Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk Read online

  Copyright © 2012 Neal Goldstein

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 1481054260

  ISBN-13: 9781481054263

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63003-123-7

  DEDICATION - FOR MARILYN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author would like to thank everyone who assisted in the research, reading, editing, promotion and publication of this novel. Special thanks to my editor, the wonderful Anne Johnson Kram, for her in-sight and gentle hand with this novice writer, and her husband, the award winning journalist and author Mark Kram Jr., for generously sharing his time and encouraging me to pursue my passion. To my assistant, Margaret McGrath, for her patience and technical expertise in repeatedly showing me how to utilize the word processing programs so that I could throw away my pencil and legal pad.

  To my mother Helen who introduced me to the joy of reading and love of literature so many years ago, and my brother Steve who set such a great example of how to be a man.

  Most of all, thank you to my amazing wife Marilyn, and my sons and best friends Matthew and Benjamin, whose love, support and encouragement make all things in my life possible.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1. THE MURDER

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PART 2. THE MISSION.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  PART 3. THE MAYHEM

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  The light from a weak sun was breaking over the mountains as the stranger approached the building at the end of the village path. He could see his breath as he looked down trying not to trip over the stones and debris that littered the ground, the last vestiges of a drone attack the previous spring. He could feel the weight of the watchers’ stares. He was tall and walked with a slight limp. He had traveled throughout the night. His keffiteyeh was stained with perspiration. When he entered the building the stranger smiled and bowed to the old man who sat crossed leg on the prayer rug in the center of the room.

  “As-salamu ‘Alaykum,” the old man greeted the stranger.

  “Wa ‘alaykumu s-salam,” he responded as he took his place at the opposite side of the rug.

  The meeting had been arranged by the head of the Al-Qaida cell in Aden, the legendary leader of the December 29, 1992 bombing of the Gold Mohur hotel.

  The old man stared at the stranger. The stranger waited. The old man could read nothing in the stranger’s face.

  “You have traveled a great distance,” the old man spoke in Farsi as he signaled one of his tribesmen to serve the tea. In keeping with their custom, the serving of tea was a sign of respect.

  The stranger nodded. He accepted the cup that had been offered to him and held it in both hands in front of his face as the man poured the tea from the dented metal kettle. He nearly gagged from the dung-like odor of the brown liquid. He held the cup above his head and nodded his thanks to his host and his entourage. He took a full sip and bowed his head as he struggled to keep it down. He looked up and smiled at the old man. He waited for the others to be served.

  “So you will destroy the bell?” the old man finally asked.

  The stranger nodded.

  “But of what value is that?”

  “It will demonstrate our reach, and our dedication to the destruction of all things they hold sacred.”

  “Is that all?” The old man was not impressed.

  The stranger stared back at him, with a gleam in his bottle green eyes. He shook his head and smiled. “No there will be more, much, much more.”

  “So what do you want from us?” the old man asked.

  “The sleepers,” the stranger replied.

  The old man nodded.

  PART 1.

  THE MURDER

  ONE

  She kissed him and smiled as he pulled her close and thrust his hips into her body. She moaned and parted her lips accepting his tongue as she gently pushed him against the wall.

  “I want you,” he said breathlessly.

  She pulled away and smiled at him. “But you said you had to leave to attend some important meeting. Didn’t you?”

  He nodded.

  She pressed her body into his and felt his reaction. “Poor baby; go to your business meeting and when you’re done I’ll be here, waiting for you.”

  She kissed him again and opened the door for him to leave.

  She smiled and said, “Remember, I’ll be waiting. And when you come back, I’ve something very important to share with you.”

  “What is it,” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” she teased.

  She closed the door and shook her head. It had been so easy to make him fall in love with her. She didn’t tell him her secret yet. She loved to tease him and keep him off balance. Soon everything she had worked for would be hers. All the sacrifices and disappointments would soon be nothing but distant memories.

  She walked towards the fireplace and slowly gazed around the room. Someday soon she would own a place like this, she thought. No, not like this-someplace with a commanding view of the city - a place where the power brokers of the town would come at her beck and call.

  She heard the noise and looked out the back door that opened to the canal path that ran along the Schuylkill River the length of Manayunk.

  Christ. She thought she had made it clear that it was over.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she opened the door.

  “May I come in?”

  She sighed and stepped aside. She was determined to leave no doubt that whatever they had once been was now over.

  “I saw what you were doing. Do you really think he’ll leave his wife for you?”

  She shrugged and turned away.

  “Listen to me, you belong to me.”

  “Get your hands off me,” she said and continued to walk away.

  Before she had taken two full steps she felt the cold iron strike the back of her
head. Pain exploded from the top of her skull throughout her entire body, causing her to convulse in paralyzing muscle spasms through every limb. The excruciating white hot electric shock that cascaded through every centimeter of her body was beyond any pain she had ever experienced.

  She felt the wind from the force of the second blow before the cold metal actually made contact with her skull. Her body was unable to respond to her brain’s signal to evade the assault. She tried to scream but was unable to make a sound. How could this be happening, she wondered as her body fell to the floor.

  The third blow crushed her skull and she lost consciousness. Her lifeless body laid on the floor six paces from the fireplace in a slowly expanding pool of blood.

  The killer stared at the body. “Fucking tramp,” the killer said and walked out the back door.

  TWO

  Regan ran up the steps of the entrance to the Union League. The building took up an entire city block of what was once again the focal point of yet another renaissance of center city Philadelphia. The League had presided over South Broad Street since 1865, a bastion of the City of Brotherly Love’s power brokers. The classic French Renaissance – styled building, with its brick and brownstone façade, and the dramatic twin circular staircases that lead up to the main entrance, looked out of place-a relic of the past in contrast to the cool exteriors of its closest neighbors the Bananna Republic and F.Y.E. record store.

  The only blemish in the otherwise august image the League projected, despite all the wealth and power of its members, was the aluminum food cart on the northwest corner of Broad and Samson streets that an enterprising street vendor, with the help of the ACLU and a local columnist had won zoning board approval to sell falafels and soft pretzels a mere one hundred feet from the building’s entrance. The League’s founding fathers must surely be rolling in their graves.

  Even though his mother’s family had belonged to the League for over a century, he found it ironic that his father, the son of a Philadelphia police officer from Manayunk, who, but for a fortuitous marriage to the daughter of a Main Line aristocracy, would never have been allowed admission to the elite club on South Broad Street despite his office, was now one of its most prominent members. Regan was certain that if offered the opportunity, his father would prefer to hang out with the falafel crowd rather than eat the over-priced, over-cooked fried oysters and tastless chicken salad, a combination that defied explanation, served to the pretentious members of the club to which he now belonged.

  “You’re late, mother will be furious.” His sister Annie greeted him. She straightened his tie and brushed an errant curl from his brow. He hugged her and kissed her cheek.

  “I know Sis.”

  Annabelle, the eldest of his three sisters, the one who always ran interference for him, flashed one of her radiant smiles. She looked exactly like their mother. She was beautiful in a quiet, almost aristocratic way. She still looked like she was twenty-one years old. It was impossible to believe she was forty and the mother of three.

  As they approached the reception line he saw the entire Regan clan, all three generations. His twin sisters, their husbands and children in tow, stood to the right of his parents. Annie’s family covered his parent’s left flank leaving a place for him immediately next to his father.

  “Jack, good of you to join us.” His mother gave him a frosty greeting, as she also straightened his bow tie and brushed the same errant curl from his forehead.

  “Love you too, Mother,” he said and kissed her proffered cheek. “Dad, all present and accounted for,” he hugged his father in greeting.

  John Hogan Regan, Commissioner of Police of the City of Philadelphia, stood with his family as the movers and shakers of the city and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, including both United States Senators and several members of Congress, paid him tribute. The annual fundraiser for The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, that Commissioner and Mrs. Regan chaired, was one of the most prestigious events on the social calendar.

  Patricia Maxwell Regan maneuvered her son to a quiet corner for a mother and son chat after the receiving line had dispersed.

  “Jack, your father and I are concerned… We all loved Susan…but it’s time to move on.”

  He was both moved and frustrated with his mother’s interest in his social life, or perhaps more accurately stated, the absence of one.

  “Mother, I…”

  “Jack, you have to start going out, to really live… Susan wouldn’t want you to be alone. Come on, why don’t you give some of those gals a chance?”

  “I promise, Mother.”

  “Oh, Jack, don’t patronize me. You know your father and I only want you and your sisters to be happy.”

  “Come on, Mother, do you want me to be just like the Marx Brothers, Groucho, Chico and Harpo?” he gestured at his three brothers in law. “Mother don’t you find them a bit boring? I mean it’s like they’re all made of the same DNA. Members of silk stocking law firms, they serve as board members on all the right charities, good hair, good teeth, hail fellows, one and all.”

  Jack’s remarks were intended to deflect his mother’s anticipated diatribe about his job with the District Attorney. In truth he really liked his brothers in law. They were good men, good husbands who adored and respected his sisters.

  “Jack, you’re impossible… Is that Courtney standing by the bar? You know she just went through a difficult divorce. She reassumed her maiden name. Weren’t the two of you… you know, rather close when you were in college?”

  “Please Mother, let’s not go there. As I recall, you were not that fond of her back then.”

  “Jack…Mrs. Regan…Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude…”

  “Courtney, don’t be silly. It’s wonderful to see you again. Jack and I were just having one of our mother and son talks. He’s so busy with his work, I don’t often have the opportunity to… well you know. Why don’t I let the two of you catch up?”

  “Court, that was rather awkward, don’t you think?” As he hugged her Regan caught his mother looking back at them. His mother looked a bit too happy, and Jack got the feeling this reunion with his old flame was more than happenstance. His reaction was reinforced by Courtney’s expression.

  Courtney Wells was the heiress to one of Philadelphia’s Main Line banking dynasties, and she looked the part. It was as if she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue magazine. Her air of casual elegance, perfect features, with the bluest eyes you ever looked into, to Regan her beauty was almost intimidating.

  “Jack, I feel, I don’t know, a little embarrassed. Your mother did call to make sure I would attend tonight. She told me you weren’t seeing anyone. Oh God this is …I mean I meant to call you after Susan’s funeral… but I didn’t know what to...”

  “Courtney, it’s OK. How are you doing?” He stopped and shook his head. “You know, you and I were never very good at chit chat. I’m really sorry things didn’t work out for you and Greg, the two of you looked like, I don’t know- the perfect couple.”

  “Well, sometimes things aren’t always what they appear to be on the surface.”

  They stood in awkward silence.

  “Dju know, dju really look marvelous.” His lame imitation of Billy Crystal’s imitation of Fernando Lamas broke the tension of the moment.

  “I must confess, I went to some lengths to make myself attractive,” she blushed in response

  “Well Court, it sure worked, not that you really have to, I mean every guy in the room is staring at you.”

  “Jack, there’s only one guy I really want to take notice.”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” He could tell from her reaction that this was not what she had expected him to say.

  “Jack, duh! You can’t be that dense. I mean really,” she rolled her eyes as she grabbed his arm. “Let’s go say hi to your sisters. Annabelle looks like she’s about to run over here and rescue you from my evil influence.”

  Jack did not know how to react to Courtney’s direct
ness. He had grown comfortable with his situation. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the emotional turmoil that came from involvement with the opposite sex. At thirty-four, he wasn’t interested in casual relationships, and yet he was afraid of anything more substantive.

  He floated through the remainder of the evening at Courtney Wells’ side. He marveled at the way she worked the room. Her natural grace in maneuvering them in and out of mundane conversations, and the ease with which she had overcome his sister Annie’s initial resistance was truly impressive. It was as if the two of them had remained a couple, and had not gone their separate ways the last ten years.

  “Earth to Jack?”

  He blushed. “I’m sorry, I was…”

  “Jack, you will call me? After all, you monopolized my entire evening.” She flashed him one of her million dollar smiles. Her driver was waiting by the rear door of her town car.

  He looked at her, “Why, of course.”

  She hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Jack, I’m really happy your mother called.”

  THREE

  He started out on his usual route home from Center City, the Benjamin Franklin Parkway to the Kelly Drive, to Manayunk’s Main Street; as he drove his thoughts drifted back to Courtney Wells. What did she really want from him, and why now?

  He entered the Parkway at the Logan Circle and took the center lane west towards Fairmount Park. Logan Circle had originally been one of the five public squares laid out by William Penn himself, the Quaker who received the land grant from the British monarch that eventually became the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. In the 1920s Philadelphia’s elite sought to upgrade the town’s image and converted the square to an oval to replicate the Place de Concorde in Paris. The entrance to the Parkway and the buildings around the circle, the Free Library of Philadelphia and the Family Court House that had been modeled after the Hotel de Crillion were designed to resemble the Champs d’Elysees. Like most such attempts, Philadelphia’s effort was missing something, and yet it had a quaint charm of its own.