porch of his home reading the Philadelphia Bulletin when Officer Foster H. Lewis, Jr., of Special Operations, pushed the door open and walked in.

Tiny, who knew his father was working the midnight-out tour, was surprised to see him. It was his father’s custom, when he came off the midnight-out tour, to take a shower and go to bed and get his eight hours’ sleep. And here he was, in an obviously fresh white shirt, immaculately shaven, looking as if he was about to go on duty.

“I thought you were working the midnight-out,” Tiny said.

“Good morning, son. How are you? I am fine, thank you for asking,” Lieutenant Lewis said dryly.

“Sorry.”

“I was supposed to fill in for Lieutenant Prater, who was ill,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “When I got to the office, he had experienced a miraculous recovery. And I thought you were working days.”

“I’m working,” Tiny said, and gestured toward the car parked in the drive.

“How can you be working and here?”

“My orders, Lieutenant, sir, are to stay close to the radio, in case I’m needed.”

“You needn’t be sarcastic, Foster, it was a reasonable question.”

“Inspector Wohl told me to give Matt Payne some company,” Tiny said. “I wasn’t needed.”

“What a tragedy!” Lieutenant Lewis said.

“I thought I’d come see Mom,” Tiny said.

“Since I would not be here, you mean?”

“Pop, every time I see you, you jump all over me.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Just now,” Tiny said. “The implication that I’m screwing off being here.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“That’s what you meant.”

“You are driving a departmental vehicle, presumably on duty, visiting your family.”

“I’m doing what I’m ordered to do. Pop, I’m a pretty good cop! Inspector Wohl expects me to be available if he needs me. I don’t think he expected me to just sit in the car and wait for the radio to go off.”

“You believe that, don’t you?”

“Believe what?”

“That you’re a pretty good cop.”

“I’m not as good a cop as you are, but yeah, I’m a pretty good cop.”

“I’m sure you will take offense when I say this, but you don’t know what being a police officer really means.”

“You mean, I never worked in a district?”

“Exactly.”

“Come on, Pop. If Inspector Wohl thought I would learn anything riding around in a car, walking a beat, that’s what he’d have me doing.”

“That sort of thing is beneath you, right?”

“I think we better stop this before either one of us says something we’ll be sorry for,” Tiny said.

Lieutenant Lewis looked at his son for a moment before replying.

“I’m not saying that what you’re doing is not important, or that you don’t do it well.”

“It is important-we’re going to put a dirty captain and a dirty lieutenant away-and I helped. Wohl and Washington wouldn’t have let me get close to that job if they didn’t think I could handle it.”

“All I’m saying, Foster,” Lieutenant Lewis said, “is that I am concerned that you have no experience as a police officer on the street. You don’t even have any friends who are common, ordinary policemen, do you?”

“I guess not,” Tiny said.

“Would you indulge me if I asked you to do something?”

“Within reason.”

It came out more sarcastically, more disrespectfully than Tiny intended, and there was frost for a moment in his father’s eyes. But then apparently he decided to let it pass.

“Did I understand you to say that, so long as you keep yourself available, you’re free to move about the city?”

“That’s right.”

“Go inside, say hello to your mother, tell her you’re coming to dinner tonight, and that we’re going for a ride. Police business.”

“A ride? What police business?”

“We’re going to the Thirty-ninth District. I have a friend there, a common ordinary policeman, who I want you to meet. You might even learn something from him.”

Police Officer Woodrow Wilson Bailey, Sr., badge number 2554 of the Thirty-ninth District, who had twenty-four years on the job, twenty-two of it in the Thirty-ninth District, wanted only one thing from the Philadelphia Police Department. He wanted to make it to retirement, tell them where to mail his retirement checks, and go back home to Hartsville, South Carolina.

Having done that, it was his devout hope that he would never have to put on a uniform, look at a gun, or see Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, ever again so long as the Good Lord saw fit to let him live.