Part 37 (1/2)
”I haven't read the overnights,” Wohl said.
”Black guy,” D'Amata said. ”Lived on 48th near Haverford.”
”His name wouldn't be Marvin P. Lanier, would it?” Wohl asked.
”Yes, sir, that's it,” D'Amata said, obviously pleased. ”I sort of hoped there'd be something for me here.”
”I don't think I follow that,” Wohl said.
”I got the idea, Inspector, that you-that is, Highway- knows something about this guy.”
”Why would you think that?”
”You knew the name,” D'Amata said, just a little defensively.
”That's all?”
”Sir, an hour before somebody shot this guy there was a Highway car in front of his house. With him. Outside the crime scene, I mean.”
”You're sure about that?”
”Yes, sir. Half a dozen people in the neighborhood saw it.”
”Dave?” Wohl asked.
Pekach threw up his hands in a helpless gesture, making it clear that he knew nothing about a Highway involvement.
”Fascinating,” Wohl said. ”More misterioso.”
”Sir?” D'Amata asked, confused.
”Detective D'Amata,” Wohl said, ”why don't you help yourself to a cup of coffee and then have a chair while Captain Pekach goes and finds out what Highway had to do with Mr. Lanier last night?”
”Inspector, this is the first I've heard anything about this,” Pekach said.
”So I gathered,” Wohl said sarcastically.
Pekach left the office.
”How did Mr. Lanier meet his untimely demise, D'Amata?”
”Somebody popped him five times with a .38,” D'Amata said. ”In his bed.”
”That would suggest that somebody didn't like him very much,” Wohl said. ”Any ideas who that might be?”
D'Amata shook his head.
”Have you learned anything that might suggest Mr. Lanier was connected with the mob?”
”He was a pimp, Inspector,” D'Amata said.
”Then let me ask you this: Off the top of your head, would you say that Mr. Lanier was popped, in a crime of pa.s.sion, so to speak, by one of his ladies, or by somebody who knew what he was doing?”
D'Amata thought that over briefly. ”He took two in the head and three in the chest.”
”Suggesting?”
”I don't know. Some of those wh.o.r.es are tough enough. A wh.o.r.e could have done it.”
”Have you any particular lady in mind?”
”I asked Vice”-he paused and chuckled-”to round up the usual suspects. Actually for a list of girls who worked for him, or did.”
Wohl chuckled and then asked, ”Whose gun?”
”We don't have that yet,” D'Amata said. ”Those are interesting questions you're asking, Inspector.”
”Just letting my mind wander,” Wohl said. ”Try this one: Can you think of any reason that Mr. Lanier's name would be known to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese?”
”Jesus!” D'Amata said. ”Was it?”
”Let your mind wander,” Wohl said.
”He could have owed the mob some money,” D'Amata said. ”He liked to pa.s.s himself off as a gambler. The mob likes to get paid.”
”That would get him a broken leg, not five well-placed shots, and from someone with whom Mr. Savarese would be only faintly acquainted,” Wohl said.
”Yeah,” D'Amata said thoughtfully.
”What would that leave? Drugs?” Wohl asked.
There was not time for D'Amata to consider that, much less offer an answer. Pekach came back in the office.
”There's nothing in the records about a Highway car being anywhere near 48th and Haverford last night,” he said.
”You sure?” D'Amata challenged, surprised.
”Yeah, I'm sure,” Pekach said sharply. ”Are you?”
”Captain,” D'Amata said, ”I got the same story from four different people. There was a Highway car there.”
There was a knock at the door.
”Not now!” Wohl called.
There came another knock.
”Open the door, Dave,” Wohl said coldly.
Pekach opened the door.