Badge of Honour 06 - The Murderers (13 page)

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.

“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?”

“I remember it,” Atchison said, triumphantly calling it forth from his memory.

“If you give that to me again,” Matt said, “I’d be happy to call him for you.”

“Would you, please? Tell him what happened here, and ask him to meet me at Hahnemann.”

Matt took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote the number down.

“Can I see you a minute, Payne?” Wally said, and took Matt’s arm and led him out of the office. “Be right with you, Mr. Atchison.”

He led Matt a dozen steps down the corridor, then stopped.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, Payne,” he snapped. “But shut your fucking mouth. This is my job. When I want some help, I’ll ask for it.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I was just trying to help.”

“Do me a favor. Don’t.”

“OK. Sorry.”

Wally’s anger had not subsided.

“I’ll tell you what I do want you to do,” he said. “First, give me that lawyer’s phone number, and then get your ass down to the Roundhouse and wait for me there. I want your statement. I may have to put up with that ‘I’ll get my statement to you in the morning’ shit from Washington, but I don’t have to put up with it from you.”

Matt, his face red, tore the page with the phone number from his notebook and handed it to Wally. Wally took it and went back down the corridor.

Matt watched him a moment, then went up the stairs, as two uniformed officers, one carrying a stretcher, came down them.

Chief Lowenstein was gone. Jason Washington, alone at the table where they had been sitting, stood up when he saw Matt.

“Well, did you learn anything?”

“A,” Matt replied, “Detective Milham has all the charm of a constipated alligator, and B, he wants my statement tonight, not tomorrow.”

Washington’s right eyebrow rose in surprise.

“Shall I have a word with him?”

“No. No, thanks. Now that I think of it, I’d just as soon get it over with now. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“All right. Walk me back to your place, and I’ll drop you off at the Roundhouse on my way home. Or you can get your car.”

“I’ll take the ride, thanks. And catch a cab home later.”

Not only is the love of my life angry, but angry to the point where she has decided that marital justice demands that she wait up for me to express her displeasure personally, immediately, and in some detail
.

As he walked down the corridor, he heard Martha say, somewhat formally, “I think that’s him.”

Someone’s with her. Someone she doesn’t know well. Who? And who else would it be at this hour of the morning?

He walked into the living room. Martha, in a dressing gown, was sitting on the couch. There was a coffee service on the coffee table. And a somewhat distraught-looking woman sitting in one of the armchairs, holding a coffee cup in her hands.

“Martha, I’m sorry to be so late. I was tied up.”

“That happens, doesn’t it?” Martha replied, the tone of her voice making it clear she thought he had been tied up by a slow-moving bartender.

“Good evening,” Jason said to the distraught-looking woman.

“More accurately, ‘good morning,’” Martha said. “Jason, this is Mrs. Kellog.”

“How do you do?” Jason said.

Kellog? As in Officer Kellog?

“I’m sorry to have come here like this,” Mrs. Kellog said. “But I just had to.”

“How may I help you, Mrs. Kellog?”

“Jerry Kellog was my husband,” she said.

That’s precisely what I feared. And what are you doing here, in my home?

“May I offer my condolences on your loss, Mrs. Kellog?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with him being killed,” she said. “And neither did Wally.”

Washington nodded sympathetically.

“Martha, I’m sure you’re tired,” he said.

“No. Not at all,” Martha said, smiling sweetly, letting Jason know that even if this was business he wasn’t going to dismiss her so lightly in her own home.

“Wally told me, not only Wally, but Lieutenant Sackerman, too, especially him, that you’re not only the best Homicide detective…”

“That was very gracious of Jack Sackerman,” Washington said, “we were friends for a long time.”

“…but the only cop you
know
is honest.”

“That’s very kind, but I cannot accept the blanket indictment of the rest of the Police Department,” Washington said. “I like to think we’re something like Ivory Soap: ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths pure.”

Helene Kellog ignored him.

“That’s why I came to you,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to go.” She looked at him, took a deep breath, and went on: “Jerry was dirty. I know that. And—what happened to him—had something to do with that. They’re all dirty, the whole Five Squad is dirty.”

“Mrs. Kellog, when you were interviewed by detectives investigating the death of your husband, did you tell any of them what you just told me?”

She snorted.

“Of course not. They all acted like they think that I had something to do with it. Or that Wally did. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they were in on it.”

“In on what?”

“Covering up. Maybe trying to pin it on Wally or me. Wally
and
me.”

“Does Detective Milham know that you’ve come to see me?”

“Of course not!”

“Why do you think anyone would want to ‘pin’ what happened to your husband on you? Or Detective Milham?”

“I just told you! To cover up. To protect themselves. They’re all dirty. The whole damned Five Squad is dirty! That’s probably why Jerry was killed. He never really wanted to get involved with that. They made him! And maybe he was going to tell somebody or do something.”

“By dirty, you mean you believe your husband was taking money from someone?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he tell you he was?”

“No. He wouldn’t talk about it at all.”

“Then how do you know?”

“He was getting the money from someplace.”

“What money?”

“All of the money. All of a sudden we’ve got lots of money. You’re a cop. You know how much a cop, even with overtime, makes.”

“And Jerry had large sums of money?”

“We—
he
—bought a condo at the shore, and there’s a boat. And he paid cash. He didn’t get that kind of money from the Police Department.”

“Did you ask him where the money came from?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. That’s when we started to have trouble, when he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Have you told anything about this to Detective Milham?”

“No.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because if I did, he would have done something about it. He’s an honest cop.”

“Then wouldn’t he logically be the person to tell?”

“I didn’t want Jerry to go to jail,” she said. “And besides, what would it look like, coming from me? Me living with Wally. I’d look like a bitch of a wife trying to make trouble.”

“Did you come to me for advice, Mrs. Kellog?” Washington asked.

“For help. For advice.”

“If what you told me is true…”

“Of course it’s true!” she interrupted.

“…then the information you have should be placed in the hands of the people who can do something about it. I’m sure you know that we have an Internal Affairs Division…”

“If I thought I could trust Internal Affairs, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “They’re all in on it.”

“Mrs. Kellog, I can understand why you’re upset, but believe me, you can trust Internal Affairs.”

At this moment, unfortunately, I’m not absolutely sure that’s true. And neither am I sure that what I so glibly said before, that the Department is ninety-nine and forty-four one hundredths percent pure is true, either
.

She snorted.

“If I gave you the name of a staff inspector in Internal Affairs whom I can personally vouch for…”

Helene Kellog stood up.

“I guess I should have known better than to come here,” she said, on the edge of tears. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She turned to Martha Washington. “Thank you.”

“Mrs. Kellog, there’s really nothing I can do to help you. I have nothing to do with either Homicide or Narcotics or Internal Affairs.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry I wasted your time,” she said. “That’s the way out, right?”

“I’ll see you to the door,” Washington said, and went with her.

At the door, she turned to him.

“Do me one favor, all right? Don’t tell Wally that I came to see you.”

“If you wish, Mrs. Kellog.”

She turned her back on him and walked down the corridor to the elevator.

Martha was waiting for him in the living room.

“I’m sorry about that, honey,” he said.

“I think she was telling the truth.”

“She believed what she was saying,” Jason said after a moment. “That is not always the same thing as the whole truth.”

“I felt sorry for her.”

“So did I.”

“But you’re not going to do anything about what she said?”

“I’ll do something about it,” he said.

“What?”

“I haven’t decided that yet. I don’t happen to think that Wally Milham had anything to do with her husband’s murder; he’s not the type. I saw him tonight, by the way. That’s where I was.”

“Excuse me?”

“I went to see Matt. We tried to go to the Rittenhouse Club for a drink, but it was closed, so we took a walk, and walked up on a double homicide. On Market Street. And we got involved in that. Wally Milham had the job.”

“You mean, you were involved in a shooting?”

“No. We got there after the fact.”

“What was so important that you had to see Matt at midnight?” Martha asked. “And be warned that ‘police business’ will not be an acceptable reply.”

He met her eyes, smiled, and shook his head.

“We’re conducting a surveillance. Earlier tonight, the microphone we had in place on a hotel window was dislodged. I learned from Tony Harris that Matt climbed out on a ledge thirteen floors up to replace the damned thing.”

“My God! At the Bellvue? When he was here, he was wearing a Bellvue maintenance uniform.”

Jason ignored the question.

“I wanted to bawl him out for that. And alone.”

“So you went to the bar at the Rittenhouse Club?”

“That was after I bawled him out.”

“After you bawled him out, you felt sorry for him?”

“I felt sorry for myself. I wanted a drink, and he didn’t have anything.”

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” Martha said, “and accept that story.”

“Thank you.”

“Do want something to eat? Coffee? Another drink?”

“If I told you what I really want, you’d accuse me of…”

“Oddly enough, I was thinking along those lines myself,” Martha said. “Why don’t you get one of those champagne splits from the fridge, while I turn off the lights.”