Men In Blue boh-1 Page 10

  Jason F. Washington, Sr., knew, however, as did everybody else in Homicide, that while Dutch's shooting might be his job, he was going to be given a higher level of supervision and assistance than he would have gotten had Richard C. Moffitt been a civilian when he stopped the bullet in the Waikiki Diner.

  There was no suggestion at all that there was any question in anyone' s mind that Washington could not handle the job. What it was was that the commissioner was going to keep an eye on the case through Chief Inspector of Detectives Matt Lowenstein, who was going to lean on Captain Quaire to make sure everything possible was being done, who was going to lean on Lieutenant Lou Natali who was going to lean on Sergeant Zachary Hobbs, who was going to lean on Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr.

  And now Peter Wohl had been added to the equation, and Jason Washington wasn't sure what that would mean. He had found that out when he'd asked Captain Quaire why the witness hadn't been brought to the Roundhouse. Quaire had told him, off the record, that Wohl had stuck his nose in where it didn't belong, and that Lowenstein was about to chop it off for him. But an hour after that, Quaire had come out of his office to tell him that was changed. He was not to do anything about the witness at all, without checking with Staff Inspector Wohl. Staff Inspector Wohl was presently at the medical examiner's office and might, and then again might not, soon grace Homicide with his exalted presence.

  Quaire had thrown up his hands.

  "Don't look at me, Jason. I just work here. We are now involved in bullshit among the upper-level brass."

  Detective Jason Washington had seen Staff Inspector Peter Wohl come into Homicide, and had seen Matt Lowenstein take him into Captain Quaire's office, throwing Quaire out as he did so. He was not surprised when Wohl appeared at his desk, five minutes later, although he had not seen, or sensed, him walking over.

  "Hello, Jason," Wohl said.

  Washington stood up and offered his hand.

  "Inspector," he said. "How goes it?"

  "I'm all right," Wohl said. "How've you been?"

  "Aside from the normal ravages of middle age, no real complaints. Something on your mind?"

  "I've been assigned to stroke WCBL-TV generally and Miss Louise Dutton specifically," Wohl said. "I guess you heard?"

  Washington smiled. "I heard about that." He pointed at the wooden chair beside his desk.

  Wohl smiled his thanks and sat down and stretched his legs out.

  "You ever readAnimal Farm? " Wohl asked.

  Washington chuckled.

  "I wouldn't compare a pretty lady like that with a pig," he said.

  "Let's just say then that she's more equal than some other pretty lady," Wohl said. "If you're ready for her, I'll go get her."

  "Anytime it's convenient," Washington said. "But an hour ago would be better than tomorrow."

  "Jason, all I'm going to do is stroke her feathers," Wohl said. "Did I have to tell you that?"

  "No, but I'm glad you did," Washington said. "Thank you."

  "But for personal curiosity, has anything turned up?" Wohl asked.

  "Not yet, but if I was a white boy with long hair and a zipper jacket, I don't think I would leave the house today. I guess you heard what the Highway Patrol is up to?"

  "I'm not sure how effective that will be, but you can't blame them. They liked Dutch."

  "So did I. We were partners, once. Hell, Highway may even catch him."

  "What's your gut feeling, Jason?"

  "Well, he's either under a rock somewhere in Philadelphia, or he's long gone. But gut feeling? He's either here or in Atlantic City."

  Wohl nodded and made a little grunting noise.

  "An undercover guy from Narcotics thinks he identified the woman-"

  "Sergeant Hobbs called me," Washington interrupted him. "If they can come up with a name…"

  "I have a feeling they will," Wohl said. "Okay. So long as you understand where I fit in this, Jason, I'll go fetch the eyewitness."

  He stood up.

  Detective Jason F. Washington, Sr., extended something to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl.

  "What's that?"

  "Miracle of modern medicine," Washington said. "It's supposed to prevent ulcers."

  "Are you suggesting I'm going to need it?" Wohl asked with a smile.

  "Somebody thinks that TV lady is going to be trouble," Washington said.

  Wohl popped the antacid in his mouth, and then turned and walked out of Homicide.

  SIX

  When Sergeant Hobbs and Officer McFadden got to the Roundhouse, and McFadden started to open the passenger-side door, Hobbs touched his arm.

  "Wait a minute," he said. He then got out of the car, walked to the passenger side, motioned for McFadden to get out, and when he had, put his hand on his arm, and then marched him into the building. It looked for all the world as if McFadden was in custody and being led into the Roundhouse, which is exactly what Hobbs had in mind.

  The Roundhouse is a public building, but it is not open to the public to the degree, for example, that City Hall is. It is the nerve center of the police department, and while there are always a number of ordinary, decent, law-abiding citizens in the building, the overwhelming majority of private citizens in the Roundhouse are there as nonvoluntary guests of the police, or are relatives and friends of the nonvoluntary guests who have come to see what can be done about getting them out, either by posting bail, or in some other way.

  There are almost always a number of people in this latter category standing just outside, or just inside, the door leading into the Roundhouse from the parking lot out back. Immediately inside the door is a small foyer. To the right a corridor leads to an area from which the friends and relatives of those arrested can watch preliminary arraignments before a magistrate, who either sets bail or orders the accused confined until trial.

  To the left is a door leading to the main lobby of the building, which is not open to the general public. It is operated by a solenoid controlled by a police officer who sits behind a shatterproof plastic window directly across the corridor from the door to the parking lot.

  Hobbs didn't want anyone with whom McFadden might now, or eventually, have a professional relationship to remember later having seen the large young man with the forehead band walking into the place and being passed without question, as if he was cop, into the main lobby.

  Still holding on to Officer McFadden's arm, Hobbs flashed his badge at the corporal on duty behind the window, who took a good look at it, and then pushed the button operating the solenoid. The door lock buzzed as Hobbs reached it. He pushed it open, and went through it, and marched McFadden to the elevator doors.

  There was a sign on the gray steel first-floor door reading CRIMINAL RECORDS, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Hobbs pushed it open, and eventually the door opened. A corporal looked at Officer McFadden very dubiously.

  "This is McFadden, Narcotics," Hobbs said. The room held half a dozen enormous gray rotary files, each twelve feet long. Electric motors rotated rows of files, thousands of them, each containing the arrest and criminal records of one individual who had at one time come to the official attention of the police. The files were tended by civilian employees, mostly women, under the supervision of sworn officers.

  Hobbs saw the sergeant on duty, Salvatore V. DeConti, a short, balding, plump, very natty man in his middle thirties, in a crisply starched shirt and perfectly creased uniform trousers, sitting at his desk. He saw that DeConti was unable to keep from examining, and finding wanting, the fat bearded large young man he had brought with him into records.

  Amused, Hobbs walked McFadden over to him and introduced him: " Sergeant DeConti, this is Officer McFadden. He's identified the woman who shot Captain Moffitt."

  It was an effort, but DeConti managed it, to offer his hand to the fat, bearded young man with the leather band around his forehead.

  "How are you?" he said, then freed his hand, and called to the corporal. When he came over, he said, "Officer McFadden's g
ot a name on the girl Captain Moffitt shot."

  "I guess the fingerprint guy from Identification ought to be back from the medical examiner's about now with her prints," the corporal said. "What's the name?"

  "Schmeltzer, Dorothy Ann," McFadden said. "And I got a name, Sergeant, for the guy who got away from the diner." He gestured with his hand, a circular movement near his head, indicating that he didn't actually have a name, for sure, but that he knew there was one floating around somewhere in his head. That he was, in other words, working intuitively.

  "Florian will help you, if he can," Sergeant DeConti said.

  "Gallagher, Grady, something Irish," McFadden said. "There's only three or four thousand Gallaghers in there, I'm sure," Corporal Florian said. "But we can look."

  "Help yourself to some coffee, Sergeant," DeConti said. Then, "Damned shame about Dutch."

  "A rotten shame," Hobbs agreed. "Three kids." Then he looked at DeConti. "I'm sure McFadden is right," he said. "Lieutenant Pekach said he's smart, a good cop. Even if he doesn't look much like one."

  "I'm just glad I never got an assignment like that," DeConti said. " Some of it has to rub off. The scum he has to be with, I mean."

  Hobbs had the unkind thought that Sergeant DeConti would never be asked to undertake an undercover assignment unless it became necessary to infiltrate a group of hotel desk clerks, or maybe the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. If you put a white collar on DeConti, Hobbs thought, he could easily pass for a priest.

  Across the room, McFadden, a look of satisfaction on his face, was writing on a yellow, lined pad. He ripped off a sheet and handed it to Corporal Florian. Then he walked across the room to Hobbs and DeConti.

  "Gerald Vincent Gallagher," he announced. "I remembered the moment I saw her sheet. He got ripped off about six months ago by some AfroAmerican gentlemen, near the East Park Reservoir in Fairmount Park. They really did a job on him. She came to see him in the hospital."

  "Good man, McFadden," DeConti said. "Florian's getting his record?"

  "Yes, sir. Her family lives in Holmesburg," McFadden went on. "I went looking for her there one time. Her father runs a grocery store around Lincoln High School. Nice people."

  "This ought to brighten their day," Hobbs said.

  Corporal Florian walked over with a card, and handed it, a little uneasily, to McFadden. DeConti and Hobbs leaned over to get a look.

  "That's him. He's just out on parole, too," McFadden said.

  "He fits the description," Hobbs said, and then went on: "If you were Gerald Vincent Gallagher, McFadden, where do you think you would be right now?"

  McFadden's heavily bearded face screwed up in thought.

  "I don't think I'd have any money, since I didn't get to pull off the robbery," he said. "So I don't think I would be on a bus or train out of town. And I wouldn't go back where I lived, in case I had been recognized, so I would probably be holed up someplace, probably in North Philly, if I got that far. Maybe downtown. I can think of a couple of places."

  "Make up a list," Hobbs ordered.

  "I'd sort of like to look for this guy myself, Sergeant," McFadden said.

  Hobbs looked at him dubiously.

  "I don't want to blow my cover, Sergeant," McFadden went on. "I could look for him without doing that."

  "You can tell Lieutenant Pekach that I said that if he thinks you could be spared from your regular job for a while, that you could probably be useful to Detective Washington," Hobbs said. "IfWashington wants you."

  "Thank you," McFadden said. "I'll ask him as soon as I get back to the office."

  "Jason Washington's got the job?" Sergeant DeConti asked.

  "Uh-huh," Hobbs said. He picked up the telephone and dialed it.

  "Detention Unit, Corporal Delzinski."

  "This is Sergeant Hobbs, Homicide, Corporal. The next time a wagon from the Sixth District-"

  "There's one just come in, Sergeant," Delzinski interrupted.

  "As soon as they drop off their prisoner, send them up to Criminal Records," Hobbs said. "I've got a prisoner that has to be transported to Narcotics. They'll probably have to fumigate the wagon, afterward, but that can't be helped."

  DeConti laughed.

  "We have a lot of time and money invested in making you a credible turd, McFadden," Hobbs said. "I would hate to see it all wasted."

  "I understand, sir," McFadden said. "Thank you." A civilian employee from the photo lab, a very thin woman, walked up with three four-byfive photographs of Gerald Vincent Gallagher.

  "I wiped them," she said. "But they're still wet. I don't know about putting them in an envelope."

  "I'll just carry them the way they are," Hobbs said.

  "McFadden, you make up your list. When the Sixth District wagon gets here, Sergeant DeConti will tell them to transport you to Narcotics. I'll send somebody up to get the list from you."

  "Yes, sir," McFadden said.

  "Thank you, Brother DeConti," Hobbs said. "It's always a pleasure doing business with you."

  "I just hope you catch the bastard," DeConti said.

  ****

  The Wackenhut Private Security officer did not raise the barrier when the blue Ford LTD nosed up to it, nor even when the driver tapped the horn. He let the bastard wait a minute, and then walked slowly over to the car.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "Raise the barrier," Wohl said.

  "Stockton Place is not a public thoroughfare, sir," the security officer said.

  Wohl showed him his badge.

  "What's going on, Inspector?" the security officer said.

  "Nothing particular," Wohl said. "You want to raise that thing?"

  Louise Dutton's old yellow Cadillac convertible, the roof now up, was parked three-quarters of the way down the cobblestone street.

  When the barrier was raised, Wohl drove slowly down the street and pulled in behind the convertible. Wohl looked around curiously. He hadn't even known this place was here, although his office was less than a dozen blocks away.

  Stockton Place looked, he thought, except for the cars on the street, as it must have looked two hundred years ago, when these buildings had been built.

  He got out of the car, then crossed to the nearest doorway. There was no doorbell that he could see, and after a moment, he saw that the doorway was not intended to open; that it was a facade. He backed up, smiled more in amusement than embarrassment, and looked at the doorways to the right and left. There were doorbells beside the doorway on the left.

  There were three of them, and one of them read DUTTON.

  He saw that the door was slightly ajar, and tried it, and then pushed it open.

  There was a small lobby inside. To the right was a shiny mailbox, and more doorbell buttons, these accompanied by a telephone. Beside the mailboxes was a door with a large brass "C" fixed to it, and a holder for a name card. Jerome Nelson.

  There were three identical doors against the other wall. They each had identifying signs on them: stairway, elevator, service.

  If "C" was the ground floor, Wohl reasoned, "A" would be the top floor. He opened the door marked elevator and found an open elevator behind it. He pushed "A". A door closed silently, faint music started to play, and the elevator started upward. It stopped, and the door opened and the music stopped. There was another door in front of him, with a lock and a peephole, and a doorbell button. He pushed it and heard the faint ponging of chimes.

  "Whoever that is, Jerome," Louise Dutton said, "send them away."

  Jerome walked quickly and delicately to the elevator door, rose on his toes, and put his eye to the peephole. It was a handsome, rather well dressed, man.

  Jerome pulled the door open.

  "I'm very sorry," he said, "but Miss Dutton is not receiving callers."

  "Please tell Miss Dutton that Peter Wohl would like to see her," Wohl said.

  "Just one moment, please," Jerome said.

  He walked into the apartment.

  "It's a very good-looking man
named Peter Wohl," he told Louise Dutton, loud enough for Wohl to hear him. A smile flickered on and off Wohl's face.

  "He's a policeman," Louise said, and walked toward the door.

  Louise Dutton was wearing a bathrobe, Wohl saw, and then corrected himself, adressing gown, and holding both a cigarette and a drink.

  "Oh, you," she said. "Hi! Come on in."

  "Good afternoon, Miss Dutton," Wohl said, politely.

  She was half in the bag, Wohl decided. There was something erotic about the way she looked, he realized. Part of that was obviously because he could see her nipples holding the thin material of her dressing gown up like tent poles-it was probably silk, he decided-but there was more to it than that.

  "I'm glad that you got home all right," Wohl said.

  "Thank you for that," Louise said. "I was more upset than I realized, and I shouldn't have been driving."

  "I just made her take a long soak in a hot tub," Jerome said. "And I prescribed astiff drink." He put out his hand. "I'm Jerome Nelson, a friend of the family."

  "I'm Inspector Peter Wohl," Wohl said, taking the hand. "How do you do, Mr. Nelson?"

  "You certainly, if you don't mind me saying so, don't look like a policeman," Jerome Nelson said.

  "That's nice, if you're a detective," Wohl said. "What would you say Ido look like?"

  Jerome laid a finger against his cheek, cocked his head, and studied Wohl.

  "I justdon't know," he said. "Maybe a stockbroker. A successful stockbroker. I love your suit."

  "Miss Dutton, they're ready for you at the Roundhouse," Wohl said.

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning, I'd like you to come down there with me. They want your statement, and I think they'll have some photographs to show you. And then I'll see that you're brought back here."

  "Will whatever it is wait five minutes?" Louise said. "I want to see what Cohen's going to put on."

  "I beg your pardon?" Wohl asked.

  "It's time for 'Nine's News,' " she said.