W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

“That could be an overactive imagination.”

“I don’t think so. I got the same look here in the house when I was getting a tranquilizer out of my purse for her. She’s decided-seeing how Matt collapsed completely probably had a lot to do with it-that he’s still an irresponsible boy, who can’t be blamed. She needs somebody to blame. I make a fine candidate to be the real villain, because I really didn’t help Penny at all.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Wohl said, “I’m on my way, Amy,” and the line went dead in her ear.

“It’s a good thing I know you’re a doctor,” Inspector Peter Wohl said to Dr. Amelia Payne as they came off the elevator into the lobby of the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building on Rittenhouse Square.

“Meaning what?”

“The folklore among us laypersons is don’t mix booze and pills.”

“That’s a good general rule of thumb,” Amy said. “What I gave Matt is what we doctor persons prescribe as a sedative when the patient person has been soaking up cognac like a sponge. It is my professional opinion that that patient person will be out like a light for the next twelve to eighteen hours without side effects. Any other questions, layperson?”

Wohl smiled at her.

“How about dinner tonight?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I guess that makes breakfast tomorrow out of the question.”

“I didn’t say that,” Amy said. “I said no dinner. I have to make my rounds, and then there’s a very sick young woman I want to spend some time with. But I didn’t say anything about breakfast, or, for that matter, a midnight supper with candles and wine, being out of any question.”

“My place or yours, doctor person?”

She didn’t reply directly.

“We left my car at the Detweilers’s.”

“Give me the keys. I’ll have someone run me out there, and I’ll drop it by-where? The hospital? Your place?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you took it to your place? When I leave the hospital, I’ll catch a cab out there. It’ll probably be after eleven.”

“Done,” he said, putting his hand out for the keys.

“You’re headed for the hospital now?” he asked. She nodded. “You want a ride?”

“Where are you going?”

“Wherever you need to go is right on my way.”

“I’ll catch a cab,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

She nodded.

Their eyes met, and held. Somewhat hesitantly, Wohl moved his face closer to hers.

“Don’t push me, Peter,” Amy said, and then moved her face closer to his and kissed him on the lips.

Then she quickly walked away from him, out the door and onto Rittenhouse Square. He started to follow her, then changed his mind.

He went to the receptionist’s desk and asked to use her telephone.

“Of course,” she said with a smile that suggested she did not find him unattractive.

He smiled at her and dialed a number from memory.

“Inspector Wohl,” he said as he watched Amy get into a cab. “Anything for me?”

“Chief Lowenstein’s been trying to reach you all afternoon, sir,” the tour lieutenant reported.

“Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll call Chief Lowenstein and get back to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wohl broke the connection with his finger and dialed Chief Lowenstein’s private number.

“Lowenstein.”

“Peter Wohl, Chief.”

“Where are you, Peter?”

“Center City. Rittenhouse Square.”

“With Matt Payne?”

“I just left him.”

“How is he?”

“His sister gave him a pill she said will knock him out until tomorrow.”

“I really feel sorry for him,” Lowenstein said, and then immediately added: “I need to talk to you, Peter.”

“I’m available for you anytime, Chief.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink at the bar in the Warwick?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ten minutes, Peter,” Lowenstein said. “Thank you.”

Chief Inspector of Detectives Matthew Lowenstein was sitting, with an eight-inch black cigar in his mouth, on a stool at the street end of the bar in the Warwick Hotel when Inspector Peter Wohl got there.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Chief.”

“What will you have, Peter?” Lowenstein asked, ignoring the apology.

“I would like a triple scotch, but what I’d better have is a beer,” Wohl said.

“Bad day for you?” Lowenstein asked, chuckling, and got the bartender’s attention. “Give this nice young man one of these. A single.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

“I turned in my papers this morning,” he said. “You hear about that?”

Wohl nodded.

“Carlucci came out to the house and made me a deal to stay.”

Wohl’s face was as devoid of expression as he could make it.

“The deal,” Lowenstein said, “is that I have his word that you will bring me in on anything interesting his personal detective squad, now called Ethical Affairs Unit, comes up with, and I get to define the term ‘interesting.’ You have any problem with that, Peter?”

“I had a problem with keeping you out of the Cazerra investigation. That wasn’t my idea, Chief.”

“So Carlucci told me. I asked you, do you have any problems with the new arrangement?”

“None at all.”

“Tell me what interesting things you have heard today, Peter.”

“How about yesterday, Chief?”

“Start with yesterday.”

“I had lunch with Armando C. Giacomo, Esquire, at the Rittenhouse Club. Weisbach and I did. Mr. Paulo Cassandro really doesn’t want to go to jail. As a public-spirited citizen, he is willing to testify against Cazerra in exchange for immunity from prosecution.”

Lowenstein snorted.

“Giacomo is pissing in the wind. He knows he has nothing to deal with. And if he did, he would have gone to the District Attorney with it. Why you?”

“I thought that was interesting. Weisbach told him that, offhand, the only thing he could think of that we were interested in was the Inferno doer, or doers. And/or the Kellog doer.”

“And how did the dapper little dago react to that?”

“He didn’t say no.”

“You think either one was a mob hit, Peter?”

“I didn’t until Giacomo didn’t say no.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. And then Jason Washington called me this morning. One of his informants said that the Inferno was a mob hit, and gave him a name. Frank-Frankie-Foley.”

There was a just-perceptible pause as Lowenstein searched his memory.

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither has Washington. Or Harris. Or me. Or Intelligence or Organized Crime.”

“Who’s the informant?”

“Washington said that what this guy has given him in the past-which wasn’t much-was reliable. I think he would have said something if there was a mob connection.”

“Huh!” Lowenstein snorted.

“Going back even further than yesterday, the day Kellog was shot, that night, his widow showed up at Washington’s apartment. Did you hear about that?”

“Tell me about it,” Lowenstein said.

Which means either that you did hear about it or didn’t hear about it, but if you did, you want to hear my version of it anyway.

“She told Washington (a) her husband was dirty, (b) the entire Narcotics Five Squad is dirty, and (c) that they did her husband.”

“What did Washington think about it?”

“He said he believes she thinks she’s telling the truth.”

“So what are you going to do with this? All of this?”

“I told Washington to give the Frankie Foley name to Homicide. By now, they probably have it.”

“And the Five Squad allegations?”

“Before Ethical Affairs popped up, I was going to have a quiet word with a staff inspector I know pretty well, and ask him to please keep me out of it.”