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.
Wally Milham was not surprised to see Captain Henry Quaire come into the basement office of the Inferno Lounge. Quaire routinely showed up at the scene of an interesting murder, and this double murder qualified. Wally was surprised and annoyed, however, to see Detective Payne with him.
“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.”
Jason Washington was surprised and just a little alarmed when he quietly let himself into his apartment to see that there were lights on in the living room.
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.”