“I’ll try, Sonny,” he said. “I don’t know…”
“Talk to him, Charley. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Charley shrugged and walked over to the booth where Matt was now counting thick, rubber-band-bound stacks of one-dollar bills.
Matt got up and walked with Charley to a corner of the room. Charley began to talk to him. Sonny did not think Payne looked at all happy with what Charley was saying.
But finally, after flashing Sonny Boyle a look of utter contempt, he shrugged and walked out of the restaurant. Charley went back to Boyle’s booth.
“That took some doing,” he said. “My ass is now on the line. Don’t fuck with me about this, Sonny. If that mean sonofabitch comes down on me, I’ll really come down on you. You understand?”
“Charley, I understand. The first thing I hear-”
“And you better hear something, and soon,” Charley interrupted. He laid a calling card on the table, took out a pen, and wrote another number on it. “My home phone is on there. The one I wrote is Special Operations. Call me there, not at Northwest Detectives.”
“You’re in Special Operations now?”
“I expect to hear from you soon, Sonny,” Charley said, and walked out of the restaurant.
Sonny looked out the window and watched him get into a new Ford unmarked car and drive away.
He walked over to where Pat O’Hallihan sat.
“Jesus Christ, what was that all about?” Pat asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sonny said. “Charley McFadden and I are old pals. We were in the same class at Bishop Neuman High School.”
“What about the one with me?”
“You were in pretty fancy company. That was Payne. You remember when a detective shot that sicko in the Northwest who was carving up women?”
“That was him?”
“That was him.”
“What was this all about?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Everything’s under control. Now, order me a cup of coffee. I got to make a telephone call.”
“Right.”
Sonny Boyle went to the pay phone by the door to the men’s room and called Frankie Foley’s house. Frankie’s mother said he was at work, and gave him the number of the warehouse at Wanamaker’s where Frankie worked.
It took some time to get Frankie on the phone-his boss obviously didn’t like him getting personal calls at work-but finally he came on the line and Sonny told him that two Special Operations detectives were asking questions about him, that one of the detectives was a real hotshot, the cop that shot the Northwest Serial Rapist in the head, and that they seemed to think Frankie had something to do with the Narcotics cop who got himself hit.
He assured Frankie that of course he hadn’t told them a fucking thing.
EIGHTEEN
The radio went off as Matt Payne and Charley McFadden headed north on South Broad Street.
“William Fourteen.”
“That’s me,” Matt said.
Charley looked around, found the microphone on its hook under the dash, and picked it up.
“Fourteen,” he said.
“What’s your location?”
“South Broad, near City Hall.”
“Meet the Inspector at the schoolhouse.”
“En route,” Charley said, and replaced the microphone. “Well, at least we know where to go,” he said.
“I hope we did the right thing,” Matt said. “I’ll bet your ol’ buddy was on the phone before we turned the corner, telling Foley we were asking about him.”
“Hey,” Charley said, his tone making it clear he thought it was a naive observation. “What’s the difference? Bad guys think there’s a cop behind every tree.”
Fifteen minutes later, he gave Matt a smug glance when the same question and answer was paraphrased by Inspector Wohl and Sergeant Washington.
“Is this going to cause a problem?” Wohl asked. “Foley will know now we’re interested in him.”
“Malefactors,” Washington intoned solemnly, “in my experience, see the menacing forces of exposure and punishment lurking behind every bush. Often this causes them to do foolish things.”
Wohl chuckled.
“I do see a jurisdictional problem,” Washington went on. “On one hand, we are interested in Mr. Foley’s possible involvement with the Inferno job, which would put him in Wally Milham’s basket. On the other, Mr. Boyle suggested Mr. Foley has something to do with Officer Kellog’s murder, which would fall into Joe D’Amata’s zone of interest. Or possibly mine, if I am to follow allegations of corruption in the Narcotics Five Squad.”
Wohl smiled again.
“Going along with your ‘menacing forces of exposure and punishment’ theory, Jason, it seems to me that you are the most menacing of all.”
“I will interpret that as a compliment,” Washington said.
“You and Matt were in on the Inferno job from the beginning. So why don’t you two go see Mr. Atchison first? Right now, McFadden can go see Joe D’Amata and tell him what Mr. Boyle has had to say, and that I suggest it might be helpful if you were there when he speaks with Mr. Foley.”
Washington nodded.
“And then McFadden can go to see Milham at Matt’s apartment-”
“Where I devoutly hope he is having at least a modicum of success in trying to convince the Widow Kellog that she should not regard me as menacing,” Washington interrupted. “And tell me what she knows about Five Squad.”
“-and tell him what McFadden’s friend has told us about Mr. Foley,” Wohl continued. “That will also place Charley at Matt’s apartment, where he can work out the sitting-on-Mrs. Kellog schedule with Martinez and Tiny Lewis.”
“A masterful display of organizational genius,” Washington said.
“And meanwhile, I’ll bring Inspector Weisbach in on all this. Any questions?”
McFadden held up his hand.
“How do I get from here to Matt’s place, Inspector?”
“Take the car Matt’s driving.”
“If I went with him, and met Jason…where are we going to see Atchison?”
“In the beast’s lair,” Washington said. “At his home.”
“I could pick up my car at the apartment, if I went with Charley.”
“Meet me at the Media police station,” Washington said. “Where I will be stroking the locals.”
“I’ll call out there if you like, Jason,” Wohl offered.
“Thank you, no. Lieutenant Swann and I are old friends,” Washington said. He got to his feet. “I am reluctant to say this, aware as I am of your already monumental egos, but you two done good.”
McFadden actually blushed.
“I ally myself with the comments of Sergeant Washington,” Wohl said. “Especially the part about your already monumental egos.”
Detective Matthew Payne had been inside the Media Police Headquarters before, the circumstances of which came to mind as he pulled the Porsche into a visitors’ parking slot outside the redbrick, vaguely Colonial-appearing
