The Witness Read online

  There was a tone of authority in Davis’s voice that got through to Matt.

  “Hold on, please, sir,” he said, and walked to the closed door. He knocked and then, without waiting, opened it.

  “Sir, there’s a Special Agent Davis—‘Special Agent in Charge’ is actually what he said—on twenty-nine. He said he wants ‘just a moment of your time.’ You want to talk to him?”

  “For your general information, Officer Payne, Special Agent in Charge Davis is the high priest of the FBI in Philadelphia,” Wohl said. “Yes, of course, I’ll talk to him.” He picked up the telephone, pushed one of the buttons on it, and said, “Hello, Walter. How are you?”

  Payne closed the door and went back to his desk.

  When he got out of bed, at quarter past seven, John J. “Jack” Malone almost immediately learned that among a large number of other things that had gone wrong recently in his life he could now count the plumbing system of the St. Charles Hotel, where he resided. Specifically, both the hot and cold taps in his bathroom ran ice-cold.

  While he fully understood that the St. Charles was not in the league of the Bellevue-Stratford or the Warwick, neither was it a flea bag, and considering what they were charging him for his “suite” (a bedroom, a tiny sitting room, and an alcove containing a small refrigerator, a two-burner electric stove, and a small table), it seemed to him that the least the bastards could do was make sure the hot water worked.

  There was no question that it was not working. That, until he just now had been desperately hoping, it was not just the time required to get hot water up from the basement heater to the tenth floor. The damned water had been running full blast for five minutes and it was just as ice-cold now as it had been when he first turned it on.

  A shower, under the circumstances, was clearly out of the question. Shaving was going to be bad enough (he had a beard that, even with a hot-towel preshave soak, wore out a blade every time he sawed it off); he was not going to stand under a torrent of ice water.

  At least, he consoled himself, he had nobly kept John Jameson in his bottle last night. He had not so much as sniffed a cork for forty-eight hours, so he would not reek of old booze when he presented himself to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and announced he was reporting for duty. All he would smell of was twenty-four hours worth of flaking skin plus more than a little nervous sweat. It was possible that a liberal sprinkling of cologne would mask that.

  Possible or not, that was his only choice.

  He had slept in his underwear, so he took that off, rubbed his underarms briskly with a stiff towel, and then patted himself there and elsewhere with cologne. The cologne, he was painfully aware, had been Little Jack’s birthday gift to Daddy. Little Jack was nine, Daddy, thirty-four.

  Three weeks before, the Honorable Seymour F. Marshutz of the Family Court had awarded Daddy very limited rights of visitation (one weekend a month, plus no more than three lunch or supper visits per month, with the understanding that Jack would give Mrs. Malone at least three hours notice, preferably longer, of his intention to exercise the lunch/supper privilege) in which to be Daddy.

  He tore brown paper from around three bundles from the laundry before he found the one with underwear in it, and then put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Then he went to the closet for a uniform.

  The uniform was new. The last time he’d worn a uniform, he had been a cop in the 13th District. He’d worn plainclothes as a detective in South Detectives, and then when he’d made sergeant, he’d been assigned as driver to Chief Inspector Francis J. Cohan, another plainclothes assignment. When Chief Cohan had been made deputy commissioner-Operations, as sort of a reward for a job well done, Cohan had arranged for Jack Malone to be assigned to the Major Crimes Division, still in plainclothes. When he’d made lieutenant, four months before, he had gone out and bought a new uniform, knowing that sooner or later, he would need one. As commanding officer of the Auto Squad, it was up to him whether or not to wear a uniform; he had elected not to.

  Sooner had come much quicker than he expected. Captain Charley Gaft, who commanded Major Crimes, had called him up yesterday and told him he was being transferred, immediately, to Special Operations, and suggested he use the holiday to clean out his desk in Major Crimes.

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Career enhancement,” Captain Gaft replied, after a just barely perceptible hesitation.

  That was so much bullshit.

  “I see.”

  There had been a tone in his voice that Captain Gaft had picked up on.

  “It could be a number of things,” Gaft offered.

  “Sir?”

  “You know Tony Lucci?” Gaft asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tony Lucci, as a sergeant, had been Mayor Jerry Carlucci’s driver. When he had made lieutenant (four places under Jack Malone on the list), he had been assigned to Special Operations. The word was that he was the mayor’s spy in Special Operations.

  “He’s taking over for you here, and you’re replacing him at Bustleton and Bowler. I was told about both transfers, not asked, but it seems possible to me that the mayor may have been interested in seeing that Tony got an assignment that would enhance his career.”

  “Oh, it was his career enhancement you were talking about?”

  “Maybe Lucci knows when it’s best to back off, Jack.”

  “Are we talking about Holland here?”

  “I’m not. I don’t know about you.”

  Malone did not reply.

  “You’re being transferred, Jack,” Captain Gaft went on. “You want a little advice, leave it at that. Maybe it was time. Sometimes people, especially people with personal problems, get too tied up with the job. That sometimes gets people in trouble. That didn’t happen to you. Maybe if you weren’t being transferred, it would have. Am I getting through to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’s really a good guy. What I really did was go over his head. If you go over a captain’s head, even if you’re right, you’d better expect trouble. I went over his head, and nobody thinks I’m right, and it could be a lot worse. There are a lot of assignments for a lieutenant a lot worse than Lucci’s old job in Special Operations—whatever Lucci’s job was.

  Gaft didn’t stick it in me, although everybody would have understood it if he had. Or Cohan took care of me again. Or both. More than likely, both. But there is sort of a “this is your last chance, Malone, to straighten up and fly right” element in this transfer.

  “You’re expected at Bustleton and Bowler at eight-thirty. In uniform. Maybe it would be a good idea to clear out your desk here today. Any loose ends we can worry about later.”

  “Yes, sir,” Malone had said. “Captain, I enjoyed working for you.”

  “Most of the time, Jack, I enjoyed having you work for me. When you get settled out there with the hotshots, call me, and we’ll have lunch or something.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good luck, Jack.”

  Malone had bought only one new uniform when he’d made lieutenant. There had not been, thanks to his lawyer’s money-up-front business practice, enough money for more than one. Now he would need at least one—and preferably two—more. But that was his problem, not the Police Department’s. He would just have to take the one he had to a two-hour dry cleaners, until, by temporarily giving up unimportant things, like eating, he could come up with the money to buy more. EZ-Credit was something else that had gone with Mrs. John J. Malone.

  Malone examined himself in the none-too-clear mirror on the chest of drawers. He did not especially like what he saw. Gone was the trim young cop, replaced by a lieutenant who looked like a lieutenant.

  Chubby, Malone thought. Hairline retreating. A little pouchy under the eyes. Is that the beginning of a jowl?

  He left his suite and walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor to the elevator, which, after he pushed the button, announced its arrival with an alarming combination of screeches and groans.
/>   He stopped by the desk, which was manned by a cadaverous white male in a soiled maroon sports coat.

  “There’s no hot water.”

  “I know, they’re working on it,” the desk clerk said, without raising his eyes from the Philadelphia Daily News.

  “If it’s not fixed by the time I get home from work, I’ll blow up the building,” Malone said.

  The desk clerk raised his eyes from the Daily News.

  “I didn’t know you were a cop,” he said.

  “Now you do. Get the hot water fixed.”

  Malone found his car, on the roof of which someone had left two beer cans and the remains of a slice of pizza. It was a seven-year-old Ford Mustang. There had once been two cars registered in his name, the other a 1972 Ford station wagon. Ellen now had that.

  I should have the station wagon. And I should have the house. She was the one fucking around. She should be living in that goddamned hotel and driving this piece of shit.

  Look on the bright side. No alimony. And, what the hell, she needed something to carry Little Jack around in.

  He knocked the beer cans and pizza off the roof and got in. He went east to North Broad Street, and then out North Broad to Roosevelt Boulevard. Eight blocks down Roosevelt Boulevard he made a lane change that did not meet the standards of a brother police officer.

  There was the growl of a siren, and when he looked in the mirror, he saw a cop waving him over.

  A Highway Patrol car. Only Highway RPCs had two cops in them.

  He nodded his head to show that he understood the order, and as soon as he could safely do so pulled to the side.

  The Highway Patrolman swaggered over to the Mustang, only at the last moment noticing that there was a gold bar on the epaulets of Malone’s blue jacket.

  “Good morning, sir,” the Highway Patrolman said.

  “Good morning.”

  “Lieutenant, your turn signal’s inoperative. I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Yes. Thank you very much. I’ll have it checked.”

  The Highway Patrolman saluted and walked back to his car.

  Malone moved the turn signal lever.

  The goddamn thing really is broken. Did I use the sonofabitch, and it didn’t work, or was I just weaving through traffic in this rusty piece of shit, and he stopped me for that?

  Moot point, Lieutenant. Either today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, one of those two guys is going to see me at Bustleton and Bowler, and I will become universally known as the New Lieutenant Who Drives Not Only Recklessly But in a Real Piece of Shit of an Ancient Mustang.

  Malone hadn’t been to Highway Patrol Headquarters, at Bustleton and Bowler Streets, not far from the North Philadelphia Airport, in a long time. It had been busy then, he remembered, because it shared the building with the headquarters of the 7th District, but it had been nothing like it was now.

  There were the cars and vans of the 7th District; the cars and motorcycles of Highway Patrol; a flock of cars, marked and unmarked, that obviously belonged to Special Operations; and even a stakeout van. His hope of finding a parking space reserved for LIEUTENANTS or even OFFICIAL VISITORS had been wishful thinking. He had trouble just driving through the parking lot. The only empty space he saw was marked RESERVED FOR COMMISSIONER.

  He drove around the block and tried again. This time a turnkey (an officer assigned to make himself useful in the parking lot) waved him down and pointed out a parking spot reserved for a sergeant.

  It was crowded inside too, but finally he managed to give his name to a sergeant at a desk just inside a door marked HEADQUARTERS, SPECIAL OPERATIONS.

  “Welcome to the circus, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “I saw the teletype. The inspector’s office is through that door.”

  On the other side of the door was a small room, barely large enough for the two desks it held back-to-back. One of them was not occupied. There was a sign on it, CAPTAIN MICHAEL J. SABARA.

  There was a young plainclothes cop at the other one. When he saw Malone he stood up.

  “Lieutenant Malone?”

  “Right.”

  “The inspector’s expecting you, sir. I’ll see if he’s free.”

  “Thank you.”

  The plainclothes cop stuck his head in an interior door, and Malone heard his name spoken.

  Then the door opened and Staff Inspector Peter Wohl came out. Malone had seen him around before, but now he was surprised to see how young he was.

  He’s no older than I am. And not only a staff inspector, but a division commander. Is he really that good? Or is it pull?

  “I’m Inspector Wohl, Lieutenant,” Wohl said. “Now that I see you, I know we’ve met, but I can’t remember where.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hate to make you cool your heels, but I’ve got something that really won’t wait. Officer Payne will get you a cup of coffee. Be careful he doesn’t pour it in your lap.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Payne? Oh, hell, yes! This is the kid who blew the brains out of the Northwest serial rapist.

  Wohl disappeared behind his door again.

  “How do you take your coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “In a cup, please, if that’s convenient,” Malone said.

  “Yes, sir,” Payne said, chuckling.

  “I don’t know why I said that,” Malone said. “I wasn’t trying to be a smart-ass.”

  “I think you’ll be right at home around here, Lieutenant,” Payne said.

  Payne went to a coffee machine sitting on top of a file cabinet and a moment later handed Malone a steaming china cup.

  “There’s sugar and what is euphemistically known as non-dairy creamer,” he said.

  “Black’s fine,” Malone said. “Thank you.”

  He remembered a story that had gone around the Department about the time Captain Dutch Moffitt had been shot, and Special Operations had been formed and given to Peter Wohl.

  Dutch Moffitt’s deputy had been a well-liked lieutenant named Mike Sabara. It was presumed that, after the scumbag killed Dutch, Mike Sabara would take over as Highway commander. Instead, the job went to newly promoted Captain Dave Pekach. Sabara was named Wohl’s deputy commander of Special Operations. It quickly went around Highway that Wohl had told Sabara he could either wear plainclothes or a regular uniform, but he didn’t want to see him in Highway breeches and boots. And then Wohl had announced a new recruiting policy for Highway, outstanding young cops who didn’t have four, five years on the job. The first two “probationary” Highway Patrolmen were the two Narcs who got the critter who killed Captain Moffitt.

  The idea that just anybody could get into Highway had enraged most Highway Patrolmen.

  Well, maybe the two guys who caught the scumbag who shot down Captain Dutch Moffitt were entitled to a little special treatment, but letting just about anybody in Highway—

  A delegation, someone had told Malone, three Highway sergeants and two long-time Highway Patrolmen, went to see Captain Sabara: Couldn’t Sabara have a word with Wohl and tell him how what he was doing was really going to fuck Highway up? Nothing against the inspector personally; it’s just that he just doesn’t know about Highway.

  Captain Sabara, a phlegmatic man, announced he would think about it.

  Two days later one of the sergeants who had gone to Captain Sabara to ask him if he could have a word with Staff Inspector Wohl had to go see Captain Sabara again. His emotional state was mingled fury and gross embarrassment.

  “I wouldn’t bother you with this, Captain, but nobody knows where Captain Pekach is.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You know about the parade? Escort the governor to Constitution Hall?”

  Sabara nodded. “Twelve wheels. At the airport no later than eleven-thirty. Something wrong?”

  “Captain, we brought the bikes here. We went inside for a cup of coffee, before the inspection. When we went back out, there was only ten wheels.”

  “You’re not telli
ng me somebody stole two Highway bikes?”

  “Stole, no. Some wiseass is fucking around. When I find out who, I’ll have his ass. But what do we do now?”

  “Everybody else is outside, where they’re supposed to be?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Sabara, with the sergeant following, strode purposefully out of his office and then out the side door of the building, where he found ten Highway motorcycles lined up neatly, their riders standing beside them.

  “Whose wheels are missing?” he demanded.

  Two Highway Patrolmen, holding their plastic helmets in their hands and looking more than a little sheepish, stepped forward.

  “What did you do, leave the keys in them?”

  One patrolman nodded, embarrassed. The second began to explain, “Captain, who the hell’s going to steal a Highway—”

  He was stilled in midsentence by one of Captain Mike Sabara’s nearly legendary frosty glances.

  Sabara kept up his icy look for about thirty seconds, and then there came the sound of two motorcycles, approaching at high speed.

  “Who the fuck—?” the sergeant asked, only to find that Captain Sabara’s cold eyes were now on him.

  Two Highway wheels, ridden by guys in complete Highway regalia, including plastic helmets with the face masks down, appeared just outside the parking lot on Bustleton Street, and slid to a stop on squealing tires. Now their sergeant’s stripes were visible.

  They sat there a moment, revving the engines, and then, one at a time, entered the parking lot, where, simultaneously, they executed a maneuver known to the motorcycling fraternity as a “wheelie.” This maneuver involves lifting the front wheel off the ground and steering by precisely adjusting the balance of what is now a powered unicycle by shifting the weight of the body.

  It is a maneuver that only can be successfully accomplished by a rider of extraordinary skill. In the interest of rider safety and vehicle economy, the maneuver is forbidden by the Police Department except for instructional purposes by Wheel School instructors.

  After passing one way through the parking lot, the two cyclists dropped the front wheel gently back onto the ground, simultaneously negotiated a turn, and then simultaneously executed another wheelie, in the other direction. A final gentle lowering on the front wheel, a final gentle, precise turn, and then the two rode to the center of the parked motorcycles and stopped. They revved the engines a final time, kicked the kick stands in place in a synchronized movement, and then swung off the machines.