The Assassin Part 65

Vito drove around the aircraft parking area a few minutes more, trying to figure the best way to get the suitcase, once he had taken it from the baggage cart, out to his car. That turned out to be simplicity itself.

There was a gate leading from the work area under the terminal to the outside. There was a rent-a-cop working it. No rent-a-cop was going to stop a real cop and ask him what he was doing.

I'll just drive one of these G.o.dd.a.m.ned tractors out the gate, go to the parking lot, put the suitcase in the trunk of the Caddy, and drive back in and give them their tractor back.

He decided to try it. It worked like a jewel. He went out of the gate, drove to the parking lot, went in the trunk of the Caddy, got back on the tractor, and drove back through the gate. The rent-a-cop didn't look at him twice.

Why should he? I'm a police corporal. If I'm riding around on an Eastern Airlines tractor, so what? What business was that of a rent-a-cop?

Vito drove the tractor back to the Eastern office and told the guy he'd returned it.

"Anytime," the Eastern guy said. "Support your local sheriff, right?"

Starting at fifteen minutes to midnight, within minutes of each other, automobiles carrying Chief Inspectors Matt Lowenstein and Denny Coughlin, Supervisory Special Agent H. Charles Larkin of the Secret Service, and A-SAC (Criminal) Frank F. Young of the FBI arrived at the headquarters of the Special Operations Division.

The building, and especially the corridor outside Peter Wohl's- what had been the princ.i.p.al's-office, and the office itself were crowded with senior police officers. All the partic.i.p.ants in the earlier meeting in the commissioner's office, except Mayor Carlucci, were present. In addition, the commanding officers of Central, North Central, and Northwest Detective Divisions; the commanding officers of Ordnance Disposal and Stakeout; and Captain Jack Duffy, the special a.s.sistant to the commissioner for inter-agency liaison, had either been summoned or had naturally migrated to the Schoolhouse as the center of the operation.

Three inspectors, who had been neither summoned nor invited, were also in Peter Wohl's office when Chief Lowenstein marched in. They were the commanding officers of the South and North Detective Divisions and the Tactical Division. Their subordinates had made known to them the orders they had received from Chiefs Lowenstein and Coughlin, and they wanted to know what was going on.

Lowenstein ordered everyone out of Wohl's office but Coughlin, Wohl, and the three inspectors and the federal agents.

"Peter and I decided to hold this here, rather than in the Roundhouse, " Lowenstein began, "for a couple of reasons. First of all, it's on my way home . . ."

He paused for the expected chuckle.

"Peter and I decided"? Wohl thought. Wohl thought. Inspector Peter Wohl is not only outranked by you, but, until very recently, by everybody else in this room. Despite his reputation within the Department as a real hard-a.s.s, Lowenstein sometimes can be very gracious and kind. Inspector Peter Wohl is not only outranked by you, but, until very recently, by everybody else in this room. Despite his reputation within the Department as a real hard-a.s.s, Lowenstein sometimes can be very gracious and kind.

"... and for another, all these white s.h.i.+rts showing up at the Roundhouse at midnight might give the gentlemen of the press the idea that something's going on. Charley Larkin thinks, and I agree, that the less the press is involved until we catch this guy, the better. "

"The less the press is involved, the better, period," Inspector Wally Jenks said.

There were chuckles and grunts of approval.

"There's a real nasty copycat aspect to something like this," Charley Larkin said. "A lunatic who has been sitting around harmlessly studying his navel sees another lunatic is getting a lot of attention in the papers and on TV, and promptly decides the thing for him to do to get some attention is also blow something up. If I had my druthers, not a word of this would appear in the papers."

"Sometimes, Charley," Frank F. Young of the FBI said, "it's a good idea to let the taxpayers know where their money is going."

"Let me bring everybody up-to-date on where we stand," Lowenstein said, cutting off what could have been an argument about dealing with the press.

He went on: "We had ninety-six Wheatleys on the list. Eighty-nine of them have been contacted, and are off the list, which means we are down to seven. These are Wheatleys who were not at home when we rang doorbells. Or didn't answer the doorbell.

"We have detectives in unmarked cars sitting on the seven, backed up by Highway RPCs. If anyone leaves those seven houses, we will talk to them.

"Of the seven, two look more promising than the others. One is listed under the name of Wheatley, Stephen J., in the 5600 block of Frazier Avenue, and the other is Wheatley, M. C., in the 120 block of Farragut. Both these houses are in middle cla.s.s neighborhoods, which fits in both with somebody owning property in the sticks in Jersey and with the psychological profile we have of this guy. He's well educated, and it would figure he's making a decent living.

"Inspector Wohl believes, and Chief Coughlin and I agree, that taking either of these doors tonight would probably be counterproductive. "

"Can I ask why?" Inspector Jenks asked.

"Worst case scenario, Inspector," Wohl said. "He's in there. He's got explosives. He sets them off, and takes half the neighborhood with him."

"Next worse case scenario, Wally," Chief Coughlin said. "He's not in there. He's the editor of the Catholic Messenger Catholic Messenger. On his way to complain to the cardinal archbishop that while he and wife were having a retreat at Sacred Heart Monastery, the cops took his front and back doors and scared h.e.l.l out of his cat, he stops by the Philadelphia Ledger Ledger to tell Arthur Nelson what Carlucci's Commandos have done to him." to tell Arthur Nelson what Carlucci's Commandos have done to him."

That produced more outright laughter than chuckles.

"And Jerry Carlucci, Wally," Lowenstein added, "said he wants to be there if we take anybody's door."

"I agree with Inspector Wohl too," H. Charles Larkin said. "I don't think, if our man is in one of these houses, that he's liable to do anything tonight. Unless, of course, we panic him. Then all bets are off."

"So what Peter has come up with is this," Lowenstein went on. "At half past seven tomorrow morning, it gets light at six-fifty, we are going to send detectives to the houses adjacent to the houses in question and see what the neighbors know about Wheatley, Stephen J., and Wheatley, M. C. If it looks at all that there's a chance he's our guy, we evacuate the houses in the area, and then we take the door. Stakeout will take the door, backed up by Highway and Ordnance Disposal."

"And what if he's not our man?" Inspector Jenks asked.

"Then we take a look at the other five houses where n.o.body was home. There will be people still on them, of course."

And if we shoot blanks there too, Wohl thought, Wohl thought, we're back to square one. we're back to square one.

"So what happens now?" Inspector Jenks asked.

"I don't know about you, Wally," Coughlin said, "but I'm going to go home and go to bed."

"You each, you and Chief Lowenstein, are going to take one of these houses?" Jenks asked.

"That's up to Inspector Wohl," Lowenstein said. "Peter?"

"I'm going to be between the two houses," Wohl said. "Which door we take first, if we take any at all, will depend on what the detectives come up with when they talk to the neighbors. We'll do them one at a time."

"And the mayor's going to be there?"

"Yes, sir. That's what he said."

"And we'll be with Peter and the mayor," Lowenstein said. "Denny's going to pick him up at his house in Chestnut Hill at seven."

Lowenstein put a match to a large black cigar, then turned to Wohl.

"Is that about it, Peter?"

"Yes, sir. All that remains to be done is to pa.s.s the word."

"Then I'm going home," Lowenstein said, and walked out of the room.

The meeting was over.

TWENTY-SEVEN.

As Mr. Ricco Baltazari walked down the corridor to the door of Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer's apartment, at quarter to one in the morning, he was aware that several things were bothering him.

There was the obvious, of course, that he was between the rock (Mr. Savarese) and the hard place (Mssrs. Gian-Carlo Rosselli and Paulo Ca.s.sandro) about this G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop. If the cop either didn't look like he could handle what was required of him or, worse, that he was maybe setting them up, he would have to tell Mr. S. that he thought so, or risk winding up pus.h.i.+ng up gra.s.s in the Tinnic.u.m Swamps out by the airport, if something went wrong.

But if he did that, it was the same thing as saying that Gian-Carlo and Paulo were a couple of a.s.sholes who were going to get Mr. S. in trouble. They would be insulted, and they both had long memories.

And that wasn't all. There was the business between the G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop and Tony. He was having trouble remembering that all she was, was a dumb Polack who he liked to screw and nothing more. That had been possible as long as he hadn't actually seen what was going on.

But now he was going to be in her apartment, actually their their apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now f.u.c.king the G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop. apartment, where they'd had some really great times in the sack, and where she was now f.u.c.king the G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop.

Well, s.h.i.+t, there's nothing I can do about it.

He pushed her doorbell and in a moment Tony answered it, wearing a fancy nightgown he'd bought her, and which he now clearly remembered taking off her.

"Whaddaya say, Tony?"

"h.e.l.lo, Ricco."

"Your boyfriend here? I'd like a word with him."

"Come on in, Ricco," Tony said, and then raised her voice. "Vito, honey, it's Mr. Baltazari. He wants to talk to you."

"It's who?"

"I'm a friend of Mr. Rosselli, Vito," Ricco said.

The G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop came into the living room in his underwear.

My living room, I'm paying the freight. And living room, I'm paying the freight. And my my girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofab.i.t.c.h girl, I'm paying the freight there too. And here's this sonofab.i.t.c.h in his underwear. in his underwear.

"Vito," Ricco said, putting out his hand, "Mr. Rosselli got tied up. He had to go to the Poconos, as a matter of fact, and he asked me to drop by and pa.s.s a little information to you."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Baltazari, Ricco Baltazari. I run the Ristorante Alfredo."

"Oh," the G.o.dd.a.m.ned cop said. He did not offer to shake hands. "You know Tony?"

"We seen each other around, right, Tony?"

"You could put it that way, I guess," Tony said.

"So what's the message?"

"Tony, could you give us a minute alone? Get yourself a beer or something?"

"Whatever you say, Mr. Baltazari," Tony said and went into the bedroom. She turned as she closed the door and gave him a look.

"That s.h.i.+pment you and Mr. Rosselli was talking about?" Ricco began.

"What about it?"

"It's coming in tomorrow night. I mean tonight, it's already today, ain't it? On Eastern Flight 4302 from San Juan. At nine forty-five. "

Vito Lanza nodded.

"It's going to be in a blue American Tourister suitcase, one of the plastic ones, and there will be two red reflective strips on each side of the suitcase," Ricco went on.

Vito nodded again.

"That going to pose any problems for you, Vito?"

"What kind of problems?"

"You're not going to write that down, or anything?"

"I can remember Eastern 4302 at nine forty-five."

"From San Juan."

"Eastern 4302 is always from San Juan," Vito said. "Every day but Sunday."

He's a wisea.s.s. He's an a.s.shole who gambles with money he doesn't have, a f.u.c.king cop too dumb to know he's being set up, or that the only reason he's f.u.c.king Tony is because I told her to f.u.c.k him, and he's a wisea.s.s.

"I'm going to ask you again, Vito. Is that going to pose any problems?"

"What kind of problems?"

"Money does funny things to people. Nothing personal, you understand. But you understand why I have to ask."

"I understand."

"I'm sure you're not that kind of a guy. Mr. Rosselli speaks very well of you, but there are some people, when they get around that kind of money, they do foolish things. Foolish things that could get them killed."

"I'm not that kind of guy," Vito said evenly.

"I'm sure you're not," Ricco said.

"But I do have a couple of questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Two questions. What do I do with the suitcase once I get it out of the airport?"

Jesus Christ, I don't know. Didn't they tell him, for Christ's sake?

"Didn't Mr. Rosselli tell you what to do with it?"