"One of the most important assets a detective can have, Officer Payne," Washington replied dryly, "is the acquaintance of a number of people who feel in his debt. Apropos of nothing whatever, I once spoke to a judge prior to his sentencing of a young man for vehicular theft. I told the judge that I thought probation would probably suffice to keep the malefactor on the straight and narrow, and that I was acquainted with his mother, a decent, divorced woman who worked as a registered nurse at Hahneman Hospital."
"Nice," Matt said.
"I suppose you know the difference between ignorance and stupidity?"
"I think so." Matt chuckled.
"A good detective never forgets he's ignorant. He knows very, very little about what's going on. So that means a good detective is always looking for something, or someone, that can reduce the totality of his ignorance."
"Okay," Matt said with another chuckle. "So where does that leave us, now that we know she's using cocaine and knew DeZego?"
"I don't have a clue-witticism intended-why either of them got shot," Washington said. "There's a lot of homicide involved with narcotics, but what it usually boils down to is simple armed robbery. Somebody wants either the drugs or the money and uses a gun to take them. The Detweiler girl had nearly seven hundred dollars in her purse; Tony the Zee had a quantity of coke-say five hundred dollars worth, at least. Since they still had the money and the drugs, I think we can reasonably presume that robbery wasn't the basic cause of the shooting."
They were at the Penn Services Parking Garage. When Matt started to pull onto the entrance ramp, Washington told him to park on the street. Just in time Matt stopped himself from protesting that there was no parking on 15^th Street.
Washington did not enter the building. He walked to the alley at one end, then circled the building as far as he could, until he encountered a chain-link fence. He stood looking at the fence and up at the building for a moment, then he retraced his steps to the front and walked onto the entrance ramp. Then he walked up the ramp to the first floor.
Three quarters of the way down the parking area, Matt saw a uniformed cop, and a moment later yellow CRIME SCENE-DO NOT CROSS tape surrounding a Dodge sedan.
"What's that?" he asked, curiosity overwhelming his solemn, silent vow to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.
"It was a hit on the NCIC when they ran the plates," Washington said. "Reported stolen in Drexel Hill."
The National Crime Information Center was an FBI-run computer system. Detectives (at one time there had been sixteen Homicide detectives in the Penn Services garage) had fed the computer the license numbers of every car in the garage at the time of the shooting. NCIC had returned every bit of information it had on any of them. The Dodge had been entered into the computer as stolen.
"Good morning," Washington said to the uniformed cop. "The lab get to this yet?"
"They were here real early this morning," the cop said. "I think there's still a couple of them upstairs."
Washington nodded. He walked around the car and then looked into the front and backseats. Then he started up the ramp to the upper floors.
"It'll probably turn out the Dodge has nothing to do with the shooting," he said to Matt. "But we'll check it out, just to be sure."
The ramp to the roof was blocked by another uniformed cop and a cross of crime-scene tape, but when Matt and Washington walked on it, Matt saw there was only a Police Lab truck and three cars-a Mercedes convertible, roof up; a blue-and-white; and an unmarked car-on the whole floor.
He could see a body form outlined in white, where Penny Detweiler had been when he had driven on the roof and where he had found the body of Anthony J. DeZego. It seemed pretty clear that the Mercedes was Penny's car.
But where was DeZego's?
A hollow-eyed man came out of the unmarked car, smiled at Washington, and offered his hand.
"You are your usually natty self this morning, Jason, I see," he said.
"Is that a touch of jealousy I detect, Lieutenant?" Washington replied. "You know Matt Payne? Matt, this is Lieutenant Jack Potter, the mad genius of Forensics."
"No. But what do they say? 'He is preceded by his reputation'? How are you, Payne?"
"How do you do, sir?"
"Anything?" Washington asked.
"Not much. We picked up some shotshell pellets and two wads, either from off the floor or picked out of the concrete. No more shell casings. Which means that the shooter knew what he was doing; or that he had only two shells, which suggests it was double-barrel, as opposed to an autoloader; or all of the above."
"Anything in the girl's car?"
"Uh-uh. No bags of anything," Lieutenant Potter replied. "Haven't had a chance either to run the prints or analyze what the vacuum cleaner picked up."
"I'd love to find a clear print of Mr. DeZego inside the Mercedes," Washington said.
"If there's a match, you'll be the first to know," Potter said.
"Can you release the Mercedes?" Washington asked. Potter's eyebrows rose in question. "I thought it might be a nice gesture on our part if Officer Payne and I returned the car to the Detweiler home."
"Why not?" Potter replied. "What about the Dodge? There was nothing out of the ordinary there."
"You've got the name and address of the owner?"
Potter nodded.
"Let me have it. I'll have someone check him out. I think we can take the tape down, anyway."
Potter grunted.
"Which raises the question, of course, of Mr. DeZego's car," Washington said. "Do you suppose he walked up here?"
"Or he came up here with the shooter and they left without him," Potter said.
"Or his car is parked on the street," Washington said. "Orwas parked on the street and may be in the impound yard now."
"I'll check on that for you, if you like," Potter said.
"Matt," Washington said, "find a phone. Call Organized Crime and see if they know what kind of a car Anthony J. DeZego drove. Then call Traffic and see if they impounded a car like that and, if so, where they impounded it. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Right," Matt replied.
"And if that doesn't work, call Police Radio and have them see if they can locate the car and get back to me, if they can."
"Right," Matt said.
Washington turned to Potter.
"You have any idea where the shooter was standing?"
"Let me show you," Potter said as Matt walked to the telephone.
TEN
Mrs. Charles McFadden, Sr., a plump, gray-haired woman of fortyfive, was watching television in the living room of her home, a row house on Fitzgerald Street not far from Methodist Hospital in South Philadelphia when the telephone rang.
Not without effort, and sighing, she pushed herself out of the upholstered chair and went to the telephone, which had been installed on a small shelf mounted on the wall in the corridor leading from the front door past the stairs to the kitchen.
"Hello?"
"Can I reach Officer McFadden on this number?" a male voice inquired.
"You can," she said. "But he's got his own phone. Did you try that?"
"Yes, ma'am. There was no answer."
Come to think of it, Agnes McFadden thought, I didn't 't hear it ring.
"Just a minute," she said, and then: "Who did you say is calling?"
"This is Sergeant Henderson, ma'am, of the Highway Patrol. Is this Mrs. McFadden?"
"Senior," she said. "I'm his mother."
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll get him," she said. "Just a moment."
She put the handset carefully beside the base and then went upstairs. Charley's room was at the rear. When he had first gone on the job-working Narcotics undercover, which had pleased his mother not at all, the way he went around looking like a bum and working all hours at night-he had had his own telephone line installed.