W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

Atchison drove into and through Chester, to the river, then through a run-down area of former shipyards and no-longer-functioning oil refineries, weaving slowly between enormous potholes and junk strewn on the roadway.

Matt turned off his headlights, which kept, he felt, Atchison from noticing that he was being followed but which also denied him a clear view of the road. He struck several potholes hard enough to worry about blowing a tire, and making a trip to enrich the alignment technicians at the Porsche dealership a certainty.

And then he ran over something metallic, which lodged itself somewhere under the Porsche, set up a terrifying howl of torn metal, and gave off a shower of sparks.

He slammed on the brakes, wondering if he had done so because he was afraid Atchison would hear the screeching or see the sparks, or because it hurt to consider what damage was being done to the Porsche.

He jumped out, looking in frustration at Atchison’s disappearing Cadillac. And then the brake lights came on and the Cadillac stopped.

Christ, he saw me!

What do I do now?

There was a sudden light as the Cadillac’s door opened. Atchison got out, looked around, seemed fascinated with the Porsche, and then slammed the car door shut.

It took Matt’s eyes some time to adjust to the now pitch darkness, but when they did he saw Atchison-nothing more than a silhouette-walking away from the car.

He ran after him. When he got close he saw that they were next to the river, and that Atchison was on a pier extending into it.

He saw Atchison make a move like a basketball player. A shadow of something arced up into the sky, fell, and in a moment, Matt could faintly hear a splash.

Atchison now walked quickly back to the Cadillac, fired it up, and started to turn around. As the headlights swept the area, Matt dropped to the ground. His hands touched something wet and sticky. He put his fingers to his nose. It smelled as foul as it felt.

Atchison’s Cadillac rolled past him. It stopped at the Porsche. Atchison got half out of the car, looked around, then got all the way out. It looked for a moment as if he was going to try the door, but then he stumbled over something.

Then he got back in the car and drove rapidly away.

Matt got to his feet, rubbed his hands against his jacket to cleanse them of whatever the hell it was on his hands-the jacket was ruined anyway-and walked back to his car.

He saw what Atchison had stumbled over. A curved automobile bumper.

That which caused that unholy screech and the shower of sparks. With a little bit of luck, Atchison will think that’s why the Porsche is here, and not that I ran over the goddamn thing when I was tailing him.

The Cadillac’s taillights were no longer visible.

What the hell, he’s probably going home anyway.

Matt opened the car door with two fingers, got the keys from the ignition, then opened the hood and took out the jack. It took him fifteen minutes to dislodge the bumper from the car’s underpinnings.

Inspector Peter Wohl was visibly disturbed when he opened the door to his apartment and found Detective Payne standing there.

“What the hell do you want? Are you drunk, or what?”

“Atchison threw something I’ll bet is guns in the river,” Matt said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“In Chester,” Matt said. “I followed him.”

“You did what? What the hell gave you the idea you had that authority?”

“He met Frankie, Frankie gave him a package, and Atchison threw it in the river in Chester.”

“I’ll want to hear all about this, Detective Payne, but not here, and not when you’re obviously shitfaced. I’ll see you in my office at eight o’clock.”

The door slammed in Detective Payne’s face. He waited a moment and then started down the stairs. He was halfway down when light told him the door had reopened. He looked over his shoulder.

Amelia Payne, Ph. D., M.D., attired in a terry-cloth bathrobe, stood at the head of the stairs.

“Matt, what happened to you?”

You may be his lady love, but first of all, you are my big sister, who takes care of her little brother.

“Are you drunk?” Amy asked, more in sympathy than moral outrage.

“Not yet.”

“Well, come in here,” Amy said. “What does ‘not yet’ mean?”

“I mean that getting drunk right now seems like a splendid idea, one that I will pursue with enthusiasm, once I have a bath.”

“What is that stuff on you?” Wohl demanded, in curiosity, not sympathy.

“I don’t think I want to find out.”

“Come up here,” Amy ordered.

She is now in her healer-of-mankind role.

Matt climbed the stairs.

“It’s all over you!” Amy announced.

“I’ve noticed.”

She wiped a finger, professionally, across his forehead.

“There’s irritation. It’s a caustic of some sort. You need a long hot bath.”

“If he’s coming in here,” Inspector Wohl said, resigned to the inevitable, “he’s going to take his clothes off first.”

Fifteen minutes later, attired in the robe Amy had been wearing when she appeared at the top of the steps, Detective Payne entered Inspector Wohl’s living room. Inspector Wohl and Dr. Payne were now fully clothed.

“I am under instructions to apologize for accusing you of being drunk,” Wohl said. “You want a beer?”

“I’d love a beer,” Matt said.

Wohl walked into his kitchen, returned with a bottle of Ortleib’s, and handed it to Matt.

“I am under further instructions to question you kindly, having been reminded that you are undoubtedly in a condition of grief shock,” Wohl said. “So why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“I don’t like your sarcasm, Peter,” Amy said. “Look at his face and hands! He’s been burned! Have you got any sort of an antiseptic lotion?”

“Listerine?” Wohl asked. “Where did you get that stuff on you, anyway?”

“No, not Listerine, stupid!”

“On a pier, or near a pier, near the old refineries in Chester,” Matt said.

“Where you had followed, you said, Mr. Atchison?”

“That will have to wait until I do something about his face and hands,” Amy said. “I probably should take him to an emergency room.”

“I’m all right,” Matt said.

“You must have something around here,” Amy said to Peter Wohl.

“Look in the medicine cabinet,” Wohl said. “You were telling me you followed Atchison? And I was asking you where the hell you got the idea-”

“Stop it, Peter,” Amy ordered. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

She glowered at him, then marched into the bedroom. Thirty seconds later she was back, triumphantly displaying a tube of medicine.

“This will do,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you had it?”

“I don’t even know what it is,” Wohl said.

Amy daubed the ointment on Matt’s face, then rubbed it in on his hands.

“Give me that, I’ve got a nasty scratch on my leg,” Matt said.

Wohl looked.

“I’m just dying to learn where you’ve been besides on a pier in Chester,” he said sweetly.

“I got these in the bushes outside the Yock’s Diner on Fifty-Seventh and Chestnut. That’s where I saw Atchison and Foley.”

“You have been a busy little junior Sherlock Holmes, haven’t you?”

“Peter, for Christ’s sake, at least hear me out!”

Wohl glared at him.

“OK. Fair enough. We’re back at square one. Start at the beginning.”

Ten minutes later, Wohl dialed a number from memory.

“Tony, I hate to call you at this hour, but this is important. Go out to South Detectives. I’ll call out there and tell them you’re coming. I want you to get a statement from two detectives. One of them is named Cronin, and the other’s name is Chesley. The first thing you say to them is to keep their mouths shut about what happened tonight at the Yock’s Diner on Fifty-Seventh and Chestnut. If they spread the story around the squad room, it’ll be public knowledge in the morning. Then I want you to question them, separately, about what went on at the Yock’s Diner. Payne was there, he followed Atchison there. Frankie Foley was there. Frankie arrived with a package. Atchison left with the package. Payne thinks Atchison gave Foley an envelope, and he thinks there was money in the envelope. Atchison then went to the riverfront in Chester and threw a package in the river. Payne suspects the package contained guns. What I want from the detectives are the facts, not what they think or surmise, something they can testify to in court without getting blown out of the witness chair by Atchison’s lawyer.”