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He would, he decided, try to get on a phone while waiting for McCarthy to pick him up. That idea went out the window when he stepped off the elevator and saw Mac’s car waiting for him outside on South Broad Street.
“I don’t suppose you got in touch with the Chief?” he asked as he got in the car.
McCarthy turned on the flashing lights and the siren and made a U-turn on Broad Street.
“I didn’t have to,” McCarthy replied. “I got a call from Radio, saying the Chief was going in on this, and would somebody call his wife and tell her he was delayed.”
“Who are the victims? Do we know yet?”
“I’m praying that it was a family dispute,” McCarthy said.
Quaire chuckled. Sergeant McCarthy was not referring to a disagreement between husband and wife, but to one between members of Philadelphia’s often violent Mafia.
“Who’s assigned?” Quaire asked.
“Wally Milham. You didn’t say anything…”
“Sure. He was up, he got the job. I don’t think he had anything to do with Kellog.”
“I wonder who did that.”
“Nothing’s turned up?”
“Not a thing.”
By the time Detective Milham pulled up in front of the Inferno Lounge, there were nine police vehicles, including three unmarked cars, parked on Market Street. Without consciously doing so, he picked out the anomaly. The three unmarked cars were battered and worn. Therefore, none of them belonged to Sergeant Jason Washington, whose brand-new unmarked car had been the subject of much conversation in the Homicide Unit.Wally wondered if McCarthy had been pulling his chain about Washington being in on this; or if someone had been pulling McCarthy’s chain.
There was a uniformed cop standing at the door who recognized Milham and let him in. Inside the Inferno, Milham saw three detectives whom he knew: David Rocco of the Central Detective Division; John Hanson of the Major Theft Unit; and Wilfred “Wee Willy” Malone, a six-foot-four-inch giant of a man assigned to the Intelligence Unit. That explained the three unmarked cars.
Rocco and Hanson gave him a wave. Wee Willy looked at him strangely. Wally wondered if he had heard about Kellog; that he had been interviewed and that they were checking his guns at Ballistics.
“We’re glad you’re here,” Rocco said. “Sergeant Washington is with the victims, protecting the scene until the arrival of the hotshots—one of which presumably is you, Wally—of Homicide.”
“If you less important people would learn not to walk all over our evidence, that wouldn’t be necessary,” Wally replied, and then, not seeing Washington: “Where’s the Black Buddha?”
“Oh, shit,” Hanson said, and laughed and then pointed. “There’s a stairway off the corridor in back. There’s an office downstairs.”
Wally found the stairs and went down them. Washington heard him coming, and turned with an impatient look on his face until he recognized him.
“Good morning, Detective Milham,” Washington said.
“Hello, Jason. What have we got?”
“Have you the acquaintance of Detective Payne?”
“Only by reputation,” Milham said, and offered the young detective his hand.
“Detective Payne and myself, by pure coincidence,” Washington went on, “were taking the air on Nineteenth Street when the first police vehicle to respond to the call—Officers Adolphus Hart and Thomas Daniels, in Wagon Nine Oh One, they are upstairs—arrived. In the absence of anyone more senior, I took charge of the scene, and being aware that the front door of the premises was steel and locked, ordered Detective Payne to attempt to enter the building from the rear, and sent Officer Daniels with him. Detective Payne was able to gain entrance. He left Officer Daniels to guard the rear door, proceeded through the building, and opened the front door, which was locked from the inside, and admitted me. With Detective Payne leading the way, we searched the building, and came upon the scene of the crime.
“We found Mr. Gerald Atchison, one of the proprietors of this establishment, sitting behind the desk. Mr. Atchison told us he was in the bar upstairs when he heard the sound, a popping noise, of what he now presumes was gunfire. When he went to investigate, he encountered in the corridor upstairs two white males, armed—a flash has gone out with their descriptions—who fired upon him, striking him in the leg. He drew his own pistol…”
Jason paused.
“Matthew, give Detective Milham the pistol, please.”
Matt turned to a filing cabinet. Carefully placing his fingers on the checkered wooden handles, he picked up a Colt Cobra revolver and extended it to Milham. Wally took a plastic bag from his jacket pocket and held it open until Matt dropped the revolver into it.
“…which Mr. Atchison is licensed by the Sheriff of Delaware County to carry,” Washington went on, “and a gun battle during which Mr. Atchison suffered the wound to his leg ensued. Mr. Atchison fell to the floor. He lay there he doesn’t know how long.”
