Badge of Honour 06 - The Murderers (21 page)

“Ask around about what?”

“I wonder why this lady is being so nice to you. It sure isn’t because of the size of your cock. If I come up with something, I’ll let you know.”

Two weeks later, as Officer Crater was walking his beat, an unmarked car pulled to the curb beside him.

“Get in the back, Charley,” Officer Palmerston, who was in the front passenger seat beside the driver, said.

Charley got in the backseat.

“This is Lieutenant Meyer,” Palmerston said.

“How are you, Crater?”

“How do you do, sir?”

“I work for the Lieutenant, Charley,” Palmerston said.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Bill tells me you’re an all-right guy, Crater. Not too smart, but the kind of a guy you can trust.”

Palmerston laughed.

“He also told me about your lady friend, the one you helped out, the one who’s been showing her gratitude to you.”

For a fleeting moment, Charley was very afraid that Bill Palmerston had turned him in for taking the hundred dollars from Marianne every week. But that passed. The Lieutenant wouldn’t be talking the way he was if he was going to arrest him or anything like that.

“That’s what I meant about you not being too smart, Charley,” Lieutenant Meyer said.

“Sir?”

“You really don’t know much about your lady friend’s business, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, let me tell you what I found out after Bill came to me. What Bill and I found out. Your friend works for a woman named Harriet Osadchy. Her sheet shows three busts for prostitution here, and she has a sheet in Hazleton—you know where Hazleton is, Charley?”

“Out west someplace, in the coal regions.”

“Right. Anyway, this Osadchy woman has a sheet as long as you are tall in Hazleton, mostly prostitution, some controlled-substance busts, all nol-prossed, even a couple of drunk and disorderlies. But she’s smart. You got to give her that, right, Bill?”

“Yes, sir,” Officer Palmerston said.

“We didn’t even have a line on this Eastern Pennsylvania Executive Escort Service until you brought it to Bill’s attention.”

“The what?”

“The Eastern Pennsylvania Executive Escort Service. That’s what she calls her operation.”

“Oh.”

“But like I was saying, now we have a line on her. She’s got maybe twenty, twenty-five, maybe more hookers working for her. It’s a high-class operation. The minimum price is a hundred dollars. That’s for one hour.”

“Damn!”

“Bill had a talk with your friend Marianne. She said the split is sixty-forty. For her forty percent, Harriet makes the appointments for the girls, and takes care of what has to be taken care of.”

“Excuse me?”

“Her girls know that when they knock on some hotel door, they’re not going to find some weirdo inside, or a cop, and that they’ll get their money. They even take one of those credit card machines with them, in case—and you’d be surprised how often this happens—the john can put the girl on his expense account as secretarial services, or a rental car, or something like that.”

“I didn’t know they could use credit cards,” Officer Crater confessed.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “You got any idea how much money is involved here?”

“Not really. You said a hundred an hour.”

“Right. Sometimes they stay more than an hour. Sometimes the john wants something more than a straight fuck. That costs more, of course. But the low side would be that a girl would work three johns a night. Let’s say Harriet has twenty girls working. That’s three times a hundred bucks times twenty girls.”

“Six thousand dollars,” Officer Crater said wonderingly.

“Right. Times seven nights a week. That’s forty-two thousand gross. Harriet’s share of that would come to almost seventeen thousand a week. It’s a money machine. Now out of that, she has to pay her expenses. Three, four telephones. The rent on a little apartment she has on Cherry Street where the phones are. She has a couple of lawyers on retainer, and a couple of doctors who make sure the girls are clean, and she takes care of the people in the hotels who could make trouble for her. And then I’m sure she has some arrangement with the mob. Usually that’s ten percent.”

“With the mob? What for?”

“To be left alone. Years ago, the mob ran whorehouses. The Chinese still have a couple running. We keep shutting them down and they keep opening them up, but the mob found out that whorehouses are really more trouble than they’re worth, so they went out of that business. Why the hell not, if they can take, like I said, ten percent of Harriet’s forty-two thousand a week for doing nothing more than putting the word out on the street that Harriet is a friend of theirs? A freelance hooker can almost expect to get robbed, but even a really dumb sleazeball thug knows better than to mess with anyone who is a friend of the mob.”

Officer Crater grunted.

“OK. So let’s talk about where we fit in here,” Meyer said. “The first thing you have to understand is that prostitution has been around a long time—they don’t call it ‘the oldest profession’ for nothing—and there’s absolutely no way to stop it. All we can do is control it. What the citizens don’t want is hookers approaching people on the street, or in a bar. The citizens don’t want disease. They don’t want to see young girls—or, for that matter, young boys—involved. For the obvious reasons. And I think we do a pretty job of giving the citizens what they want.

“What the citizens also want, and I don’t think most people understand this, or if they do, don’t want to admit it, is somebody like Harriet Osadchy. The johns pay their money, they get what they want, they don’t get a disease, they don’t get robbed, nobody gets hurt, and nobody finds out that they’re not getting what they should be getting at home.”

“Yeah,” Officer Crater said. “I see what you mean.”

“And the Harriet Osadchys of this world don’t give the police any trouble, either. They do their thing, and they do it clean, and we have the time to do what we’re hired to do, protect the people. We close down the whorehouses, we keep the hookers from working the streets and the bars, we keep the people from getting a disease or robbed, or black-mailed, all those things.”

“I see what you mean.”

“So now we get back to you, and your friend Marianne. You did the right thing by her and the guy who beat her up. I mean, what good would it have done if you had run him in? Your friend Marianne would not have testified against him anyway, and he made it right by her by giving her a lot of money, right?”

“I think she would have really lost her job if the PSFS heard about that,” Officer Crater said.

“Sure she would have,” Lieutenant Meyer agreed. “And her john would have gotten in trouble with his wife, a lot of people would have been hurt, and you solved the problem all around. I would have done exactly the same thing myself.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do,” Officer Crater said.

“OK. So what happened next? Marianne told Harriet what happened, and Harriet knew that it would have been a real pain in the ass, really hurt her business, if you had gone strictly by the book and hauled either one of them in. So she was grateful, right, and she told Marianne to slip you a couple of hundred bucks right off, and a hundred a week regular after that. A little two-hundred-dollar present to say thank you for not running Marianne in, and a regular little hundred-dollar-a-week present just to remind you that being a good guy, doing what’s right, sometimes gets you a little extra money. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

“Not the way you put it,” Officer Crater said. “It bothered—”

“Wrong, you stupid shit!” Lieutenant Meyer snarled.

“Excuse me?”

“I explained to you, Crater, that Harriet Osadchy is personally pocketing
at least
seventeen thousand, seventeen thousand tax-free, by the way, each and every week, and you really pull her fucking chestnuts out of the fire, really save her ass, really save her big bucks, and she throws a lousy two hundred bucks at you? And figures she’s buying you for a hundred a week? That’s fucking
insulting
, Crater, can’t you see that?”

Officer Crater did not reply.

“She’s paying, as her cost of doing business, and happy to do it, some lawyer maybe a
thousand
a week, and some doctor another
thousand
, and slipping the mob probably
ten percent
of however the fuck much she takes in, and she slips you a lousy, what, a
total
of maybe
five hundred
, and you’re not insulted?”

“I guess I never really thought about it,” Officer Crater confessed.

“Right. You’re goddamned right you didn’t think about it,” Meyer said.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Lieutenant,” Crater said.

“You don’t say anything, that’s what I want you to say. We’ll all be better off if you never open your mouth again. I will tell you what’s going to happen, Crater. Your friend Marianne, the next time you see her, is going to give you another envelope. This one will have a thousand dollars in it. You will take two hundred for your trouble and give the rest to Bill. And every week the same goddamned thing. Am I getting through to you?”

“What do I have to do?”

“I already told you. Keep your mouth shut. That’s all. And remember, if you’re as stupid as I’m beginning to think you are, that if you start thinking about maybe going to Internal Affairs or something, it’d be your word against mine and Bill’s. Not only would we deny this conversation ever took place, but Internal Affairs would have your ass for not coming to them the first time your friend Marianne gave you money.”

Lieutenant Meyer took his arm off the back of the seat and faced forward and turned the ignition.

“Tell whatsisname he’d better get out of the car now, Bill,” he said. “Unless he wants to go with us.”

I usually go on the job looking forward to what the day will bring
, he thought as he got out of the car,
but today is different; today, I suspect, I am not going to like at all what the day will bring, and I don’t mean because I’m not used to getting up before seven o’clock to go to work
.

He entered the building through the nearest door, above which “BOYS” had been carved in the granite, and found himself in what had been, and was now, a locker room. The difference was that the boys were now all uniformed officers, mostly Highway Patrolmen, and the room was liberally decorated with photographs of young women torn from
Playboy, Hustler
, and other literary magazines.

“How do I find Inspector Wohl’s office?” Mike addressed a burly Highway Patrolman sitting on a wooden bench in his undershirt, scrubbing at a spot on his uniform shirt.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here, sir,” the Highway Patrolman said, using the word as he would use it to a civilian he had just stopped for driving twenty-five miles over the speed limit the wrong way down a one-way street. “Visitors is supposed to use the front door.”

The Highway Patrolman examined him carefully.

“I know you?”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. My name is Mike Weisbach.”

The Highway Patrolman stood up.

“Sorry, Inspector,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you. There’s stairs over there. First floor. Used to be the principal’s office.”

“Thank you,” Mike said, and then smiled and said, “Your face is familiar, too. What did you say your name was?”

“Lomax, sir. Charley Lomax.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike said, and put out his hand. “Good to see you, Charley. It’s been a while.”

“Yes, sir. It has,” Lomax said.

When he reached the outer office of the Commanding Officer of the Special Operations Division, Weisbach identified himself as Staff Inspector Weisbach to the young officer in plain clothes behind the desk.

“I know he’s expecting you, Inspector. I’ll see if he’s free,” the young officer said, and got up and walked to a door marked
INSPECTOR WOHL
, knocked, and went inside.

Mike’s memory, which had drawn a blank vis-à-vis Officer Lomax, now kicked in about Wohl’s administrative assistant.

His name is O’Mara, Paul Thomas. His father is Captain Aloysious O’Mara, who commands the Seventeenth District. His brother is Sergeant John F. O’Mara of Civil Affairs. His grandfather had retired from the Philadelphia Police Department. His transfer to Special Operations had been arranged because Special Operations was considered a desirable assignment for a young officer with the proper nepotistic connections
.

That’s not why I’m here. Lowenstein didn’t arrange this transfer for me to enhance my career. I’m here to help Jerry Carlucci get reelected
.

Peter Wohl, without a jacket, his sleeves rolled up and his tie pulled down, appeared at the door.

“Come on in, Mike,” he said. “Can I have Paul get you a cup of coffee?”

“Please,” Mike said.

“Three, Paul, please,” Wohl ordered, and held the door open for Weisbach.

“Morning, Mike,” Mickey O’Hara called as Weisbach entered the office.

He was sitting on a couch. On the coffee table in front of him was a tape recorder and a heavy manila paper envelope.

“What’s good about it, Mick?” Weisbach asked.

“Peter’s been telling me that the forces of virtue are about to triumph over the forces of evil,” O’Hara replied. “I get an exclusive showing a dirty district captain and a dirty lieutenant on their way to the Central Cellroom. I like that, professionally and personally. So far as I’m concerned, that’s not a bad way to start my day.”

“Mick,” Wohl asked, “how would you feel about going with Mike Sabara when he picks up Paulo Cassandro?”

“Instead of staying here, you mean?” O’Hara replied, and then went on without giving Wohl a chance to reply. “For one thing, Peter, the arrest of second- or third-level gangsters is not what gets on the front page. The arrest of a police captain, a district commander, is. And please don’t tell him I said so, but Mike Sabara is not what you could call photogenic.”

“It’s your call, Mickey.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Peter,” Mickey said. “Keep a picture of a dirty captain getting arrested out of the papers. But it won’t work. That’s news, Peter.”

“And you’re here with Carlucci’s blessing, right?”

“Yeah, I am, Peter. Sorry.”

“OK. Let’s talk about what’s going to happen. Chief Coughlin will be here any minute. Inspector Sawyer and the others no later than eight. Sawyer comes in here. Coughlin plays the tape of Meyer and Cassandro for him—”

Wohl pointed to the tape machine.

“Coughlin’s going to play the tape for him?” Mickey interrupted, sounding surprised.

“That was my father’s idea. He and Coughlin choreographed this for me last night. The tape is damned incriminating. That should, I was told, keep Sawyer from loyally defending his men. And, Mickey, Carlucci’s blessing or not, you are not going to be here when that happens.”

“OK. Do I get to hear the tape?”

“Can you live with taking my word that it’s incriminating?”

“Can I listen to it out of school?”

“OK. Why not?”

“Before?”

“After.”

O’Hara shrugged his acceptance.

“Then we go to the Investigation Section, upstairs, where Cazerra, Meyer, and the two officers will be waiting. Inspector Sawyer will arrest Captain Cazerra. I will arrest Lieutenant Meyer. Their badges, IDs, and guns will be taken from them. Staff Inspector Weisbach, assisted by Detectives Payne and Martinez, will arrest the two officers, and take their guns and badges.”

“Am I going to get to be there?” O’Hara asked.

“When Inspector Sawyer comes in here, you leave,” Wohl said. “Wait outside. When we come out, we will be on our way upstairs. You can come with us.”

“Thank you.”

“The Fraternal Order of Police will be notified immediately after the arrests,” Wohl went on. “It will probably take thirty minutes for them to get an attorney, attorneys, here. When that is over, I will take Captain Cazerra to the Police Administration Building in my car, which will be driven by Sergeant Washington. He will not be placed in a cell. Chief Coughlin has arranged for him to be immediately booked, photographed, fingerprinted, and arraigned. He will almost certainly be released on his own recognizance.”

“Nice, smooth operation,” O’Hara said.

“The same thing will happen with the others. Weisbach will take Lieutenant Meyer to the Roundhouse in his car, with Officer Lewis driving. Detectives Payne and Martinez will take the two officers in a Special Operations car.”

“It would be nice if I could get a shot of Cazerra and Meyer in handcuffs,” O’Hara said.

Wohl ignored him.

“It would be a good public relations shot, either one of them in cuffs,” O’Hara pursued.

Wohl looked at him and shook his head.

“Mick,” he said. “I am aware that there are certain public relations aspects to this, otherwise the Prince of the Fourth Estate would not be sitting in my office with egg spots on his tie and his fly open.”

Mickey O’Hara glanced in alarm toward his crotch. His zipper was fastened.

“Screw you, Peter.” He laughed. “Question: Don’t you think the Mayor would be happier if Captain Cazerra were arrested by the new Chief of the Ethical Affairs Unit?”

“Why would that make the Mayor happier?”

“Maybe assisted by Detective Payne?” Mickey went on, not directly answering the question. “Handsome Matthew is always good copy. That picture, I’m almost sure, would make page one. Isn’t that what Carlucci wants? More to the point, why he fixed it for me to be here?”

“I suggested last night that Mike make all the arrests.”

“Thanks a lot, Peter,” Mike Weisbach said sarcastically.

“Coughlin shot me down,” Wohl went on. “There’s apparently a sacred protocol here, and Coughlin wants it followed.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” Mickey said. “For purely selfish reasons. I want to get invited back the next time. I guess the Mayor will have to be happy with a picture of the Black Buddha standing behind Cazerra going into the Roundhouse. That should produce a favorable reaction from the voting segment of the black population, right?”

“Even if it does humiliate every policeman in Philadelphia,” Wohl said bitterly. “Mike, you’ve heard it. See anything wrong with it?”

Weisbach shook his head.

“OK,” Wohl said. “Then that’s the way we’ll do it.”

“OK,” Weisbach parroted.

“Afterward, Mike, you and I are going to have a long talk about the Ethical Affairs Unit.”

“Right,” Weisbach said.

Wohl’s door opened and Chief Inspector Coughlin walked in.

“Morning,” he said.

“Good morning, Chief,” Wohl and Weisbach said, almost in unison.

“How are you, Mickey?” Coughlin said cordially, offering his hand.

“No problems,” O’Hara said.

“Peter fill you in on what’s going to happen?”

“Yep.”

“Mick, just now, as I was driving over here, I wondered if you might not want to go with Captain Sabara when he arrests Cassandro.”

“Nice try, Denny,” O’Hara said. “But like I told Peter, a picture of a third-rate gangster in cuffs isn’t news. A District captain getting arrested is.”

Officer O’Mara put his head in the door.

“Inspector Sawyer is here, sir.”

Wohl looked at Coughlin, who nodded.

“Ask him to come in,” Peter said.

Inspector Gregory Sawyer, a somewhat portly, gray-haired man in his early fifties, came in the room.

He was visibly surprised at seeing Mickey O’Hara.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Mickey said. “How are you, Greg?”

He walked out of the room.

“Greg,” Coughlin said. “I wasn’t exactly truthful with you last night.”

“Excuse me, Chief?”

“That thing ready?” Coughlin asked, pointing at the tape recorder.

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said.

“Sit down, Greg,” Coughlin said.

“Yes, sir.”

“At the orders of the Commissioner, Inspector Wohl has been conducting an investigation of certain allegations involving Captain Cazerra, Lieutenant Meyer, and others in your division. A court order was obtained authorizing electronic surveillance of a room in the Bellvue-Stratford Hotel. What you are about to hear is one of the recordings made,” Coughlin said formally. “Turn it on, please,” he said, and then walked to Wohl’s window and looked out at the lawn in front of the building.